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decisions, decided
Apr. 4th, 2025 03:50 pmI don't recall ever truly wanting it. Not really. It's just what was expected of me, an AFAB child born and raised Methodist in the 1970s midwest: get married and have babies. Careers were schoolteacher or nurse, if I dared to want a career, otherwise i'd be relegated to Temp Worker like my mom. but first and foremost I was supposed to be wife and mother.
It's sort of a shock that I didn't end up pregnant, the wildly ADD but also highly unobservant and oblivious child that I was. No, that's not quite right. Oh, I was (and still am) wildly ADD, and can be oblivious to things that others can spot from space, but it's not true that I didn't end up pregnant. I did - twice - in my early 20s. it's just that neither of them stuck. The first one was a true accident, a broken condom somewhere in the midst of that crazy wild night, him freaking out, but diving right back into the fray with what must've been an industrial size box of condoms, until it was time for me to sneak out and rush home lest either set of parents catch us. I was 20, he was 24, but we both lived at home. The second time was not an accident, but also not consensual. We'd just started dating, he dropped by my place on our days off, and despite my protests got what he came for. Sometimes it's easier to just shut up and take than to try to fight off someone who takes pleasure in being able to physically overpower you. I was 23, he was 34.
Both instances ended pretty much the same way: a few weeks of worry, then a few more of denial (hey, 7-8 months between cycles was normal at this point, so why worry?). Around week 7, the sickness would hit, that malaise I'd never encountered before (until I did the second time), followed quickly by the violent cramping and passing chunks the likes of which I'd never encountered (again, until the second time). I bled heavier and my abdomen seized harder than I thought possible, knocking me to the floor and making driving a scary prospect. I knew heavy bleeding and cramps, and this was well beyond that. Both times, I endured it alone, never telling a soul.
One thing I did want, or at least enjoyed, was babysitting, and the cash that came with it. by age 12 I was working the circuit of moms at our church, and was one of the more in-demand sitters. about $2/hr was the going rate, I believe, and I was pulling in some nice coin. ADD-me spent it as fast as I made it, because the cursory "you need to save money" didn't even register to my ADD-brain, and there was never any talk of planning for the future, or college (which never came up, until it did, my senior year, when it was suddenly An Issue), or any sort of financial information that might have benefitted me as I slid into my teen years. if there had been any sort of talk on the subject, it would have been a lecture in a language I could not comprehend. Imagine my surprise when my younger brother had the cash to buy a car at 15, long before I did.
I was a good babysitter because I enjoyed playing with the kids and their toys, I wasn't mean, and I loved babies. It was easy! Play with the kids, maybe watch a movie, feed them dinner without having to cook it (if they hadn't already been fed), then tuck everyone into bed and cruise the cable TV and maybe give a baby a bottle. Head home with cash in pocket, easy peasy. By high school, I figured I'd marry my boyfriend and we'd have half a dozen kids. Except we weren't exactly a great couple, and he wanted to go to college. And he did. There were a couple other guys, but never for very long. College snuck up on me and all of a sudden it was mandatory that I attend something I had no means to pay for, nor any preparation for. I honestly think the first conversation about college came up when my dad said that I was required to go, get a degree, and then I could do what I wanted to do. the only prior attempt to address the topic was when I declared a few years earlier that I wanted to attend Antioch in Yellow Springs, and was told in no certain terms that I would NOT be attending that "Damn Hippie School" by my mother.
Heading into my third year of floundering at community college, working multiple part time jobs, and registering for classes only to drop them the week classes started and lie about it to my parents, something needed to give. What I really needed was help, so much help. Mental, physical, financial - I was a wreck in every possible way. Instead, it was suggested that maybe I look into getting outta Dodge. I'd wanted to be a nanny right out of high school, but mom wouldn't allow it. One day, in early 1993, mom spread out newspapers on the kitchen counter to re-pot some plants, and there it was, like a beacon in the dark of my life: an ad for a nanny placement agency. We laughed at the coincidence, put the ad aside, and after the plants were done, I gave them a call.
I was matched with five families, interviewed with two or three, and the M family in New Jersey offered me a job. Three kids, two boys and a girl, 3, 6, and 8, with the middle child having Cerebral Palsy. We negotiated my start to fall mid-June so I could finish up the semester at school, then we packed me up and drove me to a suburb of Philadelphia. I still don't know how I pulled that off. Hot Mess doesn't even begin to describe me. but the kids loved me, the parents loved me, and I was as involved as I could be and did everything I could to be the best pseudo-parent there was. Reality hit about 3 months in when the parents left the country and I got sick. OK, they drove to Toronto for five days, but still, technically out of the country. And it hit me that I could not leave the house without dragging all three children with me. Like, NOT AT ALL. We lived behind a shopping center that had a drug store and a grocery store that we could walk to. Just need to pop out for tissues or something? well, kids, get your shoes on, because you're all coming with. That was a huge eye opener. Life altering, even. The youngest had just turned 4, so all three were potty trained and could dress and feed themselves, although I still needed to supervise bath time and cook the food (or at least supervise selections), so no diapers or bottles or round-the-clock hands-on care, but ... Yeah. I also only knew one of the neighbors, the childless couple next door. I hadn't yet really got into the circle of parents at pickup yet, so I had no one I could call on had I been truly sick (like when I got the flu that winter, and had another parent fetch the kids from school).
