Mothers' Day, Part Deux

Two older posts about my deburrings (skin cancer excisions), and my Grandma G. The grandma stuff is the important part.  (Spoiler: I survived the surgeries.)

Grandma and Grandpa G, ca. 1954.

The Deburring...

posted 07/11/08
Tough day, and it's barely 1:30 PM. I spent three hours this morning "under the knife" at the nearby medical center, getting some of the results of my youthful, tanned beach-god days removed. Whilst awake. But under appropriate locals.

As usual in these things, I had plenty of time to sit around waiting, and thus plenty of time to contemplate my navel. Intellectually, I wasn't worried. I told a co-worker the other day that I thought this would be much less unpleasant that a root canal. And I was right. But emotionally, I knew I was scared. And that somehow brought me to what must be my definitive "happy place", one that I hadn't remembered or connected with emotionally in a long, long time.

After the accident, mom took me with her to Illinois so she could heal up at her mom and dad's place. I don't know the exact events that took place after that, but my earliest memories are of grandpa and grandma G. living with us in L.A. They apparently moved to California to stay with us and help care for me. I don't know if grandma G's breast cancer was a factor in that move, but I do remember knowing that she had it. And I remember the huge machine that was used for her radiation therapy, and visiting her in the hospital.

What I remembered today was what I did and how I felt when I was little-little. Grandma G spent most of her time in bed, and I would crawl in with her and we would talk. Looking back, that was the happiest, safest place I've ever been in my entire life. It puts the the crazy babysitter and the psychotic nuns into a sharp relief, which I'm willing to bet put the cap on my preference for going it alone.

I guess that warmth and safety is the experience I've been looking to re-create all these years.

Interesting.

Sunday, July 19, 2009

Back Under the Knife

I spent about an hour or so under the knife, again. New surgeon, new hospital (more, later).

Once again, in pre-op, I found myself thinking of my time with Gramma G. I think what makes that time so special to me is that it was unconditional. I suppose she knew, or at least suspected, that she was dying during my time with her. If so, she never seemed to show me that she was afraid. It seemed to me that she had nothing else to do when she shared her time with me. I'm sure that her dying was a great strain to my mom and Grampa G, so they were, of course, distracted.

After she passed on, my life changed. Grampa G would take off for a few months to spend time with his other children in Arizona and Illinois. When he was gone, I would stay overnight at my best friend's house, and during the summers,stay during the day as well. This was because my mom worked the night shift at the hospital.

Anyway, I know where my "happy place" is. Thanks, Gramma.

Gladys

I've written here about Martha, the woman I think of as "Mom".  That is not to diminish in any way Gladys, the woman who is/was my biological mother, the one who helped bring me on to this interesting place we call United States, planet Earth.

Gladys with her first snowball?

Gladys was born in 1911, to her family who lived in Mazon, Illinois.  She had a brother, Everett,  and a sister, Dorothy. At some point in her life, she decided to pick up and move to Los Angeles, California. She worked as a secretary, and wound up working for Louis B. Mayer (the "Mayer" in Metro-Goldwin-Mayer, a.k.a "MGM"). I understand that she was responsible for taking deposits to the bank. (That bank was at the other end of the block from the one I worked at.) She also helped run his stables.  I'm pretty sure that was Mayer's horse stables, and not his stable of ladies who entertained visiting firemen (IYKWIMAIKYD).  On the other hand, it's an interesting speculation.

Somewhere in Los Angeles

I remember being told that she and Dad were introduced at a U.S.O. club, so I imagine Dad was on one of his postings in California. I also have in mind that she picked him up. Again, an interesting speculation. (By today's standards, both Gladys and Martha might be considered "cougars", Dad being seven years younger than Gladys, and six younger than Martha. Or maybe he just liked older women.)

They were married at Cathedral Chapel, a block north of Olympic on La Brea in L.A., in 1948.  I've always assumed that she moved in with him, at his place on Crenshaw Bl. Gladys became pregnant in '49, and Martha introduced them to the OB/GYN who delivered Lane and me.  Gladys fell prey to the perfect storm for pre-eclampsia: it was her first pregnancy, she was near 40, and it was a multiple birth. She could no longer clot blood, and so bled to death despite all efforts to save her.  Neither Lane nor I could clot, and I believe that was a major cause of his death.

