| Biographical Non-Fiction posted September 25, 2009 | Chapters: |
...4 5 -6- 7... 
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CAN'T made me who I am today but...
A chapter in the book Our Family
Love Made It All Worthwhile
by Begin Again
"There is no such word as can't, do you understand?"
Closing my eyes, I can hear my German father towering over my skinny little twig of a body, glaring at me and demanding my attention. He wasn't expecting me to answer because a child was to be seen not heard, to listen and obey, and to accept his word, and only his word, as law.
Raised during the Depression, he was forced to quit school at an early age. He worked at every sloppy, dirty, miserable job that anyone would offer a young child. He waded through knee-deep snow, tracking a rabbit so his family would have something to eat. As he got older, he worked two full time jobs, often going without sleep for days. In his mind, he was convinced he wouldn't live if he surrendered to the word can't, a thought he refused to entertain.
My grandfather worked in the canning fields by day and as a night watchman by night. Every Friday, my grandmother would drag herself from her sickbed and wait at the gate for their meager earnings, which she would promptly spend by Monday morning. From shoveling car loads of coal, carrying fifty pound blocks of ice, shucking ears of corn till his fingers bled, piecing together junked cars to sell, cleaning manure from the barns, and finally, delivering heating fuel to homes, my father survived and declared himself a self-made man. My father was a man who did what was required without any fuss, any questions, any whimpering or whining. He just got the job done.
He carried his philosophy into his marriage. While working a full time job, my father built our home while my mother and I carried lumber, nails and anything he needed. After the house was built, my mother and I dug a small basement, removing five-gallon buckets of dirt, one bucket at a time. Working outside the home was not an option for my mother; her place was at home, cleaning and making our meals. Thinking back, I never remember her voicing an opinion about anything. Our house was immaculate and dinner was served, quietly. Exactly as my father wanted it.
Mitzi, a 10-pound Pekingese, was my best friend, my only friend, during most of my childhood. When I finished my chores, we would sit by the riverbank and she would listen intently to every word I said. If I cried, she kissed me. If I laughed, she barked. If I sat quietly, she cuddled in my lap. If I wanted to play, she was quick to accommodate me. She was loyal and never left my side until she died.
I can't remember emotions ever being shown inside the house, at least not happy ones. I don't remember anyone ever holding my hand, giving me a hug, telling me I was loved or even that a job was well done. Later in life, I questioned his reasoning and he told me if he said I did something good, I would probably never try harder again. I remember straight A's were greeted by "Where's the pluses?" and "I can't" was punctuated with a leather belt.
As I grew older, my emotions were developed within my stories. Writing was my escape, held back only by the limitations of my imagination. The pen allowed me to find adventure, love and eventually freedom. In those days, I learned the true power of the pen and its written word.
At eighteen, I escaped my childhood by jumping from "the frying pan into the fire." However, at the time, I could only see it as a way out. I left home, got married, and had my first child before I was nineteen. After all, wasn't that the American dream? Unfortunately, my dream became a nightmare.
At four months old, my son, Johnny, was critically ill and given very little chance of survival. My military husband mentally detached himself from the situation and simply expected me to deal with it. Alone, miles from family, I listened to professionals accuse, point fingers, and declare my son to be dead, only to discover they were playing with my mind. One specialist offered me a glimmer of hope and I grabbed it, clutched it to my heart, and focused on Johnny's recovery. Never once did the word "can't" creep into my thoughts. I simply knew he must survive and I would care for him no matter what the outcome. After a seven-hour brain surgery, my baby boy returned to me, cooing softly. For the next forty years, the two of us would be side by side, struggling with his disabilities. It wasn't an easy journey, but one neither of us thought we couldn't survive. Always in the back of my mind, I could hear my father standing over that skinny, little girl and bellowing, "There is no such word as can't."