because through this, at the ripe old age of 21, I'm getting that noise that I need to provide my parents with grandchildren. Pretty sure it was just dad making that noise, but still. The nanny thing lasted 14 months, then I moved down to the shore and in with a cousin while I tried to figure out my place in the world on minimum wage, and seeing her muddle through single-parenthood, it was clearer than ever that even if desperately wanted a baby, I could not do it on my own. Childcare would eat up any paycheck I had, and as I had yet to meet a man worthy of partnering with (including that 11-years-older gem), everywhere I turned I was told my life would be over if I didn't get married and start having babies. So when my apartment that required 3/4 of my paycheck to afford it became too much, I moved myself in with that 11-years-older asshole and figured I'd make it work somehow. The tl;dr there is that I did not, in fact, make it work in the end, but escaped with my parents help while he was at work. Yes, the very same parents who took every opportunity available to remind me of my duty to provide them with grandchildren and how I'd be an old maid like my aunt if I didn't get busy, get married, and get pregnant, not only changed their tune a bit, they drove back to coastal NJ from Ohio on 12 hours notice to collect me.
You see, all the while I'm being hounded about marriage and babies, back home, my younger brother and his girlfriend were apparently picking up the slack. Christmas 1995, as they drove home from a surprise visit to me, my brother announced that his barely 18 yr old girlfriend was pregnant. Who's laughing now, eh? I don't think it ever occurred to them that my younger brother would be the one to give them grandchildren, at least not before I would! He'd dated a girl the summer I moved east who had a baby, and lived with them all for a while, so mom had the grandma bug from the months baby C lived there. Now, heading into summer of 1996, mom was suddenly too young to be a grandma at 49. she was having none of it! oh, sure, she went nuts getting yard sale clothing and toys for the baby boy and made sure the nursery in their apartment was all set to go, but she was NOT going to be called "grandma"! But then, mid-July 1996, D was born, and at the age of 49, mom became grandma, and at two weeks before his 23rd birthday, my brother became a father. We arrived home from my frantic escape from NJ at dusk the day of D's birth, having stopped several times a long the drive to check in on them. We appealed to the hospital, and they allowed us to stop in that night to meet the new baby. Baby D opened his eyes and turned his head when he heard grandma's voice as we entered the room, and that's all it took to convince her that being Grandma was going to be fine.
The flurry of excitement of me moving home and the new baby took all pressure off me to spawn, at least for a while. Babies become toddlers, and grandparents get greedy, and when the still-single daughter isn't' showing any signs of dating anyone, what are parents to do? The correct answer is MIND THEIR OWN DAMN BUSINESS along with MAYBE NOTICE THE STRUGGLES AND HELP HER GET THE HELP SHE NEEDS but no, they were back on the baby bullshit. my brother eventually married his son's mother, briefly, and then they split, and I regret not doing more to ensure D had a more stable life during those years before his dad got custody. The truth is, I was barely holding my own head above water, so I couldn't see how I could possibly scrape together the wherewithal to give D what he needed.
Then mom got sick, and died. At some point after that, I briefly thought that if I can't find someone to marry, maybe I could just adopt on my own? I must've been having a REALLY good day that day. I started to look into it, and realized the expense and scrutiny I'd have to go through, plus moving to a place with two bedrooms, and then one mild inconvenience later I had abandoned the whole thing without ever having done more than think "what if?" I did some babysitting in there, too, but it was more out of financial necessity than anything else. I much preferred the couple whose son went to bed early, and paid handsomely the later they stayed out and the more than drank. This was shortly before I was diagnosed with Sjogren's, when I was having all manner of physical health issues on top of the still-there-and-never-addressed-and-growing mental health issues. I eventually got a diagnosis, and was surprised to learn that congenital cardiac defects can occur in babies born to women with Sjogren's. Hrm, that's not cool. Oh, and pregnancy can exacerbate symptoms like nobody's business. Strike 2. Instead, I opted to improve my quality of life by buying a condo; first floor bathroom has been life-altering, as was losing my job not long after closing.
in the last 22 years, I have managed to get a job and stick it out (21 years officially this month!), acquire a handful more chronic illnesses, and not one but two cancer scares that resulted in a hysterectomy at 38 years, 7 months and 4 days. but who's counting?
in that same time, my brother remarried and two more kids, all boys; Dad married J2's mom less than a year after mom died; and D got married and they have three kids, also all boys. All told I have eight niblings (nieces and nephews) and three great-nephews. my brother and all three stepbrothers are married and have kids, leaving me, the sole daughter and middle child, unmarried and childless.
