by Su Meck
I have tried countless times to put myself in Jim’s shoes. It must have been more than a little infuriating to live with me. Our home should have been the place where he could relax, spend time with his kids, and carry on adult conversations with me. Our home was none of those things.
Our constant quest for normalcy made every event a high-stakes performance. As a way to illustrate this fact, I’ll relate a story that we laugh about now, but at the time it was not at all amusing. That first Christmas we lived in Maryland, Jim thought it would be fun to go and chop down a tree to decorate for our new house. He had fond childhood memories of finding and cutting down the perfect Christmas tree with his family every December, and he wanted to start a new tradition with Patrick and Benjamin. So, off we went. Jim was carrying an ax and a saw. I was carrying Patrick and holding on to Benjamin’s hand as we trudged through the snow. My boys and I had never seen snow before. When it snowed for the first time early that December, I can remember Benjamin, in his pajamas, barreling out onto the deck, full speed ahead, so loud and excited. Patrick, always more cautious, sat in the doorway for a bit, hunched down, touching the flakes tentatively with his fingers, before walking out onto the deck. I can remember being a little confused as to why snow was both white and wet. I had seen pictures of snow, so I should have known it was white, but I didn’t expect it to be so white and I don’t know why, but I thought it would have a different consistency.
As we walked for what seemed like miles, I remember it being very cold and windy, and both boys’ noses were running. Jim was all about finding the Ultimate Meck Family Christmas Tree. I was all about getting this over with so we could go home where it was warm. Jim was convinced that if we just kept looking, and walking just a little bit farther, we would find “our” tree. We eventually found what Jim was looking for, and he cut it down. Benjamin, of course, wanted to help with the ax and the saw and he ended up getting screamed at by Jim instead. Patrick was tired, cold, and whiny. The whole thing was quite the miserable adventure. Both boys fell asleep in their car seats while Jim was trying to tie the tree to the car, and we ended up not eating any of the special cutting-the-tree-down snacks we had prepared. Apparently, Jim remembered always having snacks after the tree was hunted and slain, and not before. He was upset that the boys and I hadn’t appreciated this outing. I was upset because I hadn’t seen the point of this outing.
I still needed routine desperately and I missed the aerobics classes that I had taken in Texas. So Jim and I joined Merritt Athletic Club, a fitness facility not too far from Jim’s office. I made almost daily trips to that club and was noticed by Brenda Miller, the aerobics coordinator. She ultimately offered me a job teaching classes to the “Mom set” most mornings. I recently found an old VHS tape of me teaching one of those classes, wearing black Lycra shorts with a wide belt, a white jog bra, and thick white socks with high-top aerobics sneakers. My hair, which I seem to use as a prop, is long and curly, thanks to an early-nineties-era spiral perm.
I don’t remember too much about teaching at Merritt. But I do recall a distinct feeling of satisfaction that I had being an aerobics instructor. Finally, I could help out financially, at least a little bit, and also feel like there was more to my life than being a wife and mother. Brenda Miller also started a dance team, Muscles in Motion, and I was thrilled when she asked me to be part of it.
It was while living in Bel Air, and teaching at Merritt, that I think I actively began to watch and listen to what other people did and said. Before this time, what I did was utterly instinctive. Now, after observing, I began to mimic (exactly) how different people in different situations acted. Most, if not all, of the time I didn’t understand why people behaved certain ways in different circumstances, but that didn’t matter to me. My number one goal was to fit in. I never wanted to say or do anything stupid. I rarely did anything because I thought it was the right thing to do; I just acted, literally, like those around me, whether at church, at the gym, at social gatherings, at the library, at the playground, or with other neighbors. I mimicked movements, activities, gestures, speech patterns, and facial expressions. If all the mothers at the park were sitting with their legs crossed and flipping through magazines, I would cross my legs and flip through a magazine. If people in church were standing and singing a hymn, I would stand with my hymnal opened and pretend to sing the same hymn. It took me years to learn how to read, so I could barely follow along with the bulletin or the hymnal during services. In choir, I listened intently and paid attention during the rehearsals to the words and tunes of our music. I would then try to either follow along or memorize as much as I could. It was quite a few years before I realized the word alleluia wasn’t alligator, and amen wasn’t a man, and let us pray wasn’t lettuce rain.
I also had dozens of my own made-up words and phrases that I used. My brother Rob recently reminded me of two of these that he explicitly remembers: “Long-end days” were what I called the weekend, as in: When the long-end days get here, we are going to go and visit Mom and Dad. And “real art” was how I referred to photographs, as in: I am going to pick up the real art from MotoPhoto this afternoon.
