Chapter 16: My Turn To Learn

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Those First Months

My Turn To Learn


"Good morning, Mr. Williamson."
I rubbed my eyes as we lay side by side. She was sitting up on one elbow. Good morning, MRS. Williamson," I said with deliberate emphasis.
"Gee that sounds good." She smiled affectionately. "I've been watching you sleep. You look so cute when you're asleep."
I kissed her. "I love you, Mrs. Williamson."
She grinned. I just LOVE the sound of that. I love you, too, Mr. Williamson."
I looked at my watch on the bedside table. 9:00 A.M.
"Hey."
I turned to her. "What, honey?"
“It's a good thing we went to that motel last month."
That one took no time at all to register. "Oh, brother!! We better not let anybody in our families find out about THIS! We'll never live it down!" I laughed.
"You can say that again."
"You're not disappointed, are you, honey?" I knew I sounded worried. I had wanted last night to be perfect. For her.
"No, darling. I'm just as guilty as you are." She smiled, and kissed me. And we've got plenty more nights to make up for it." (I can’t help but wish I’d known… JAW 8/31/00)
"I love you, Lin." I knew the relief showed. I could feel it.
"And I love you, Jim. For caring enough, and loving me enough, to want to marry me. I've tried for a long time to let you know how much you really mean to me. And I'll keep trying. Because now it all means even more.”
I took her in my arms, and for a long time we just lay there, drinking in the beauty of it all without saying a word. Just thinking about how truly lucky we both were. Rose colored glasses? In some ways, yes. But with Him in control, we weren't worried about getting off course.

We sat up in the bed, admiring the beautifully decorated suite around us, and marvel-ing at the extra lift it gave our first night together.
About 10:00 A.M., we packed our suitcases, taking along a couple of the postcards from the desk drawer as momentos. Taking one last tour of the suite, and thinking of the memories it would revive in future years, we regretfully closed the door on our first night together as man and wife, paid the bill, and departed, heading once again for the underground garage beneath the Square where I had parked the car the day before.

"You know, Lin, I don't know which will be the best memory of last night for us - get-ting the Bridal Suite, or falling asleep. They're both gonna be fun to look back on."
"Yeah, I know." She smiled at the recollection.
"Any ideas about where you're gonna put anything in the apartment yet?"
"Not really. I'd rather do all the planning when I'm right there to try out my ideas and see what you think."
Half an hour later we were in our new home, unpacking the clothes first, while we had the energy. We glanced around the place as we worked, trying to visualize where the furniture (what we had of it) would look best.
I guess our old-fashioned streak showed through when we rented this place, because we just fell in love with every nook and cranny of it.
What we had rented was a second floor apartment in a rather large frame house just a couple blocks south of Norwood's main business district. The house appeared, in style, to have been built about 1930-35. It had the usual double-hung windows, which Linda had always adored, not to mention 9-foot ceilings, which we both loved. They gave the place an added dimension in terms of room size. The kitchen was equipped, but I was a little wary of the gas stove. Not by it's appearance or possible age; it seemed to be in excellent condition. But I was thinking in terms of Linda's safety. "If she goes to light the oven, turns the gas on, and then has a seizure before she gets a match to it, what then?" I thought, a little apprehensive. A playful call from Lin brought me back to reality.
"Hey, Jim! I wonder how we'll adjust to this shower in the winter."
I hadn't thought of that. I walked over to where she stood, at the bathroom door, look-ing in. The bathroom was the one thing that could kill our ideas on the age of the place. "That room probably used to be a walk-in pantry or something, that was converted later," I thought silently. Why did I think that? Because every bit of the plumbing was mounted ON the walls, not IN them. Pipes "all over the place". And there was no bathtub, only a shower stall. If you could call it a shower stall. It looked like someone had taken a large sheet of metal, bent it to form four equal sides, then stood that inside a square metal base made of the same material. After which they cut away one of the sides, so you could get in the thing, pushed it up against one corner of the room, and mounted the water pipes inside, on one wall. "I see what you mean, honey," I finally said aloud. "That room's on an outside wall. Winter weather could make that metal shower floor awful cold."
"Yeah, that's my point."
"We might just have to take our winter showers together," I said, chuckling.
"Leave it to you to think of that," she said, smiling.
"Welllll......can you blame me?"
"Welll......"
"Humph."
"Sorry about that, chief," she said, smiling.
"Sure you are," I said as I embraced her.
"Oh, I aaaammm. I aaaammm." She melted when I kissed her. "We'd better get to work around here," she said a few minutes later. "We've only got two days to make this place livable before we go to work on Monday." She kissed me. "I know what you'd rather do. But we've got lots of time for that after we get settled. Right?"
I knew she was right. But she was right on both counts. About what we had to do, AND about what I would rather be doing. "Unfortunately, you have a very good point there, my dear." I squeezed her one last time, then we went to work on the place.