George and Gladys

The wedding party. L to R, Jack Travers (Best Man), George, Gladys, unknown gentleman, Bessie Tidey (Maid/Matron of Honor), and two more unknown gentlemen.

I don't know at all if Bessie was married at the time or not. If she were, I have a hunch that the gentleman standing between her and Gladys is her husband, Cliff.  But I don't remember him as well as I do her.  Dad asked Jack and Bessie to be my Godparents when I was baptized.

The traditional cake smushing.

 

Post-nuptial beverage.

                                       

Meanwhile, elsewhere in the neighborhood...

The lovely young woman on the right, Betty, would soon become Jack's wife. One of the reasons was that she loved Cathedral Chapel, and the priest who given Gladys her pre-nuptual "Catholic lessons" was a nice guy, so she took her's there, and that's where they we married.

When I was about 40, Gladys' sister Dorothy passed away.  After she did, her daughter sent me a package of documents she found in Dorothy's desk that was addressed to me. In it was a hand-written account of what had happened. I may post that another time, as the spirit moves. (A little about that here.)

She and Lane are buried in Inglewood, at the Inglewood Park Cemetery, across the street from the old Inglewood Forum.

And, with all of that, I do have a connection to her.  She made sure that both Lane's and my first initials were "L. A.", because she loved Los Angeles. So that is my link to both her, and the city of my birth.

Thank you, Gladys.

Martha (Bumped for Mother's Day)

I just noticed today's date, and remembered that it would have been my mom's birthday.  Not only that, today would have been her 100th birthday. (Originally posted 8/12/2012)

Anyone who knew her would say that she was an amazing woman.  I was blessed to have her as my mom.

She was born near Moline, Illinois.  She was, I believe, the middle child of five.  Two older brothers, and a younger sister and brother.  She graduated high school, then moved to Chicago to study nursing.  She finished school there, looking forward to being a surgical scrub nurse.  Something changed her mind, and she chose obstetrics instead.  Like my mother, she migrated to Los Angeles, spent a year at Childrens' Hospital in Hollywood to get her California license.  She went to work at St. Vincent's, staying there until the closed the O.B. department at the end of the baby boom in 1966.  She took a job at St. Anne's Maternity hospital, after working for a month in I.C.U.  She didn't like losing patients.  She told me that they had only lost four during her time a St. Vincent's.

She met my mother at a professional women's club.  After Gladys and dad got married, and Gladys became pregnant with the twins, she introduced them to a doctor, and off we went.  It did not turn out well.  Gladys developed pre-eclampsia, and was, by the time Lane and I were born, unable to clot blood.  She and my brother both died as a result of complications.

Martha was in the delivery room when we were born.  After I was able to go home ( after a month in an oxygen tent), she started to help dad and his housekeeper take care of me.  One thing lead to another, and they decided to get married.  They decided to marry in Montana, at the same ceremony where my grandparents were renewing their vows to celebrate their 50th anniversary.  It did not turn out well.  A couple of days after the wedding, we headed out for Moline, to see her parents.  Somewhere in Nebraska, a tire blew out, the car rolled, and dad was killed.

After she and I returned to L.A., she resumed her job as St. Vincent's.  Her parents moved out to stay with us, to help care for me.  She went through the process of adopting me, which included getting my aunt to sign off, since she was still my guardian according to dad's will.

And then she raised me.  We were by no means well off, but we had a warm, happy, safe place to live.  We went on day trips and weekend trips and three "great loop" trips through the U.S. She made sure I did well in school.  There was never a doubt that I was going to college.  She nursed me thru the measles, mumps and chicken pox, took me to swim practice (I remember her sitting in the gallery, reading), and was there for me whenever I needed.

She helped deliver her granddaughter, whom she loved dearly.

She developed polymyositis, a muscle wasting disease.  Treatment with steroids left her a diabetic, and treatment with morphine for pain from diverticulitis left her in and out of clarity and consciousness in her last three weeks.  The last time I saw "her" was on a Tuesday evening.  It seemed that she needed to know it was OK to go, and so I told her.  By Wednesday evening, she was unresponsive to the environment, and she slipped away late Friday evening.

A few weeks later, I had a dream with her.  She told me that everything would be OK.  My experience of that dream was unlike my experience of every other dream I've ever had.  My personal belief is that I had an actual conversation with her.  could I prove it?  Of course not.  But that's what I think it was.

Mom and me, 1952

So.  Happy Birthday, mom!

(More photos at the Tumblr page, up top.)