Many years later, my second son, Michael, died in a swimming accident. When they carried his lifeless, four year old body from the water, I remember wanting my heart to stop beating, too. The agony that surged through my body pounded at me like a tidal wave. For whatever reasons, my husband could not comfort me. When my eyes connected with my two trembling, scared little daughters, "can't" kicked in again. I couldn't shut down, not now, not ever. It was my responsibility to protect my children and help them understand this tragedy, even if I didn't understand it myself.
Later, I couldn't recall making the telephone call to my parents, asking them to make the two hour drive to take us home. I do remember sitting in the back seat of their car, watching my father concentrate on the highway, and struggling not to let him hear me cry. The car was silent like a tomb. I dearly wanted someone to hold me and tell me that everything would be okay, but maybe "can't" played a major role in that, too. It was my responsibility to survive, carry on, and make life possible for my family. Keeping that "stiff upper lip" was a major requirement and a lesson I'd learned well.
Privately, at Michael's grave, I screamed at God, asking Him how much I was supposed to endure. I believe I never once questioned whether He would answer me or not. If I were expected to deal with "can't", wouldn't a higher power certainly take "can't" in stride. I'd been the obedient child. I'd been the unquestioning mother, providing love and care to my oldest son when others turned away. I'd stepped willingly into the role of protector when my girls cried over the loss of their brother. Without questioning, I had filled every role required while my husband sat grieving, unresponsive to any of us. Never once though, did I say I can't do this ... because I knew can't simply wasn't an option.
After having my daughter, Corrie, the doctors were adamant that my body could not endure another pregnancy. At the age of thirty-four, I had two boys and two girls so the doctor's proclamation didn't have much of an impression on me. I never gave it another thought, especially while I was trying to hold our family together after Michael's death, a feat that was a full time job.
Physically, I was showing signs of wear. Scheduling a routine check-up, I was astonished when the doctor informed me that I was pregnant. It was his obligation to stress the seriousness of my pregnancy, how it was a strong possibility that my baby and I might not survive. It was his obligation to tell me; it was my obligation to tell him that "can't" wasn't acceptable.
After my amniocentesis, I was told I was carrying a baby boy and there was a slim chance he might be a Down syndrome child. It didn't matter! God had answered my rantings with his gift of a baby boy and I most certainly was not and could not turn my back on that gift.
For nine months, I listened to everyone's negative feedback, telling me how my family needed me and I was taking too big of a risk. Even between bouts of extreme nausea and other complications, I was determined to prove them wrong. My beautiful girls and, of course, Johnny, were always by my side, sharing love, laughter and hopefully, building a better foundation for their lives.
Lying in the cold delivery room, struggling to stay alive for my baby boy, I think "can't" met its greatest competition. My son's head was wedged in the birth canal, refusing to budge. The weaker I felt and the more he struggled, my resolve began to falter. My husband, a stout Catholic, wanted his wife saved even though it went against his faith. I, on the other hand, wanted my son saved. God had given him life and I was determined to save it, regardless of the cost. When I thought "can't" had lost the battle and I wanted to succumb, a miracle occurred and a tiny baby boy finally emerged from the birth canal, slightly misshaped but definitely alive.
From that moment on, my heart was so full of love and gratitude that I wanted to share it with every person and thing I touched. Helping anyone in need was the thing to do. Saying no or sorry, I'm too busy didn't fit the mode. Finding time to help each of my children pursue their academic dreams, start families and believe in themselves was my major goal in life. Teaching them honesty, trust, sincerity, and most of all, love was far more important than that ugly word "can't". Picking them up and dusting them off when they failed to reach a goal was what I considered my finest achievement. Telling them that "trying" was what mattered, succeeding was just an added blessing was the lesson I wanted them to learn.
My father's strong will and determination to teach me that I could survive and battle against the word "can't" probably gave me the strength to endure the many dark moments in my life and made me who I am. However, I pray that love and faith in who they are will be my legacy I leave my children.
Testimony! contest entry
"There is no such word as can't, do you understand?"