I'm lucky to finally be at an age where strangers can't just badger me about not having spawned. at 38, I could have potentially had time left, but now, I'm well into the years where it's no longer wise to speculate. I hope it's the same for dating. The current object of my obsession is about 8 years older than me, and while the physical health has been addressed (but not improved), the mental and financial ends are still a hot mess, and I don't wish that on anyone. I guess these things have a way of working themselves out after all?
It's sort of a shock that I didn't end up pregnant, the wildly ADD but also highly unobservant and oblivious child that I was. No, that's not quite right. Oh, I was (and still am) wildly ADD, and can be oblivious to things that others can spot from space, but it's not true that I didn't end up pregnant. I did - twice - in my early 20s. it's just that neither of them stuck. The first one was a true accident, a broken condom somewhere in the midst of that crazy wild night, him freaking out, but diving right back into the fray with what must've been an industrial size box of condoms, until it was time for me to sneak out and rush home lest either set of parents catch us. I was 20, he was 24, but we both lived at home. The second time was not an accident, but also not consensual. We'd just started dating, he dropped by my place on our days off, and despite my protests got what he came for. Sometimes it's easier to just shut up and take than to try to fight off someone who takes pleasure in being able to physically overpower you. I was 23, he was 34.
Both instances ended pretty much the same way: a few weeks of worry, then a few more of denial (hey, 7-8 months between cycles was normal at this point, so why worry?). Around week 7, the sickness would hit, that malaise I'd never encountered before (until I did the second time), followed quickly by the violent cramping and passing chunks the likes of which I'd never encountered (again, until the second time). I bled heavier and my abdomen seized harder than I thought possible, knocking me to the floor and making driving a scary prospect. I knew heavy bleeding and cramps, and this was well beyond that. Both times, I endured it alone, never telling a soul.
One thing I did want, or at least enjoyed, was babysitting, and the cash that came with it. by age 12 I was working the circuit of moms at our church, and was one of the more in-demand sitters. about $2/hr was the going rate, I believe, and I was pulling in some nice coin. ADD-me spent it as fast as I made it, because the cursory "you need to save money" didn't even register to my ADD-brain, and there was never any talk of planning for the future, or college (which never came up, until it did, my senior year, when it was suddenly An Issue), or any sort of financial information that might have benefitted me as I slid into my teen years. if there had been any sort of talk on the subject, it would have been a lecture in a language I could not comprehend. Imagine my surprise when my younger brother had the cash to buy a car at 15, long before I did.
I was a good babysitter because I enjoyed playing with the kids and their toys, I wasn't mean, and I loved babies. It was easy! Play with the kids, maybe watch a movie, feed them dinner without having to cook it (if they hadn't already been fed), then tuck everyone into bed and cruise the cable TV and maybe give a baby a bottle. Head home with cash in pocket, easy peasy. By high school, I figured I'd marry my boyfriend and we'd have half a dozen kids. Except we weren't exactly a great couple, and he wanted to go to college. And he did. There were a couple other guys, but never for very long. College snuck up on me and all of a sudden it was mandatory that I attend something I had no means to pay for, nor any preparation for. I honestly think the first conversation about college came up when my dad said that I was required to go, get a degree, and then I could do what I wanted to do. the only prior attempt to address the topic was when I declared a few years earlier that I wanted to attend Antioch in Yellow Springs, and was told in no certain terms that I would NOT be attending that "Damn Hippie School" by my mother.
Heading into my third year of floundering at community college, working multiple part time jobs, and registering for classes only to drop them the week classes started and lie about it to my parents, something needed to give. What I really needed was help, so much help. Mental, physical, financial - I was a wreck in every possible way. Instead, it was suggested that maybe I look into getting outta Dodge. I'd wanted to be a nanny right out of high school, but mom wouldn't allow it. One day, in early 1993, mom spread out newspapers on the kitchen counter to re-pot some plants, and there it was, like a beacon in the dark of my life: an ad for a nanny placement agency. We laughed at the coincidence, put the ad aside, and after the plants were done, I gave them a call.
I was matched with five families, interviewed with two or three, and the M family in New Jersey offered me a job. Three kids, two boys and a girl, 3, 6, and 8, with the middle child having Cerebral Palsy. We negotiated my start to fall mid-June so I could finish up the semester at school, then we packed me up and drove me to a suburb of Philadelphia. I still don't know how I pulled that off. Hot Mess doesn't even begin to describe me. but the kids loved me, the parents loved me, and I was as involved as I could be and did everything I could to be the best pseudo-parent there was. Reality hit about 3 months in when the parents left the country and I got sick. OK, they drove to Toronto for five days, but still, technically out of the country. And it hit me that I could not leave the house without dragging all three children with me. Like, NOT AT ALL. We lived behind a shopping center that had a drug store and a grocery store that we could walk to. Just need to pop out for tissues or something? well, kids, get your shoes on, because you're all coming with. That was a huge eye opener. Life altering, even. The youngest had just turned 4, so all three were potty trained and could dress and feed themselves, although I still needed to supervise bath time and cook the food (or at least supervise selections), so no diapers or bottles or round-the-clock hands-on care, but ... Yeah. I also only knew one of the neighbors, the childless couple next door. I hadn't yet really got into the circle of parents at pickup yet, so I had no one I could call on had I been truly sick (like when I got the flu that winter, and had another parent fetch the kids from school).