Later:
"I'm sure glad we're just starting out, Lin."
"Why, Jim?" she asked as she started putting our meager supply of dishes away in the kitchen.
"I'd hate to think how much stuff we'd have to unpack if we'd been married ten years and just moved in."
"Now YOU have a good point. THAT wouldn't be easy to handle in two days."

By mid-evening we had everything unpacked, and all that really remained was the problem of strategic furniture placement. Maximum appearance benefit with a minimum of furniture. But I have to admit, I did find myself wondering: "Is it worth that much planning at this stage? There is, after all, only so much you can do when your main pieces are outdoor summer lawn chairs. Oh, well, it will be a challenge for her. And, frankly, I'd like to see what she can come up with.” I'd learned a long time ago that she can really surprise you when she gets her teeth into a project.
By Monday, the place was as organized as it was going to get, and we rejoined the working class.

We never really had a chance to see what she could do with that little apartment, because a month later we had an opportunity to take an apartment about the same size which was better equipped (including a built-IN bathroom, complete with tub), and for only a minimal increase in rent. So, with her dad as co-signer, we arranged a one-year lease and moved in.

As those first months unfolded, three major situations came on the horizon which were to exert very strong, often overwhelming influences on most of our married life. All of them came about gradually, subtly, without much, if any warning.
First, we each attributed our early problems with lovemaking to the fact that we were both genuine rookies on the subject, and had to give it time. But...how much time?
Second, as time passed, I found myself having a tougher time concentrating on office work at those times when I knew she was "in transit"; not at work, not yet at home. "All she needs is a seizure while she's crossing the street," I'd think to myself.
And third, there were, as time passed, all the "little" arguments. Over what should have been little things. We'd sometimes think, "We know all couples have times like this, espe-cially newlyweds. But couldn't we be overdoing it a little?"

(What we didn’t realize at the time, and wouldn’t until we’d gotten even closer to the Lord, was the proven fact that the closer a person gets to God, the harder Satan tries to pull them back. We’d both been praying frequently about our relationship, and I guess the “op-posing force” didn’t like that. He was starting right in on us, creating those problem areas above. JAW 8/27/99)

Around our 3-month anniversary, the unexpected took place. I don't remember now whether I had actually told my parents that I would not enter their house unless Linda was also welcome, or not. But if I hadn't, I was more ready to every day. I had gone up there, solo, just a few times, shortly after we were married, and after they'd gotten back from Akron (the division of Goodyear dad was a part of had been dissolved). I'd gone up there mainly to finish the piano work we had had in progress all this time. And that was my only reason. But I just didn't feel right going there alone. I felt like I was either admitting something to them (like the idea that the enjoyment of working on the players was important enough to warrant leaving her behind), or, much more importantly, slighting her impression of her importance to me with that very same thought.
My cousin, one of Aunt Cindy's boys, was out here from California for a visit (his wife's parents also live here). He stopped by our apartment to meet Linda, and he and I decided to ride around a little and talk over old times. Somewhere during that excursion I felt compelled to let off steam and get an objective opinion.
I unloaded everything. Her Christmas Formal they ruined. The lawsuit they threatened. Reform school. (Whatever happened to that? To this day I have no idea. J.A.W. 3/21/82) I finished with the current situation.
"That's a bunch of bullshit!!" he said. "I don't think I would've believed they'd go that far."
"So what am I gonna do? I had to make a choice, and I made it."
"And the right one, too, it seems to me," he said supportively and without the slightest hesitation.
"But I don't want to have to tell my kids why they never see one set of grandparents. Or at least why they never see a real family get-together, like we used to have. Hell of a note, isn't it?"
"Yeah, you and your kids payin' for your mom's stubborn attitude."
"So, where do I go from here?"
"I don't know. Yet. But believe me. If I get any ideas I'll let you know. I've got your address and phone number."
"Thanks, Bus." (His name was Harlan, but his nickname had been Buster for as long as I could remember). Not long after that discussion ended, we toured the downtown area so he could see what had changed in the last two years and what had remained the same. Then he dropped me off at home and headed back to his wife and kids, at her mother's.