Over the years, I have taken “blending in” to an Olympic-class level. This need I have to conform has taken its toll on me and has led to quite the exhausting existence. In Texas, Jim says that our friends had treated me as if I was suddenly mentally retarded. When we moved east, I was treated, at least I thought, as if I belonged. Except I didn’t, and I was the only one who knew the truth. As hard as I worked to fit in, one would think that I would be happy that I seemed to be succeeding. But the pressure was always on, and I was extremely self-conscious. I could never really relax and be me because I didn’t know who that was. Who exactly was I supposed to be? It was almost like the “What Would Jesus Do?” expression that was popular a few years ago, except I was constantly asking myself “What Would Su Do?” Because I honestly didn’t know how to think for myself. I just knew how to parrot others. I had no understanding or appreciation of why people did what they did. Or was everybody going through motions just like I was? I didn’t think so.
For example, I was expected to attend the occasional social gathering with people from Jim’s office. I hated going to those senseless functions. They were full of all these power people, with all of their college degrees and PhDs, with important jobs and important lives. All the women knew how to dress perfectly and how do their hair and makeup just so. Nobody ever taught me how to do stuff like that. I felt totally intimidated! I sensed I was like a four- or five-year-old surrounded by grown-ups. I didn’t fit in at all with these people no matter how hard I tried to imitate them. Often I would throw up while getting ready because I was so nervous and uncomfortable about going. And then Jim would get so pissed off at me.
He says now that he had no idea what I was going through. He never understood my reluctance. So our social life just became another source of anxiety and tension between the two of us. All Jim wanted was a bit of what we had before, “to go out and do things like we used to do.” Except I didn’t know what we used to do, and I was terrified of these social situations. I was also scared of being separated from Jim at these parties. I never knew what to say. The whole chitchatting thing was beyond me. Women would gather in the kitchen and talk about their high-pressure jobs, their exotic vacations, what a pain in the ass it was to find a good au pair for their kids that they hated. I never had anything to contribute, so I awkwardly stood around watching the clock and wishing time would go faster so Jim would come and find me and we could just go home. But as afraid as I was to go to these get-togethers, I was more frightened of provoking Jim’s anger if I stood my ground and refused to go. There were times when he wouldn’t forgive or talk to me for weeks if I did that. Jim wanted to act as if everything was back to normal. As part of the pact that we had seemingly made with each other to not talk about my injury with friends, neighbors, and Jim’s coworkers, we also apparently stopped talking to each othe
r.
Headed out to a company Christmas party. I threw up right before this picture was taken, but then I had to put on my happy party face.
10
Life Is a Lemon, and I Want My Money Back
—Meatloaf
We had been living in Bel Air for almost a year when Benjamin started going to preschool. What I remember most about his preschool classroom was the strawberry wallpaper. Benjamin says he vividly remembers that wallpaper, too. Once, when the teachers weren’t looking, he went over to the wallpaper, utterly convinced that when he scratched it, it would smell like strawberries, because of a scratch-and-sniff book we had read. Did I have the same urge? Who knows? I was more peer than parent to Patrick and Benjamin, both mentally and emotionally. I was filled with the same awe and wonder that they had about many aspects of the world.
Unfortunately, Benjamin’s strong, take-no-prisoners personality became a disadvantage as he started preschool, and it continued to be a liability throughout his school years. Early on he was put on a kind of preschool probation. There were these little yellow tags he would get at the end of each day labeled with the numbers one through five. Whatever number was circled represented how he had behaved that day. I think there was also a kind of incentive system built into the yellow tags. So if he got a certain number of “fives” during the week, he was allowed to pick a sticker to take home on Friday. I remember thinking it was strange, and I was unsure as to what my role was with regard to these little yellow tags. I didn’t know that I was supposed to talk to him about his behavior or discipline him somehow. I honestly don’t think that Benjamin was a bad kid. The whole concept that he was somehow inferior to the teacher, I am convinced, was a bit baffling to him. When he was at home with Patrick and me, there was an awful lot expected of him, but with all of those expectations came a certain amount of freedom. I depended on Benjamin to a certain extent to know what to do and when to do it. At school, that responsibility was mysteriously taken away from him, and the teacher, instead, got to pick what to do and when to do it. Most days Benjamin must have thought the four-year-old’s version of “Screw it! I feel like going outside on the playground now, and I could care less about sitting here quietly listening to you talk about the days of the week!”
Moreover, I didn’t know too much about discipline, reverse psychology, or time-outs because I didn’t remember being parented myself. Every day was a brand-new day to the boys and me. If there was a “rule” at home one day that stipulated “all books back on the bookshelf after bedtime reading,” that rule would be totally forgotten by the next evening, when all three of us would fall asleep in the top bunk with a dozen or more books scattered about. If the boys got in serious trouble one day for walking into the house from the backyard with muddy boots on, the next time they wore their muddy boots in the house, I might not even notice. Benjamin says of that time: “Patrick and I were able to do pretty much what we wanted. Almost all of our free time when we were little was spent together. We played outside a lot and did all kinds of dangerous stuff. We would get into the most apocalyptic fights. Patrick was always willing to take it further than I was.” And then: “If it got to the point where you wanted to put your foot down, there would be no discussion. All of a sudden, out of the blue, ‘You can’t do that!’ We both knew there was no recourse at that point.” I was unpredictable and inconsistent when it came to parenting, and I am certain that it was confusing as hell to my kids when everything appeared to be so out of control.
