by Jane Weiss
To amp up our excitement and stress level, I changed jobs in August. One of the new Walker development efforts was Walker Place, a luxury apartment complex with resort-quality services for the elderly. Located adjacent to the nursing home where I worked, the up-and-coming project was considered the flagship and model for a series of new senior living communities Walker would develop around the metro area within the next three years. On an intuitive urge, I applied for the Walker Place “Housing Manager” position. It was barely two weeks before residents were to begin moving in, and top management had not yet found a suitable manager candidate. Although I didn’t meet their qualifications for a business degree, I promptly was offered the position. Within nine months, the project was so successful, all 139 apartments were completely occupied, nine months ahead of projections.
Walker Place proved to be my healing place, where I reclaimed the fragments of myself that had retreated in terror and pain from our family’s ordeal and cumulative life changes. I held and extended deep admiration and love for these eighty-plus-year-old elders who were courageous enough to pull up deep roots from their family homes of fifty and sixty years. We shared a desire for wholeness as we reclaimed ourselves—I, redefining myself within my new life, and they, transitioning to a place where they could comfortably live out their remaining years and be assured a respectable death. My position at Walker Place initiated a twenty-year career in senior service management with this company that had rescued me from my former life with Charles. During that period, I was promoted from manager of Walker Place, to vice-president of all Walker operations, which had expanded tenfold in the same period.
After several months of hectic activities at home and at work, moving day into our new house finally arrived. We were grateful to have our friends and Bonnie’s family pitch in that day to share in our excitement, and to help us put our new space in reasonable order. It was the most perfect place either of us had ever lived in: soft mauve carpet throughout the first floor and stairway, taupe Italian tile entryway, brushed brass light fixtures and hardware, perfectly finished light oak wood trim and cabinets, off-white walls, French doors leading to the back patio, large windows with pane insets, bay windows in the living room, dinette, and upstairs master bathroom, separate rooms for Erin, Edward, and Moria that would be large enough to share with my children, a huge suite for us with an adjacent bathroom and whirlpool tub, and a full basement. We set about making this lovely house a peaceful, sacred home.
A home to me is a place where visible attributes imbue unseen qualities. That is, the combination of colors, textures, patterns, light, smells, and order blend together to form an invisible mesh that supports and nurtures life for its inhabitants. Because I know in my heart this is true, I’ve felt a keen responsibility to design just the right assemblage to create just the right mesh for each home I’ve lived in. I’m dogged in my efforts to find objects to achieve the appropriate feeling for a room, an art arrangement, or a curio cabinet.
I’m often alone in my understanding of this “noble mission,” so feelings of my homes’ occupants range from delight to downright frustration, as I systematically and rather obsessively cultivate and transform every portion of a home’s space. Fortunately, Bonnie had mostly appreciated this “thing” about me, and had often joined me in creatively problem-solving a décor issue. The Chanhassen home, begotten in love and blessed with Bonnie’s and my gratefulness for this amazing new place to be, responded quickly to my instincts, aligning its fundamentally lovely but stark characteristics to our needs for beauty, order, and peacefulness.
Bonnie’s children and I had attained a relationship that ranged from sweet and loving to tolerable. Not knowing how to be a stepparent, I learned by experimentation. For a short period, I tried parenting them as I did my own, but Moria, Edward, and Erin didn’t need another involved-in-their-lives parent. What they seemed to want from me was to give them space, respect, and support, do family chores that parents usually did and to uphold the values and family patterns that their parents had set up. Complicating my role was the fact that I was the person who had interrupted their former family life. I sensed this most deeply in Moria. She was often silent and withdrawn, offering in response to my queries one-syllable, one-word answers when I drove her to school. Edward, though not demonstrative, was always courteous and pleasant.
Erin and I were closest, as she needed more hands-on care, and perhaps she hadn’t put together yet that I was there because her mother preferred me to her beloved father. When Bonnie started graduate school in September 1985 and was absorbed in classes and studies, seven-year-old Erin and I became even more connected. She wrote sweet notes, proclaiming her love for me and thanks for caring for her. One note, however, caught me short regarding my fetish about the care and tending of our home. She wrote:
Dear Jane,
You know sometimes in the morning when I kind of ignore you? I don’t mean to ignore you. I think that when I first get up, I am impatient. Also, I think some of it has to do with you. For example, you are the type of person who likes the house clean all the time. And I guess sometimes I just get frustrated with that. So in the morning, I am just tired and do not want to get frustrated. So when I am ignoring you, just remind me.
P.S. Thanks, I love you.
Erin
Overall, Bonnie’s dear children did an amazing job of adapting to two new stepmother figures in their lives and new stepsiblings, in addition to moving from the South Minneapolis neighborhood where they had spent their entire lives before now.
My younger children, Andrew and Marie, now eighteen and fourteen respectively, obeyed their father’s dictum to not come to the home where Bonnie and I lived, even to this new home. In September, Andrew had moved to Middlebrook Hall, a men’s dorm on the University of Minnesota campus, for his first year of college. We saw each other for dinner on campus one to two times a month. Most of his conversation was about how to determine whether he should major in engineering or business. He was still dating his high school sweetheart, but things were rocky between them, and he wanted out, so the remainder of our time was spent on the pros and cons of managing life without her.