because through this, at the ripe old age of 21, I'm getting that noise that I need to provide my parents with grandchildren. Pretty sure it was just dad making that noise, but still. The nanny thing lasted 14 months, then I moved down to the shore and in with a cousin while I tried to figure out my place in the world on minimum wage, and seeing her muddle through single-parenthood, it was clearer than ever that even if desperately wanted a baby, I could not do it on my own. Childcare would eat up any paycheck I had, and as I had yet to meet a man worthy of partnering with (including that 11-years-older gem), everywhere I turned I was told my life would be over if I didn't get married and start having babies. So when my apartment that required 3/4 of my paycheck to afford it became too much, I moved myself in with that 11-years-older asshole and figured I'd make it work somehow. The tl;dr there is that I did not, in fact, make it work in the end, but escaped with my parents help while he was at work. Yes, the very same parents who took every opportunity available to remind me of my duty to provide them with grandchildren and how I'd be an old maid like my aunt if I didn't get busy, get married, and get pregnant, not only changed their tune a bit, they drove back to coastal NJ from Ohio on 12 hours notice to collect me.
You see, all the while I'm being hounded about marriage and babies, back home, my younger brother and his girlfriend were apparently picking up the slack. Christmas 1995, as they drove home from a surprise visit to me, my brother announced that his barely 18 yr old girlfriend was pregnant. Who's laughing now, eh? I don't think it ever occurred to them that my younger brother would be the one to give them grandchildren, at least not before I would! He'd dated a girl the summer I moved east who had a baby, and lived with them all for a while, so mom had the grandma bug from the months baby C lived there. Now, heading into summer of 1996, mom was suddenly too young to be a grandma at 49. she was having none of it! oh, sure, she went nuts getting yard sale clothing and toys for the baby boy and made sure the nursery in their apartment was all set to go, but she was NOT going to be called "grandma"! But then, mid-July 1996, D was born, and at the age of 49, mom became grandma, and at two weeks before his 23rd birthday, my brother became a father. We arrived home from my frantic escape from NJ at dusk the day of D's birth, having stopped several times a long the drive to check in on them. We appealed to the hospital, and they allowed us to stop in that night to meet the new baby. Baby D opened his eyes and turned his head when he heard grandma's voice as we entered the room, and that's all it took to convince her that being Grandma was going to be fine.
The flurry of excitement of me moving home and the new baby took all pressure off me to spawn, at least for a while. Babies become toddlers, and grandparents get greedy, and when the still-single daughter isn't' showing any signs of dating anyone, what are parents to do? The correct answer is MIND THEIR OWN DAMN BUSINESS along with MAYBE NOTICE THE STRUGGLES AND HELP HER GET THE HELP SHE NEEDS but no, they were back on the baby bullshit. my brother eventually married his son's mother, briefly, and then they split, and I regret not doing more to ensure D had a more stable life during those years before his dad got custody. The truth is, I was barely holding my own head above water, so I couldn't see how I could possibly scrape together the wherewithal to give D what he needed.
Then mom got sick, and died. At some point after that, I briefly thought that if I can't find someone to marry, maybe I could just adopt on my own? I must've been having a REALLY good day that day. I started to look into it, and realized the expense and scrutiny I'd have to go through, plus moving to a place with two bedrooms, and then one mild inconvenience later I had abandoned the whole thing without ever having done more than think "what if?" I did some babysitting in there, too, but it was more out of financial necessity than anything else. I much preferred the couple whose son went to bed early, and paid handsomely the later they stayed out and the more than drank. This was shortly before I was diagnosed with Sjogren's, when I was having all manner of physical health issues on top of the still-there-and-never-addressed-and-growing mental health issues. I eventually got a diagnosis, and was surprised to learn that congenital cardiac defects can occur in babies born to women with Sjogren's. Hrm, that's not cool. Oh, and pregnancy can exacerbate symptoms like nobody's business. Strike 2. Instead, I opted to improve my quality of life by buying a condo; first floor bathroom has been life-altering, as was losing my job not long after closing.
in the last 22 years, I have managed to get a job and stick it out (21 years officially this month!), acquire a handful more chronic illnesses, and not one but two cancer scares that resulted in a hysterectomy at 38 years, 7 months and 4 days. but who's counting?
in that same time, my brother remarried and two more kids, all boys; Dad married J2's mom less than a year after mom died; and D got married and they have three kids, also all boys. All told I have eight niblings (nieces and nephews) and three great-nephews. my brother and all three stepbrothers are married and have kids, leaving me, the sole daughter and middle child, unmarried and childless.
I'm lucky to finally be at an age where strangers can't just badger me about not having spawned. at 38, I could have potentially had time left, but now, I'm well into the years where it's no longer wise to speculate. I hope it's the same for dating. The current object of my obsession is about 8 years older than me, and while the physical health has been addressed (but not improved), the mental and financial ends are still a hot mess, and I don't wish that on anyone. I guess these things have a way of working themselves out after all?