I don't remember having the slightest clue why things changed, nor do I remember how the first visit was brought about. All I knew was that about 4-6 weeks after Buster returned to California, Linda was permitted to enter my parents' home. (Aunt Cindy would tell me, years later, that dad had confided to her that he had "put his foot down" on this issue, finally, because he realized he'd blown what we had in the early going and had decided he was not going to lose whatever remained of our relationship by having me refuse to visit unless Linda was welcome too. The possibility that this might be true gives me a great feeling, even today. She also said that Buster had really given them an old-fashioned talking-to. THAT thought really felt good. J.A.W. 1/22/81)

The initial reception was chilly, at least from my mother. Linda, naturally, was terri-fied to ask how they wished her to address them. She wanted a warm, understanding relationship, like I had with her parents. But she knew it wouldn't happen overnight. So, since she couldn't bring herself to ask, she continued to call them Mr. and Mrs. Williamson. It was, I think, a trifle uncomfortable for both she and I, as it seemed to serve as a constant reminder of the "cold" state of the relationship.

Visiting both families on holidays quickly developed a pattern. Thanksgiving was a challenge. My family ate in the early afternoon, hers in the evening. We had to handle two big meals in one day. Whew!
Christmas was a lot easier. When I was growing up, my immediate family had been the ones “making the rounds” to each branch of the family on Christmas Eve, exchanging gifts. We started around dinner time. By about 7:30 or 8:00, all the exchanges had been made and ALL the family branches converged on my grandmother and Aunt Cindy’s apartment in Norwood for the holiday meal. (They now lived on the first floor of that 3 story frame and shingle house in Norwood, where I’d lived as a boy. They had moved down from the second floor when we moved to Anderson Township in the summer of 1959, just before I’d started sixth grade). Same routine every Christmas Eve, and all of us loved it. That let each branch of the family have their own Christmas Day meal with their kids. Now, with my family still doing the same thing, on Christmas Eve, it left Christmas Day for Linda and I to join her family. And we only had to deal with ONE big meal a day! (Now, with grandma, Cindy and my mother gone, we still do it Christmas Eve, but it’s only my sisters and I and our families, and we meet at dad’s. He’s 80 now, and more comfortable doing it at his house than traveling. We three kids combine on bringing the food, etc. Dad provides the ham, but one of my sisters comes up to the house early to cook it. It’s nice, but it’s not the same. JAW 5/15/2000).