One evening when Marie and I were out together, I was witness to one of her rites of passage. She asked me to drive her to Ficocello’s Salon to have her long and beautiful dark blonde, wavy hair cut. I assumed she meant she was going for a trim, so I was shocked when she emerged with a short, sculpted and spiked hairstyle that blasted her from puberty into womanhood.
“Oh, my!” was all I could say before I burst into tears.
“What’s the matter, Mom? Don’t you like it?”
“You look beautiful. It’s just that you look so grown up, that I was taken aback.”
After we left the salon, I wept softly off and on for an inordinately long time. Her drastic change had evoked a deep sadness for all the days I’d lost with this adorable little girl who had grown into a striking young lady.
Marie comforted me. “It’s okay for you to cry, Mom. I’m pleased you care so much.”
My most difficult times were still on holidays. Although Michael had broken his father’s rules the previous Thanksgiving weekend and came with three of his college friends for dinner at the York Avenue house, he wouldn’t be coming home this year. I held no hopes for Marie or Andrew or Lynn to appear, either. I lamented that we might never be able to create new traditions for us together. Charles made sure that the family unit remained solely his. He arranged for them to spend Christmas in Cancun that year, as the barter business he had developed after leaving Western was becoming very successful.
Prior to their leaving for Mexico, Michael stopped by the Chanhassen house to pick up their presents and to leave me theirs. Each of them had written notes on their packages for me, a family tradition that I learned from my mother and passed on to my children. Andrew’s note was especially poignant. It read:
As Christmas draws near, I can’t help but think about how it used to be. I miss y
ou very much, and I only wish things were different. But I want you to know that I love you very much, and I wish that your Christmas will be a happy one. I love you, Andrew.
Bonnie had no idea how to support me at these times. And I felt like an immense burden to her and to her children, as I numbly pushed through holiday dinners and events.
I knew it was important for Bonnie and me to be creating traditions with her children, too, so we consciously planned—and I participated in—each holiday season. But I held onto my dream that one of these times, our two families would all celebrate holidays and special events together.
Chapter Fifteen - The Good and the Sad
Bonnie
I enjoyed my job, and worked hard to be good at it. When Jane and I first met, I had been in my position as director of Education for eight years, but I continually found new things to learn and challenges to pursue.
I had been hired in 1973, and charged with turning a nursing in-service department into a hospital-wide education department that served the needs of all employees. Within a year, a system was defined and refined, and within two years, approximately eighty-five percent of all employees had orientation and continuing education programming available, as appropriate to their specific needs.
Eventually, we put in place orientation and continuing education programs for all hospital staff, patient education for hospitalized individuals, community health and wellness education, and finally, leadership development seminars for the hospital’s management and executive staff.
By early 1985, I was becoming restless because we had created one of the most advanced hospital education departments in the country, and further development and expansion was put on hold due to the unknown effects of the new hospital Medicare prospective payment system.
I applied for admission for a second master’s degree—this one in healthcare administration—at the University of Minnesota. The program required full-time attendance. My professional colleagues thought I’d lost my mind for giving up a good director-level job, when the number of administrative positions in the Twin Cities was already shrinking due to hospital mergers. That was a chance I had to take, and I considered it a good omen to not only be accepted into the program, but also to be provided a two-year full scholarship beginning in the fall. Once again, I was richly blessed.
Ruffle Those Smooth Waters
What seems obvious in hindsight is difficult to decipher in the moment. As Jane and I experienced when first coming together, the number of change events in our lives was well over the top of any healthy measurement. In addition to all that was disrupted when we moved in together in 1982, the summer and fall of 1985 were equally remarkable. In August, Jane assumed her new position at Walker, and that required her to change supervisors. Simultaneously, I left my position at Methodist Hospital, and worked part time in Administration at the hospital as I started graduate school.
We sold the Minneapolis house and moved to the new house in Chanhassen in October. So beginning in September, either Jane or I needed to drive Edward, Moria, and Erin thirty minutes to their new schools every morning, and thirty minutes back to work ourselves. We picked them up at the end of each day, and frequently waited out the end of soccer practice at the high school for Edward and Moria. Then it was back to Minneapolis for hastily thrown-together dinners, evening homework, and preparations to do it all again the next day.
None of the kids were excited about our move, but Moria was especially displeased to be leaving her friends and going to a new school. Edward and Moria had both signed up for soccer, and I was hopeful that starting practice in August would result in at least a few friends for them by the time school started.
As a teenager, Edward—who taught himself how to ride a bicycle without training wheels before he was three—was beauty in motion as he loped down the soccer fields. His nickname among the players became, “The Foot,” and he was a star defenseman who made friends quickly and easily.
But Moria found the girls’ cliques at Minnetonka High School—the school designated for Chanhassen senior high students—difficult to break into, and that only exaggerated her loneliness for old friends. Though always private and secretive, she now grew even more so. I thought she just needed time to settle in and find her place, so I worked at being supportive in the precious little time we spent together evenings, prior to our respective study routines.