Closing my eyes, I can hear my German father towering over my skinny little twig of a body, glaring at me and demanding my attention. He wasn't expecting me to answer because a child was to be seen not heard, to listen and obey, and to accept his word, and only his word, as law.
Raised during the Depression, he was forced to quit school at an early age. He worked at every sloppy, dirty, miserable job that anyone would offer a young child. He waded through knee-deep snow, tracking a rabbit so his family would have something to eat. As he got older, he worked two full time jobs, often going without sleep for days. In his mind, he was convinced he wouldn't live if he surrendered to the word can't, a thought he refused to entertain.
My grandfather worked in the canning fields by day and as a night watchman by night. Every Friday, my grandmother would drag herself from her sickbed and wait at the gate for their meager earnings, which she would promptly spend by Monday morning. From shoveling car loads of coal, carrying fifty pound blocks of ice, shucking ears of corn till his fingers bled, piecing together junked cars to sell, cleaning manure from the barns, and finally, delivering heating fuel to homes, my father survived and declared himself a self-made man. My father was a man who did what was required without any fuss, any questions, any whimpering or whining. He just got the job done.
He carried his philosophy into his marriage. While working a full time job, my father built our home while my mother and I carried lumber, nails and anything he needed. After the house was built, my mother and I dug a small basement, removing five-gallon buckets of dirt, one bucket at a time. Working outside the home was not an option for my mother; her place was at home, cleaning and making our meals. Thinking back, I never remember her voicing an opinion about anything. Our house was immaculate and dinner was served, quietly. Exactly as my father wanted it.
Mitzi, a 10-pound Pekingese, was my best friend, my only friend, during most of my childhood. When I finished my chores, we would sit by the riverbank and she would listen intently to every word I said. If I cried, she kissed me. If I laughed, she barked. If I sat quietly, she cuddled in my lap. If I wanted to play, she was quick to accommodate me. She was loyal and never left my side until she died.
I can't remember emotions ever being shown inside the house, at least not happy ones. I don't remember anyone ever holding my hand, giving me a hug, telling me I was loved or even that a job was well done. Later in life, I questioned his reasoning and he told me if he said I did something good, I would probably never try harder again. I remember straight A's were greeted by "Where's the pluses?" and "I can't" was punctuated with a leather belt.
As I grew older, my emotions were developed within my stories. Writing was my escape, held back only by the limitations of my imagination. The pen allowed me to find adventure, love and eventually freedom. In those days, I learned the true power of the pen and its written word.
At eighteen, I escaped my childhood by jumping from "the frying pan into the fire." However, at the time, I could only see it as a way out. I left home, got married, and had my first child before I was nineteen. After all, wasn't that the American dream? Unfortunately, my dream became a nightmare.
At four months old, my son, Johnny, was critically ill and given very little chance of survival. My military husband mentally detached himself from the situation and simply expected me to deal with it. Alone, miles from family, I listened to professionals accuse, point fingers, and declare my son to be dead, only to discover they were playing with my mind. One specialist offered me a glimmer of hope and I grabbed it, clutched it to my heart, and focused on Johnny's recovery. Never once did the word "can't" creep into my thoughts. I simply knew he must survive and I would care for him no matter what the outcome. After a seven-hour brain surgery, my baby boy returned to me, cooing softly. For the next forty years, the two of us would be side by side, struggling with his disabilities. It wasn't an easy journey, but one neither of us thought we couldn't survive. Always in the back of my mind, I could hear my father standing over that skinny, little girl and bellowing, "There is no such word as can't."
Many years later, my second son, Michael, died in a swimming accident. When they carried his lifeless, four year old body from the water, I remember wanting my heart to stop beating, too. The agony that surged through my body pounded at me like a tidal wave. For whatever reasons, my husband could not comfort me. When my eyes connected with my two trembling, scared little daughters, "can't" kicked in again. I couldn't shut down, not now, not ever. It was my responsibility to protect my children and help them understand this tragedy, even if I didn't understand it myself.