Memories, dental and otherwise
Sep. 20th, 2023 07:27 pmGrowing up, I always assumed other kids did things the way we did things: eye doctor was in a different county, dentist in a downtown skyscraper, pediatrician in another suburb. Imagine my surprise when I learned that no, not everyone does things like this. Some kids go to the dentist across the street from school, or can walk home from a checkup.
Our eye doctor was in Fairborn, OH, which is in Greene County, very near the Wright Patterson AFB, and the other side of the planet from our home, at least to me as a kid. It's also very near where dad grew up, so I can only guess that this was dad's contribution to our health and wellness. He was also always the one who took us to these appointments, usually in the afternoon; he worked an earlier shift than mom. and given that he was an employee of Generous Motors as we liked to call it, the vision insurance almost certainly through him as well.
Our dentist was in downtown Dayton on Second St in what I remember being called the Hulman Building, but is now called Liberty Tower. At 23 stories high, it was the tallest building in Dayton until a couple years before I was born. Kettering Tower (now Stratacache Tower) overtook it in 1970 but is far more boring to look at, so I never paid it any mind. Liberty Tower is a beautiful art deco building done up with details like brass and marble and all those things from when craftsmanship meant something. I can always pick it out of the skyline by its jagged castle-crown of a top, where all the other buildings are boring rectangles.
I can't remember which floor Dr P's office was on, but I think it was around the 15th. I do remember the awe of walking into the building in the early morning with all of the businessmen in their suits with newspapers and briefcases, and ladies dressed up for work wearing heels and stockings and rushing around. The lobby had a small newsstand in the back left corner which sold all sorts of candy and gum and cigarettes and magazines, and the worker always looked bored to tears and uninterested. The floors were marble, with detectible wear from decades of people traveling the same paths, and the brass details were worn to a dark patina in some spots and still shiny in others. There were 3 elevators, I believe, and in between two of them was the mail drop: so subtle, but so serious, with the US Postal Service in relief in the between the intricate details of the brass. I was never allowed to use the the mail drop - I can still picture The Look for even asking - but once I was lucky enough to see a letter drop from above and into the collection at the bottom. It worked! it really worked!
The elevators were unremarkable except for one thing: the buttons. Oh! the buttons! While I am the button-pusher in the figurative sense, my brother was the button-pusher in the literal sense, and this elevator was just too delicious to pass up. First, you must understand that there are rules for kids. Turns must be taken, and who is next for what should be an Olympic sport for the 12-and-under crowd. I believe the rule was one of us could push the button to summon the elevator, and the other would get to push the button for the floor. Sometimes an adult would beat us to one or both of these, which always took the wind out of our sails - buildings with elevators were so rare! The buttons in this elevator were unlike any others I have ever encountered. Rather than being round buttons, they were about 2" square, and ever so slightly beveled in to a 1" square center with the floor number. The lightest of touch would illuminate the square, so we learned early on not to smash buttons, as this was a much classier ride. On one particular day, I'm sure we were running late, and I'm sure it was winter - the winter visits always stick out in my mind. I want to say my brother was not yet school-age, so maybe 5? That would put me at about age 7, depending on which side of Thanksgiving we were on. The three of us piled into the elevator along with a host of businessmen, and before the doors could even close, my brother turned to the panel to select our floor, but rather than pressing ONE button, he took his little finger and ran it up one column of numbers and then down the other, swiftly illuminating EVERY SINGLE ONE of the 23 floors in the building. I can remember mom wanting to shrink into herself while also resisting the urge to beat my brother within an inch of his life, as now we were making these very important businesspeople late as well. Withering glances all around, as I looked at mom, perplexed, not seeing the issue.
Another visit, probably earlier than button-pushing incident, my brother managed to get out at the wrong floor before mom could grab him, and the doors shut with him on the wrong side. fortunately a few other people got out on that floor and held onto him until we could return to collect him. I mostly remember mom panicking, and possibly my brother crying by the time we found him again, what with strangers grabbing his arm tightly so he didn't vanish further into the abyss.
The office itself was like a different world, so high up! the décor was very early 1960s red and black mod, with boxy furniture in bold pleather, and piles of Highlights! for children on the tables chock full of more subscription cards than actual pages. On the receptionist's desk was a small pasteboard box (cigar box in my mind, covered in patterned paper, but quite possibly something that existed as-is?) that contained little rubber dinosaurs, similar to erasers, but definitely not erasers. These were our prize for completing our visit, but we'd often find ourselves playing with them while mom had her appointment and we were left unsupervised in the waiting room. I won't say we were bad kids, but we were curious and energetic and not what dental office employees wanted to deal with.
All of the glitz and glamour of the building faded when it was time to use the restroom - it was located in the stairwell, between floors. A key was needed to access the restroom, and I often had panic attacks about finding my way back to the correct floor and office. the stairwell was a very institutional grey and lacking every bit of the flourish that the public areas boasted. it was all metal stairs and concrete and pipes and railings. it was like another world, and I often imagined I'd be kidnapped or held hostage in that inner hellscape.