The end of fall quarter arrived for me in December with a week of final exams. I had set aside a whole study day to prepare for my statistics final, and was anxious about that not being enough time for me to feel confident about the exam. The morning of my study day, Erin got up, ate breakfast, and was dressed before she noticed that I was still in my slippers and robe.
“Why aren’t you going to school, Mom?”
“I have a big statistics test tomorrow, and I’m going to study all day today, so I’m ready for it,” I answered.
“Could I stay home with you?”
“No, Erin. I really have to put in a full day with my books, and I wouldn’t be able to spend any time with you. But soon, I’ll have two weeks off, and we can plan some special things together, okay?”
I felt guilty at how little time I’d spent with Erin since I started school, and was hoping I could somehow make up for it over the holidays.
I watched as she reluctantly bundled up her petite little self in full winter garb, and headed out the door and down the driveway to wait for the school bus. Pouring a second cup of coffee, I gathered up my textbook and all my statistics notes and work sheets, and spread them out on the dinette table. I had been diligently working about an hour when the phone rang. It was the elementary school nurse, saying Erin was in her office complaining of a stomachache. I was immediately irritated that Erin was feigning illness in order to come home, so I explained my suspicions to the nurse and asked if Erin could stay in her office awhile for observation. She readily agreed, but within a half hour, she called back saying that Erin threw up, and would I please come and get her.
I was irritated again at the interruption. Albeit, as I thought through that a seven-year-old probably couldn’t throw up on demand, I decided she must have the stomach flu. So I picked her up, brought her home, got her nestled in bed with a bucket handy, and tried to return to my statistics book.
Within an hour, Erin called down that she threw up again. With yet a third episode an hour after that, I checked her temperature and palpated her abdomen carefully, observing for pain. Her temp was normal, and I didn’t note any signs of pain. But I was so concerned that the vomiting was becoming excessive. I couldn’t concentrate on studying. Then I recalled my own childhood experience of having acute appendicitis and an appendectomy at age eight. Erin was seven. Could she be following in my footsteps? I decided to do a different check, this time for rebound pain. I asked Erin to stand, do a little jump in place, and land flat on both feet. She grimaced and reached for her right lower abdomen. A repeat of the jump again brought the pain. It was then nearly 4:00 p.m.
I called Dr. Andresen, who had been the family pediatrician since 1969. He listened as I described Erin’s symptoms. Since I had a master’s degree in medical-surgical nursing, I knew which findings would be of significance to him, and he had learned to trust my assessment skills over the years. He obviously had the same concerns I did when he suggested I take her directly to the hospital, rather than the clinic.
“Erin, I think we both better get dressed and go get you checked out before it gets much later. I’m concerned that you might have appendicitis, and we need to find out for sure.”
Crying now, Erin begged to stay home. “I’m okay, Mommy. I just have the flu. I’ll be fine tomorrow. I feel better already, and I didn’t throw up any more.”
I was certain my assessment was accurate, however, and en route to the hospital, I felt guilty that I had been so impatient with this little mite, who could potentially be on the operating table in a couple of hours. Upon arrival at the emergency room, I explained that
I thought Erin had appendicitis, and Dr. Andresen had suggested we come straight to the hospital. The physician, who was unfamiliar to me, gave one of those “Thanks-for-your-brilliant-insights-but-I’ll-do-the-diagnosing” looks. He palpated her abdomen with no significant findings, while I tried to explain that she had rebound pain with a flat-footed jump. Looking askance at me again, but not testing her himself, he said they would do blood work to see if anything showed up.
Soon, a lab technician swooped into the cubicle and drew blood from Erin’s tiny arm, while she cried ever louder that there was nothing wrong with her. After about twenty minutes, the physician returned with lab results in hand and, saying nothing, did a second abdominal check. Then, as if bringing profound news, he informed us that Erin had appendicitis, and needed to be prepared for surgery. The surgeon on call would be available shortly.
Over Erin’s howling objections, I asked for a phone to call Brian, told him what was happening, and requested that he come to the hospital as soon as possible. I couldn’t reach Jane, so had to leave a message with her secretary. Within an hour, Brian and I were kissing our youngest child and handing her over to an anesthesiologist and surgeon, who we prayed would do their best work ever, and deliver her safely back to us.
“Bye, Mommy. Bye, Daddy. I love you, Mommy. I love you, Daddy,” she called out between sobs, as her sweet little voice trailed off down the hall of the adjacent operating room suite.
Brian complimented me on getting Erin diagnosed and to the emergency room so promptly. He worried aloud that, had she been with him that day, he wouldn’t have known to check for anything other than the stomach flu. He wondered when she would have become ill enough for him to even call a doctor.
But while he was dealing with the “what ifs,” I was reliving how the day unfolded, and was not feeling at all good about my role in it. I had managed to hold myself together and remain calm until Erin was out of sight, but when I saw Jane coming towards me in the emergency department, I collapsed into her waiting hug, finally letting down. My fears, frustrations, and guilt all came tumbling out amidst the tears.