By the end of the first six months, we discovered that Linda didn't really want to work now, and when I admitted to feeling more and more apprehensive about her solo journeys and how it could start affecting my work, the combination clinched it. Two weeks later she was "just a housewife" and loving every minute of it. And that took care of a lot of the tension we had been feeling then, too. I just hadn't had much time to get really used to her seizures yet, and it showed.
By that time, though, I had experienced a small number of her seizures, probably brought on by the pressures that had built to that point. (Patterns would develop over the years that indicated her biggest trigger for a seizure was emotional tension). Needless to say, back then, when one struck, I was petrified. All I could manage was to remember what she'd told me: "Don't try and stop me or anything. Just keep me from hurting myself and let me go through it. It's really easier on me that way."
But, as always, the Lord watches over His children. Those early (in our marriage) seizures took place at safe times. When my participation was not needed in a life-saving maneuver. So I had time to get used to her appearance, sounds, actions and recovery. (Remember? She’d said her appearance might scare me a little until I got used to it, and that’s why she’d hesitated to tell me everything the night of The Play.) When the latest seizure came, I was not nearly as startled, just a good bit nervous. My efforts to concentrate on exactly what was hap-pening, for future reference, made it a relatively easy job to keep a cool enough head to handle the situation. This particular evening, we were seated in the living room, watching baseball. The Reds, of course.
"Lin, do you think the Reds will win this game?"
The response I got was the eerie, wavering yell she always brought forth as a seizure began. It started as a guttural moan, rising in pitch as it grew in volume, till it reached upper alto range, coming out at the top of her lungs. It all took place in about 7 seconds, though. I looked toward her chair just in time to see her head jerk to the left, and her eyes roll back into her head, just as the eyelids fluttered closed, and the yell stopped. I knew.
As I ran toward her chair, her entire body had turned enough to the left that she fell to the floor, on her side. But her vigorous motions rolled her over onto her back immediately.
"Keep cool, and learn," I admonished myself.
She lay before me. Her arms, fully extended, were oscillating side to side, in unison. Against her body, then out about eight inches, and back again, fists clenched, fingers pointing toward the floor, the thumb side of each fist hitting her body each time her arms came back to her sides. Her legs, fully extended and feet together, were also moving, in unison with her arms. They'd rapidly raise 3-4 inches from the floor and fall back again. Her tongue was ex-actly where she had told me it would be; just barely sticking out between her teeth. Most epi-leptics "swallow their tongue" and therefore run the risk of suffocating unless someone nearby is thinking fast enough to insert a solid but safe object, such as a wallet, into their mouth to keep an air passage open. "Praise the Lord," I thought as I looked on. "At least that'll never happen to her." The position of her mouth, though, with the tongue and all, gave an eerie sound to her now rapid breathing. Like a child learning how to give a classmate a raspberry. It was then that I noticed that it was because she didn't swallow ANYTHING at these times, let alone her tongue. She was slobbering like a baby.
The nervousness now gone completely, I got down to even more detail in my observations. Her eyes were rolling around like billiard balls underneath those closed lids. And her teeth were tightly clenched on that tongue. I tried to pry her mouth open to free it. That was when I discovered the extent of the muscle action she went through every time. Total exertion. Iron grip. Yet she didn't feel any pain from the "tongue trap". I tried to open a fist. Same enormous muscle contraction. "Every muscle in her body's like that," I thought, fascinated.
I sat down on the floor nearby. Alert. Watching. Learning. And ready if I had to do something in a hurry. Soon the physical motion stopped, the muscles relaxed. How long was the physical seizure? About 15-25 seconds. Now she just lay there, "sleeping it off", as she said she would. “Phase II,” I thought, quietly. Her tongue had gone back inside her mouth, and her lips were closed. She breathed heavily, snoring loudly. Inhaling through her nose (SNORE!!), then exhaling through her mouth (the wet raspberry again). Total time for "sleeping it off"? About 1-3 minutes.
She didn't tell me about THIS!" I said, humorously exasperated at what I encountered as she began to come to. “Phase III. But obviously, she couldn't have told me, 'cos she doesn't know everything that happens." (I was to realize later, through plain old common sense, that while all Grand Mal seizures may have their similarities, each individual's reactions during and after a seizure would be unique to them.)
She began whining like a baby as she lay on the floor. I soon discovered that stroking her head, as you would a baby, would calm her down and the whining would stop. "Interesting. Even the human mind must resort to animal instinct when nothing else remains," I thought, a trifle more curious and fascinated. When I stopped stroking her, the whining re-sumed. So I didn't stop till she began to become obviously conscious. Or so I thought. Span of time on whining? About 45-60 seconds.
“Phase III,” I repeated quietly as her eyes open up. I remember thinking, "Does she recognize me?" Eyes are expressionless. Can't tell. Noticed, though, that she will follow my finger with those eyes. She tries to speak, but sounds very drunk. Words are totally slurred and her voice trails in and out.
"What time is it?"
I tell her. She notices she's slobbered quite a bit and makes an effort to wipe it away on her left sleeve. As with speech, motor control sloppy. No coordination.
"What time is it?"
Time lapse since first asked, about 45-60 seconds. “Wonderful,” I thought lovingly. I felt myself smiling, and feeling every bit of the love we shared. “Recycling and starting over. No memory retention,” I said silently. I tell her the time.
"My head aches."
"I know."
"You know?"
"Yeah. You had a seizure."
"I did?"
"Yep."
A little light crying now. I expected that. She can't get her driver's license without be-ing seizure-free for at least 1 year. And every time she has one, she's back to square one in that race.
"I'm sorry, honey. Nothing I could do."
"I know, Jim."
I thought, "Well, she knows me now, whether she did before or not. But her speech is still extremely slurred. Better keep an eye out."
Phase IV. She started to get up off the floor. Almost fell on her face. I grabbed her and got her straightened up. I remembered what she'd said about "being a klutz" after one of these things. "Where you going?"
"Gotta go......the bathroom."
I guided her in and got her settled. Had to. I figured she'd start to fall forward again as she'd bend over to sit down. And I was right.
That task taken care of, she got up. I steadied her again. "Why don't you lay down for awhile? I'll get you some aspirin for your headache."
"How'd you know I have a headache? Did I have a seizure?"
"Swell," I thought lovingly. "Memory still shot." "Yes, honey. About 10 minutes ago."
"Oh, shit!" she muttered as the crying returned.
I knew she was thinking about the license again. I got her onto the bed and went for the aspirin. Brought the water in a plastic glass. "Here, sweetheart."
"Thanks. Ouch. Damn. Bit my tongue again. How bad is it?"
She stuck it out at me. "Nice red and white spot dead center on the tip," I said. "You'll feel that one for a couple days."
"Nuts."
She took the three aspirin and gave me the glass. I kissed her gently and closed the bedroom door. "Now she'll really sleep it off," I said quietly. "Phase V." I went into the living room and sat down to read the paper.
Two to three hours later the bedroom door opened and she came out slowly, holding her aching head in both hands, and waiting for her now overly sensitive eyes to adjust to the light. She sat down on the couch and carefully leaned back.
"Oh, my head. I had a seizure, didn't I?"
Her speech was normal, now. Only the aching head and a touch of klutz remained. "Yep."
“Damn. Back to zero on the license. But even THAT’S not as bad as these headaches. I'm gonna get some aspirin."
"You already took 'em."
"I did?"
"Yeah. I gave 'em to you right before you hit the hay. All three of 'em."
"Thanks."
"Think nothing of it, honey. I love you." I felt she’d want to hear those words just then.
She quietly smiled at me, and closed her eyes for a while.