Visits to the dentist were traumatic to me once I started needing fillings. I won't say much more than that because I'm trying to get past it, but when I mentioned to my current dentist Dr K that my childhood dentist was a monster, upon hearing his name, my current dentist confirmed "Yeah, he was known for being a bit rough." I believe professional courtesy prevented Dr K from saying more, but the look he gave me acknowledged my trauma, and he's been a gem ever since. Dr P's office had the old-school dental chairs with attached sink in glorious shades of mint green and orange, and he wore the weird dentist-shirt with the button on one shoulder, and the faux-clerical collar that never made any sense to me. No masks, no gloves, not sure I remember hand-washing, but I do recall his hands were clean and nails neatly trimmed; no brake-fluid stained skin or jagged hangnails here.
Some of the best memories of the dentist are not of the actual dentist, but across the street! Back then, there were department stores on the corners of Second and Main Streets. The Rike's parking garage was directly across the street from the dentist, so that's where we'd park. This parking garage had two main features that we kids adored: a donut counter, and a tight spiral exit. Mom swears that she had no choice but to give in to our badgering, but after appointments, she'd get us each a donut. At the time I didn't think much of it, but how odd is it to have a bakery case or two tucked into the entrance of the stairwell of a parking garage? I mean, captive audience, sure, but I've never seen anything like that anywhere else at the time. Our dental appointments were always in the morning, and always with mom, so with donut in hand, she'd schlep us back out to the western suburbs to school, and then backtrack to work.
Rike's Parking Garage was one of those things I miss about the Dayton of my childhood. Yes, I miss Downtown Dayton Days and taking off school to shop with mom, or getting to shop on my own while she had extensive dental work done (and then laughing my ass off as she tried to smoke a cigarette with most of her mouth numbed with Novocain), but I don't think I ever got to take the wild ride that is the exit spiral of that parking garage. As I said earlier, I mostly remember wintertime appointments. Here is a fantastic photo of that parking garage in all her glory, with that spiral exit and ramp right into traffic. Winters in Ohio meant snow, and back in the late 1970s and early 80s, we DID get snow. snowplowing technology being what it is, there's only so much that can be done for snow that's drifted and collected on those twisty ramps, and even without snow, it was a tight fit, nevermind traffic trying to merge from the floors as you descend.
The incident in question happened in winter, after a big snow. the spiral's surface was grooved to help with traction, but there was no shortage of scrapes and marks along the outside wall to remind drivers that caution was a must. Snow was banked up high against the outer curve, making the turn that much tighter, and our harried mother that much more high-strung. We'd parked higher than normal, meaning a longer than normal descent. We were thrilled! "Faster, mom! go faster!" we screamed at her as she inched her way down, sliding and not always stopping when she commanded the car to do so. She may have screamed back at us, but refused to take her eyes off the road in front of her. The lineup of cars behind us didn't help matters. A Chevy Nova from the late 1960s isn't a huge car - two door, hard top, back seat that'd be prohibitive for mature adults to use - but to mom, the whole thing was too much, a couple of rowdy kids bouncing around the unbelted back seat squealing for death while the rest of the world looked on, dour and disapproving. It's possible there was punishment later, but I'm pretty sure by the time we'd make the trek back out to Trotwood, mom would've been so eager to be rid of us that she'd have filed that away in the box of Things To Stew Over and Blow Up In A Rage At A Later Date. that part happened for sure, many times.
It wasn't until I went to Durham back in April that I got to experience one of these death-spiral parking exits for myself - The Corcoran Street Parking Garage near DPAC has the same type of exit! it's a few floors shorter, but as I pulled out of the garage after Darren's show in April, tired and excited and overwhelmed and hurting, and hit that spiral exit, I suddenly had a much better appreciation for all those times mom told us to shut up.
Our eye doctor was in Fairborn, OH, which is in Greene County, very near the Wright Patterson AFB, and the other side of the planet from our home, at least to me as a kid. It's also very near where dad grew up, so I can only guess that this was dad's contribution to our health and wellness. He was also always the one who took us to these appointments, usually in the afternoon; he worked an earlier shift than mom. and given that he was an employee of Generous Motors as we liked to call it, the vision insurance almost certainly through him as well.
Our dentist was in downtown Dayton on Second St in what I remember being called the Hulman Building, but is now called Liberty Tower. At 23 stories high, it was the tallest building in Dayton until a couple years before I was born. Kettering Tower (now Stratacache Tower) overtook it in 1970 but is far more boring to look at, so I never paid it any mind. Liberty Tower is a beautiful art deco building done up with details like brass and marble and all those things from when craftsmanship meant something. I can always pick it out of the skyline by its jagged castle-crown of a top, where all the other buildings are boring rectangles.