Later, I couldn't recall making the telephone call to my parents, asking them to make the two hour drive to take us home. I do remember sitting in the back seat of their car, watching my father concentrate on the highway, and struggling not to let him hear me cry. The car was silent like a tomb. I dearly wanted someone to hold me and tell me that everything would be okay, but maybe "can't" played a major role in that, too. It was my responsibility to survive, carry on, and make life possible for my family. Keeping that "stiff upper lip" was a major requirement and a lesson I'd learned well.
Privately, at Michael's grave, I screamed at God, asking Him how much I was supposed to endure. I believe I never once questioned whether He would answer me or not. If I were expected to deal with "can't", wouldn't a higher power certainly take "can't" in stride. I'd been the obedient child. I'd been the unquestioning mother, providing love and care to my oldest son when others turned away. I'd stepped willingly into the role of protector when my girls cried over the loss of their brother. Without questioning, I had filled every role required while my husband sat grieving, unresponsive to any of us. Never once though, did I say I can't do this ... because I knew can't simply wasn't an option.
After having my daughter, Corrie, the doctors were adamant that my body could not endure another pregnancy. At the age of thirty-four, I had two boys and two girls so the doctor's proclamation didn't have much of an impression on me. I never gave it another thought, especially while I was trying to hold our family together after Michael's death, a feat that was a full time job.
Physically, I was showing signs of wear. Scheduling a routine check-up, I was astonished when the doctor informed me that I was pregnant. It was his obligation to stress the seriousness of my pregnancy, how it was a strong possibility that my baby and I might not survive. It was his obligation to tell me; it was my obligation to tell him that "can't" wasn't acceptable.
After my amniocentesis, I was told I was carrying a baby boy and there was a slim chance he might be a Down syndrome child. It didn't matter! God had answered my rantings with his gift of a baby boy and I most certainly was not and could not turn my back on that gift.
For nine months, I listened to everyone's negative feedback, telling me how my family needed me and I was taking too big of a risk. Even between bouts of extreme nausea and other complications, I was determined to prove them wrong. My beautiful girls and, of course, Johnny, were always by my side, sharing love, laughter and hopefully, building a better foundation for their lives.
Lying in the cold delivery room, struggling to stay alive for my baby boy, I think "can't" met its greatest competition. My son's head was wedged in the birth canal, refusing to budge. The weaker I felt and the more he struggled, my resolve began to falter. My husband, a stout Catholic, wanted his wife saved even though it went against his faith. I, on the other hand, wanted my son saved. God had given him life and I was determined to save it, regardless of the cost. When I thought "can't" had lost the battle and I wanted to succumb, a miracle occurred and a tiny baby boy finally emerged from the birth canal, slightly misshaped but definitely alive.
From that moment on, my heart was so full of love and gratitude that I wanted to share it with every person and thing I touched. Helping anyone in need was the thing to do. Saying no or sorry, I'm too busy didn't fit the mode. Finding time to help each of my children pursue their academic dreams, start families and believe in themselves was my major goal in life. Teaching them honesty, trust, sincerity, and most of all, love was far more important than that ugly word "can't". Picking them up and dusting them off when they failed to reach a goal was what I considered my finest achievement. Telling them that "trying" was what mattered, succeeding was just an added blessing was the lesson I wanted them to learn.
My father's strong will and determination to teach me that I could survive and battle against the word "can't" probably gave me the strength to endure the many dark moments in my life and made me who I am. However, I pray that love and faith in who they are will be my legacy I leave my children.
 Recognized |
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I write this testimony only to show how far I believe my life had evolved and in no way is it meant as whining or disgruntled complaining. My father is who he is and believed (and still at 89 believes) he was right. If I had not learned that determination to continue down a road despite how difficult it was I probably would not have survived. For that I am thankful. I merely am glad that the strength I learned could also be used to teach my children in an entirely different way.
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