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Since my mother passed away, I've been slowly going through her stuff. It's been slow because it's tedious and sometimes painful. I have to take frequent breaks. Finally, I'm down to her paperwork.
Paperwork I’ve shredded
Last week, I found the article about Grief, written by the Stake President's wife in our old neighborhood. The day after Tom died, the Stake President and his wife were on our front porch. They held a casserole, flowers, and this article. Their son had also died an untimely, tragic death. Their son was accidentally electrocuted listening to music with wired headphones that shorted out. 1
On the first page of this Grief article, the Stake President's wife writes:
"In one small area of our community -- perhaps less than a quarter of a mile square, in the past five years, there have been ten young men between the ages of sixteen and twenty-five killed accidentally -- motorcycles, cars, or freak accidents, such as we experienced in our family."
Scan of the section about the number of accidental deaths. This is a copy of the actual article written by the Stake President’s wife in the 1970s
The Stake President's wife calculated those untimely deaths two years before my brother died. During those two years, in the same small geographic area, there were six more accidental/untimely deaths. When my brother died, he was number seventeen. Seventeen accidental, tragic, shouldn't have happened, deaths of young men between sixteen and 25 years old--in eight years.
After my brother died, there were more.
I didn't shred this paper. I kept it. In case someone states that this neighborhood wasn't affected by the toxicity of the childhood sexual abuse that occurred during those decades.
It's quite sobering when I think of all those deaths. Every now and again, a smidge of "survivor’s guilt" creeps up. I have no idea why I survived.
When Karen Fisher first talked to me about writing Paperdolls, we had this conversation:
Karen asked: “Do you know how extraordinary you are? There are a myriad of different manners you could have acted out instead of taking this path to healing, to freedom.
I told Karen that I didn’t feel like I had a choice.
Karen looked directly into my eyes and said, “You had a choice. Think of all the kids from your old neighborhood. Think of the untimely deaths: the suicides, the drug addicts or those who have lapsed into the abyss of mental illness."
To all the victims in the neighborhood of my youth: I pray you have found peace. And, I vow to continue living an authentic life filled with as much serenity and joy as possible.
I wonder if I should erect a plaque on the foothills of that neighborhood. To honor those who lost their lives in this horrific battle? Maybe my book is enough. I hope.
As I gaze at all the other "stuff" my mother left behind. I think of how much junk is handed down from our parents and various generations. There's an old story about Cutting of the Ends of the Ham:
Ends of Ham photo courtesy of Pexels.
Cutting Off the Ends of the Ham
A young girl was watching her mother bake a ham for a family gathering and noticed her mom cutting off the ends before placing it in the oven.
“Mom, why do you cut the ends off before baking the ham?” she asked.
“Hmmm… I think it helps soak up the juices while it’s baking. I’m not sure, though. That’s just the way your grandma always did it, so I’ve just always cut them off. Why don’t you call grandma and ask her?”
So, the little girl phoned her grandma and asked “Grandma, mom is making a ham and cut off the ends before placing it in the oven. She said that it’s probably to help soak up the juices but wasn’t sure. She said you’d know because she learned how to cook from you.”
“That’s true. I do cut off the ends of the ham before baking. But I’m not sure why either. I learned how to cook from my mom. You should ask her.”
So, the inquisitive little girl called her great grandmother and asked “Great grandma, mom and grandma said they learned how to cook a ham from watching you. Do you cut off the ends of the ham to help it soak up the juices?”
The great grandmother chuckled. “Oh, no sweetie. I just never had a pan big enough to hold a whole ham, so I always had to cut off the ends to make it fit.”2
Going through the stuff that is handed down to me, never seems to stop. Thankfully, I've had the opportunity to look at much of the stuff. I've been able to look at it, analyze it, occasionally talk with a professional therapist about certain issues of stuff. I've been able to decide what to do with it. Much of it, I shred. Some, I've had to have professionally eradicated, because it's toxic. And some I've kept.
It's arduous, tiring, and sometimes thrilling. But, it's mine. And to you, my beloved survivors: Don't be afraid. Nothing is too big. Remember all those young deaths, young men and women, from my childhood neighborhood. It was too much for them, or so they thought. It's NOT. You can do this. Take one step at a time. One day at a time. You can decide what you want to release, keep, and accept.