I can't remember which floor Dr P's office was on, but I think it was around the 15th. I do remember the awe of walking into the building in the early morning with all of the businessmen in their suits with newspapers and briefcases, and ladies dressed up for work wearing heels and stockings and rushing around. The lobby had a small newsstand in the back left corner which sold all sorts of candy and gum and cigarettes and magazines, and the worker always looked bored to tears and uninterested. The floors were marble, with detectible wear from decades of people traveling the same paths, and the brass details were worn to a dark patina in some spots and still shiny in others. There were 3 elevators, I believe, and in between two of them was the mail drop: so subtle, but so serious, with the US Postal Service in relief in the between the intricate details of the brass. I was never allowed to use the the mail drop - I can still picture The Look for even asking - but once I was lucky enough to see a letter drop from above and into the collection at the bottom. It worked! it really worked!
The elevators were unremarkable except for one thing: the buttons. Oh! the buttons! While I am the button-pusher in the figurative sense, my brother was the button-pusher in the literal sense, and this elevator was just too delicious to pass up. First, you must understand that there are rules for kids. Turns must be taken, and who is next for what should be an Olympic sport for the 12-and-under crowd. I believe the rule was one of us could push the button to summon the elevator, and the other would get to push the button for the floor. Sometimes an adult would beat us to one or both of these, which always took the wind out of our sails - buildings with elevators were so rare! The buttons in this elevator were unlike any others I have ever encountered. Rather than being round buttons, they were about 2" square, and ever so slightly beveled in to a 1" square center with the floor number. The lightest of touch would illuminate the square, so we learned early on not to smash buttons, as this was a much classier ride. On one particular day, I'm sure we were running late, and I'm sure it was winter - the winter visits always stick out in my mind. I want to say my brother was not yet school-age, so maybe 5? That would put me at about age 7, depending on which side of Thanksgiving we were on. The three of us piled into the elevator along with a host of businessmen, and before the doors could even close, my brother turned to the panel to select our floor, but rather than pressing ONE button, he took his little finger and ran it up one column of numbers and then down the other, swiftly illuminating EVERY SINGLE ONE of the 23 floors in the building. I can remember mom wanting to shrink into herself while also resisting the urge to beat my brother within an inch of his life, as now we were making these very important businesspeople late as well. Withering glances all around, as I looked at mom, perplexed, not seeing the issue.
Another visit, probably earlier than button-pushing incident, my brother managed to get out at the wrong floor before mom could grab him, and the doors shut with him on the wrong side. fortunately a few other people got out on that floor and held onto him until we could return to collect him. I mostly remember mom panicking, and possibly my brother crying by the time we found him again, what with strangers grabbing his arm tightly so he didn't vanish further into the abyss.
The office itself was like a different world, so high up! the décor was very early 1960s red and black mod, with boxy furniture in bold pleather, and piles of Highlights! for children on the tables chock full of more subscription cards than actual pages. On the receptionist's desk was a small pasteboard box (cigar box in my mind, covered in patterned paper, but quite possibly something that existed as-is?) that contained little rubber dinosaurs, similar to erasers, but definitely not erasers. These were our prize for completing our visit, but we'd often find ourselves playing with them while mom had her appointment and we were left unsupervised in the waiting room. I won't say we were bad kids, but we were curious and energetic and not what dental office employees wanted to deal with.
All of the glitz and glamour of the building faded when it was time to use the restroom - it was located in the stairwell, between floors. A key was needed to access the restroom, and I often had panic attacks about finding my way back to the correct floor and office. the stairwell was a very institutional grey and lacking every bit of the flourish that the public areas boasted. it was all metal stairs and concrete and pipes and railings. it was like another world, and I often imagined I'd be kidnapped or held hostage in that inner hellscape.
Visits to the dentist were traumatic to me once I started needing fillings. I won't say much more than that because I'm trying to get past it, but when I mentioned to my current dentist Dr K that my childhood dentist was a monster, upon hearing his name, my current dentist confirmed "Yeah, he was known for being a bit rough." I believe professional courtesy prevented Dr K from saying more, but the look he gave me acknowledged my trauma, and he's been a gem ever since. Dr P's office had the old-school dental chairs with attached sink in glorious shades of mint green and orange, and he wore the weird dentist-shirt with the button on one shoulder, and the faux-clerical collar that never made any sense to me. No masks, no gloves, not sure I remember hand-washing, but I do recall his hands were clean and nails neatly trimmed; no brake-fluid stained skin or jagged hangnails here.
Some of the best memories of the dentist are not of the actual dentist, but across the street! Back then, there were department stores on the corners of Second and Main Streets. The Rike's parking garage was directly across the street from the dentist, so that's where we'd park. This parking garage had two main features that we kids adored: a donut counter, and a tight spiral exit. Mom swears that she had no choice but to give in to our badgering, but after appointments, she'd get us each a donut. At the time I didn't think much of it, but how odd is it to have a bakery case or two tucked into the entrance of the stairwell of a parking garage? I mean, captive audience, sure, but I've never seen anything like that anywhere else at the time. Our dental appointments were always in the morning, and always with mom, so with donut in hand, she'd schlep us back out to the western suburbs to school, and then backtrack to work.