However, I excelled at routine. Schedules and regimens became my saving grace. Benjamin remembers that I “was in charge of meals and the house. Anything that we did on a regular basis, you were awesome at! That’s how you built up your repertoire of ‘mommying.’ Like the procedure of getting us up in the morning, for example. Every moment of the morning was scheduled, consistent, and enforced. We’d get up, get dressed, make our beds, come down and eat breakfast, then wash up and brush our teeth, and be out the door. There was a certain point every night that the kitchen would ‘close.’ We weren’t even allowed to go into the kitchen! Looking back I see that stuff that was routine was the only stuff that really made any sense to you.”
This very scheduled, and yet at the same time chaotic, household must have been confusing for Patrick most of the time as well. There is a family story that is told that illustrates this point nicely. When Patrick was three, he would often just stare at me earnestly if I asked him to crawl up into his car seat.
Me:
Patrick. Can you crawl up into your car seat please? It’s time to go.
Patrick:
(staring)
Me:
Patrick! Please crawl up into your car seat!
Patrick:
(staring)
Me:
Patrick! What is wrong with you!!!
Patrick:
Mom, you never told me to “Hurry up! Get into your car seat!! Now!!!”
Patrick went through a phase where he would wait for me to say those precise words in a certain tone of voice that meant I was really serious. Both boys talk about how they would wait for those words and that tone before actually doing anything that I told them to do.
Each child, each day, was a new and exciting challenge.
I had a Burley trailer attached to my bike back then. In the summertime, the boys would crawl into that trailer with their big beach towels, pool toys, and snacks, and we would set out for the neighborhood pool. I was deathly afraid of the water myself, so I signed them up for a few sessions of swimming lessons in the mornings. I certainly wasn’t going to be able to teach them how to swim. We would often go back in the afternoons so they could practice and show me what they learned, as well as play with other neighborhood kids.
On one such bike ride to the pool, Benjamin and Patrick suddenly felt the trailer hit the curb and then lurch onto its side and skid to a halt. Benjamin, taking command as he usually did, unzipped the mesh covering and poked his head out. He saw me collapsed on the pavement. “You didn’t seem to be hurt, but you were unresponsive. You weren’t doing anything, just lying there. I’m pretty sure what happened was that you had one of your ‘lightning’ episodes. You must have hit the curb and then fallen over. I told Patrick to stay with you and I ran up the driveway to the house we were in front of and asked the lady if I could call 911. Then I went back to sit with Patrick on the curb and wait for the ambulance to come.” The paramedics arrived a few minutes later and saw that I had just a few scrapes and bruises. Nothing looked too serious. But when they asked me where I lived, I didn’t know. They were alarmed that I appeared so confused, and they held me in the ambulance until I came out of the “lightning” situation and became more coherent. (Remember my old pals “lightning,” “piercing headache,” and “foggy confusion.”)
It was this episode that forced Jim to consider that perhaps not everything was as well with me as he thought. He knew that I might not always be able to find my way home (Hmm . . . because that’s certainly normal . . . ), but he thought that I would always somehow be able to keep the kids safe. This little bike accident forced Jim to rethink. What if I had been in the car? He had no idea that this sort of thing had already occurred while I was driving. He ordered me a medical alert bracelet, which would instruct medical personnel to look in my purse for a card. The card explained that I had suffered a closed-head injury, that I had memory issues, and that Jim should be telephoned at work if I became incapacitated. A medical alert bracelet seems like a woefully inadequate solution to conceivably hazardous circumstances. But in his own head, Jim thought that doing something concrete, like ordering me a medical alert bracelet, was a proper response to his many safety concerns. What else was he to do? He had to be at work, and it wasn’t like there was any extra money to hire help for me at home.
Despite my obvious problems, I continued to feign comprehension of the world even among close friends and family. Road trips would invariably trigger “lightning” and
confusion. In the summer of 1990, the family drove to Hilton Head, South Carolina, for a weeklong Miller family reunion. I went through the motions well enough so that my brothers, sisters, parents, and grandparents had no idea how little I understood of what was going on. My outward appearance held up well until dinner one night with the entire family in a noisy restaurant. Jim immediately recognized my panicked look and announced that we needed to leave. As we got up, everyone else got up as well. And as I was walking out of the restaurant with Jim and the boys, the rest of the family was right behind us. Jim remembers me looking back and saying, “Who are these people, and why are they following us?”
A photograph taken that week shows the Meck family among the palm trees. Benjamin is staring off in one direction, Patrick in the other. Jim is smiling at the camera, and I am gazing off into nothingness, my eyes unfocused and blank. My sister Barb observed that in that picture, “You looked so lost. You were able to put on a good front, and follow along, and participate in the family activities. But I never understood that you didn’t really have a clue of what to do, or what was going on.”