         Now, she knew I'd still be here, even after a seizure. And she knew it was because I WANTED to be here.

As that first year unfolded, little things about her, about the type of person she was, became more and more evident.
Maybe it was the sheltered life she'd led up to the time we met. Maybe it was her reaction to the way she felt she was treated by "the rest of the world". Or, maybe, it was just the kind of person that she was. But, in many ways, Linda was still a child. She reacted openly to emotional situations, whether they put her on "cloud nine", down in the dumps, or anywhere in between. She was easily amused and occupied by the simplest things. And I loved it. We'd get such joy and laughter out of situations or occurrences others would pass right by. She kept the child alive in me. And I'm thankful for that. Too many of us lose sight of the simple joys of life. But she didn't, and she didn't let me, either. Praise the Lord! Right up to the day she died, she never lost that childlike quality.
Her zeal for the Great American Pastime of Baseball was unsurpassed. Sometimes I thought, humorously, lovingly, that she was a fanatic. She openly admitted she'd attend every Reds home game if we could've afforded it. Her favorite "pipe dream" was playing for the Reds. She kept her own hand-drawn scorecards to every Reds game, In a series of the old spiral notebooks. For about six years running. The ones that weren't on TV, she'd catch on radio. No matter what the day or time. Even the late-night ones from the west coast. No matter how she felt. Even flat on her back with the Flu, she HAD to hear the game. Nope. She would never lose her dedication to Baseball, either. It, too, was right there to the end.

In October of our first year together, our Rambler wagon had finally reached the point of no return. After that accident in the U.C. parking lot, it had never really been the same. The front end was never quite right anymore. But now it had reached the limit on maintenance cost. We traded it.
We drove home in a new 1968 Chevrolet Bel-Air 4-door, 3-speed. It didn't take long to discover that this thing had a few quirks of its own. If it so much as LOOKED like rain... if you SNEEZED... that car wouldn't start. Hated moisture. And, it dieseled like crazy once it warmed up and you decided to turn it off. But, it was ours. Our first real purchase.
Other than this (isn't it enough?), Fall, 1968 became part of our past with little fanfare.


This work is taken from “A Once In A Lifetime Love: An Autobiography of Two High School Sweethearts”, copyright 2000, as yet unpublished, by the same author.