Rike's Parking Garage was one of those things I miss about the Dayton of my childhood. Yes, I miss Downtown Dayton Days and taking off school to shop with mom, or getting to shop on my own while she had extensive dental work done (and then laughing my ass off as she tried to smoke a cigarette with most of her mouth numbed with Novocain), but I don't think I ever got to take the wild ride that is the exit spiral of that parking garage. As I said earlier, I mostly remember wintertime appointments. Here is a fantastic photo of that parking garage in all her glory, with that spiral exit and ramp right into traffic. Winters in Ohio meant snow, and back in the late 1970s and early 80s, we DID get snow. snowplowing technology being what it is, there's only so much that can be done for snow that's drifted and collected on those twisty ramps, and even without snow, it was a tight fit, nevermind traffic trying to merge from the floors as you descend.
The incident in question happened in winter, after a big snow. the spiral's surface was grooved to help with traction, but there was no shortage of scrapes and marks along the outside wall to remind drivers that caution was a must. Snow was banked up high against the outer curve, making the turn that much tighter, and our harried mother that much more high-strung. We'd parked higher than normal, meaning a longer than normal descent. We were thrilled! "Faster, mom! go faster!" we screamed at her as she inched her way down, sliding and not always stopping when she commanded the car to do so. She may have screamed back at us, but refused to take her eyes off the road in front of her. The lineup of cars behind us didn't help matters. A Chevy Nova from the late 1960s isn't a huge car - two door, hard top, back seat that'd be prohibitive for mature adults to use - but to mom, the whole thing was too much, a couple of rowdy kids bouncing around the unbelted back seat squealing for death while the rest of the world looked on, dour and disapproving. It's possible there was punishment later, but I'm pretty sure by the time we'd make the trek back out to Trotwood, mom would've been so eager to be rid of us that she'd have filed that away in the box of Things To Stew Over and Blow Up In A Rage At A Later Date. that part happened for sure, many times.
It wasn't until I went to Durham back in April that I got to experience one of these death-spiral parking exits for myself - The Corcoran Street Parking Garage near DPAC has the same type of exit! it's a few floors shorter, but as I pulled out of the garage after Darren's show in April, tired and excited and overwhelmed and hurting, and hit that spiral exit, I suddenly had a much better appreciation for all those times mom told us to shut up.
on this day just like any other day
Sep. 11th, 2018 09:00 pmeveryone is getting all weepy and nostalgic about today. i have emotions, but they're very self-centered.
my mom had died three months prior to 9/11 (on 6/12), and i'd just spent the weekend with a guy i'd hoped would finally commit to me, but instead dumped (-ish) me. i was A Hot Mess. i drove home on Monday, in a daze. Tuesday was for sleeping in, laundry, and trying to put the pieces back together. My day didn't exactly go as planned.
I know very little about what happened during that time, because my life was consumed with grief and rejection and heartache and a father who couldn't function living alone for the first time ever. while the rest of the country cried over these strangers dying on TV, i was screaming inside about my mother, who i watched go into cardiac arrest. Front row seat, trying to feed her broth while her heart stopped beating and she turned unnatural colors and i started screaming for help. The dying part is nothing like Hollywood, but they get the "code blue"/drop and run part down pretty good. I was alone with her when it happened; my dad blamed me for her death, repeatedly, at her funeral. Issues? pfft. I've got the whole freaking newsstand.
That guy and I are still friends. better friends now, actually. In fact, a couple months after that weekend, he invited my dad, brother and I to Thanksgiving dinner at his mom's house. Two months later, his mom and my dad were engaged to be married. two months after that (and 9 months after my mom died, and 17 months after his dad died) our parents got married. So my ex-boyfriend is one of three stepbrothers.
so yeah, it's OK to have other memories associated with this (or any other) day. That doesn't make you cold, heartless, unAmerican or evil. it makes you HUMAN.
my mom had died three months prior to 9/11 (on 6/12), and i'd just spent the weekend with a guy i'd hoped would finally commit to me, but instead dumped (-ish) me. i was A Hot Mess. i drove home on Monday, in a daze. Tuesday was for sleeping in, laundry, and trying to put the pieces back together. My day didn't exactly go as planned.
I know very little about what happened during that time, because my life was consumed with grief and rejection and heartache and a father who couldn't function living alone for the first time ever. while the rest of the country cried over these strangers dying on TV, i was screaming inside about my mother, who i watched go into cardiac arrest. Front row seat, trying to feed her broth while her heart stopped beating and she turned unnatural colors and i started screaming for help. The dying part is nothing like Hollywood, but they get the "code blue"/drop and run part down pretty good. I was alone with her when it happened; my dad blamed me for her death, repeatedly, at her funeral. Issues? pfft. I've got the whole freaking newsstand.
That guy and I are still friends. better friends now, actually. In fact, a couple months after that weekend, he invited my dad, brother and I to Thanksgiving dinner at his mom's house. Two months later, his mom and my dad were engaged to be married. two months after that (and 9 months after my mom died, and 17 months after his dad died) our parents got married. So my ex-boyfriend is one of three stepbrothers.
so yeah, it's OK to have other memories associated with this (or any other) day. That doesn't make you cold, heartless, unAmerican or evil. it makes you HUMAN.
