haven't touched this in a while...
welll... this is a cheap way to update... buut umm this is umm the past 6 months of my life in memoir form i guess... if you make it all the way through i would love to hear what you think. haha
granted i wrote this for a class, and haven't edited it yet, so its full of typos and grosso stuff.... umm yup
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Twenty seven staples, eighty stitches, five head scars, three iv lines, a handful of stays in mass general, and miles of gauze later, my father has become an entry in a med student’s text book.
My father is a glamorous man, not by sight but by attitude. He grew up in the typical Boston working class family that owned a meat shop in the north end. I still have no gotten a straight answer if there were indeed Mafia connections. It would explain the amounts of “uncles” I have that are in no way actually related. Because of my father’s upbringing, he has become an entertainer, he is a bass player and also the director of global something or other at some company who’s name does not matter, what really matters though is that my dad is a schmoozer, a dazzler, a charmer. His job is to keep people happy and impress them, and man is he great at it.
Our name has become somewhat of a legend around Somerville mass. My father wanted this celebrity to follow us to New Hampshire, and attempted this by posting out name throughout our house. There is a light up “Walles” sign which is visible through both the front and back doors, a painted plaque at the front door just incase you missed the lights, and god knows how many other Walles flack there is.
The first time I started to notice my father acting strangely was the summer before my sophomore year of college. I had gotten a temporary job at the devil of companies, the Satan of selling, the bastard that is Wal*mart. It was the only place that would hire me full time and that I wouldn’t care about blowing off at the end of the summer with an enormous smile on my face. I worked 9-5 Monday through Friday for the entirety of my summer. What was weird about this however was that my father didn’t. More and more often he was still in bed when I left the house, and on the couch, watching trashy television, when I got home. I was not used to this my father had worked 13 hour days for my entire life, seeing him living like a rich housewife bothered me. I never wanted to ask about it however, in case he had lost his job, mostly though because I didn’t really want to know the answer behind his weird behavior. It scared me.
I decided instead of questioning my father directly, I would ask my brother Bob what was going on. My brother was basking in the sun, smoking a cigarette, and stoned, when I approached him. He also had a 9-5 job, and that job was pool boy… at our house. It suited him just fine really, he smoked all day, put some chemicals in the pool, and if the water didn’t turn green it was a great day.
He rolled over when I approached him, asked “ is papa dukes awake?” and quicker than I could shake my head no, lit two American spirits and handed one to me.
“Thanks man, hey can I ask you something?” I forced out between drags.
“ Sure, what do ya need?” he had a troubled look on my face, like he knew what I was about to ask…. This only succeeded in making me more anxious.
“ Umm have you noticed anything weird about dad lately? I mean he’s been working from the house a lot, and watching way more jerry Springer than I though possible for any human being.” I took a long drag from my disgustingly rich cigarette as I waited for Bob to answer. I was visibly shaken, and I think that might have been what distracted Bob enough to tell the truth.
“ Well, I’m not exactly supposed to tell you this…. But the doctors think dad has MS.” He said each word slowly as if that would make it better, as if he put enough space between each word they wouldn’t form the awful sentence that was coming out of his mouth. Doctors…. Think…dad… has…. M…. S.
“ What? … Why didn’t I know this? When did this happen? Holy shit… not dad… that man is my world… wow… no this isn’t true… nope not true.” An indecipherable amount of things ran through my head, but all I could utter out was a simple… “Oh, I guess that explains it.” I’ve always been one for sentiment.
“Mom didn’t want to tell you until they knew for sure.” Bob spilt out quickly before I could really get enraged that my mother had yet again burnt down that amazing bridge of communication that we’ve always had. She often mentioned things in a matter of fact manner months after they had happened, while claiming she indignantly she had told me.
“ Oh so Grammy is completely recovered from her hip replacement, thank god.”
“Grammy had surgery? What?”
“ Yea and papa Joe no longer has fluid on the brain, the draining when just fine.”
“ What the hell mom… “
She mentions these things like one would mention a tuperwear party, or someone’s awful taste in clothing at a department store. Like they are small menial things that might have just slipped her mind.
I had to be tactful about approaching my mother, I didn’t want to spark one of those “ I swear I told you, you just forgot, or you didn’t listen fights.” So I approached her when she was at her happiest, red cup white Russian in her hand, and smoking butts on the back porch with my best friends. She loves hanging out with my girlfriends because its brings her back to the age before she had two kids, a husband, a big blue ranch style home, and a small furry dog. Basically it brings he back to when she wasn’t a stereotype.
I tried to bite my tongue for as long as possible, until I just couldn’t hold back the words any longer, they were burning inside of my mouth, threatening to push my teeth straight out of my mouth. I grabbed a cigarette from the table, lit it and spat out, “So what is going on with dad?”
My mother slightly stunned and shocked that I was smoking in front of her, took a deep breath and started in with her story.
“Well your father was having trouble with his hands, and his eyes, and blah blah. Sorry we didn’t tell you… blah blah… Blah… didn’t want to worry you… Blah.”
I heard about every other word, seeing as I had already known most of it. Also I knew if I actually listened to every word I would either cry or get really angry. Instead of doing either, I just lit another cigarette, and took a swig of my spiked crystal light.
My mom later apologized for telling me like that, in front of my friends and all. But I would not have wanted it any other way; my friends who are close enough to call my parents “mama and papa Walles” deserved to know just as much as I did.
After finding out this information however, the flow of it just never stopped. I wasn’t quite sure if I was glad to be let into the knowing circle or if I was happier to be ignorant. The following weeks were filled with trips to the doctors, MRIs and talk around the dinner table that really had no place to be there.
It always provided interesting telephone conversations with my Grammy however. It has been my personal mission to make her slightly more appalled by me every time I talk to her.
“ how’s dad?”
“ Oh he’s great, the doctor missed his mark with the spinal tap three times today, and dad looks like he got in a gang fight.” This was great; I didn’t even have to lie to scare her these days.
This continued until I went off to school. And then it became a game of voicemails. Both my mother and I time our calls to each other, we call when it is least likely that the other will answer. That way we can both get out what we want to say, and there will be a recorded record of the event.
When I first got to school the voicemails were more or less the same.
“Hey Kristi, dad had another MRI, they are still not quite sure if it is MS or not. He’s doing fine though, don’t worry.”
Don’t worry, is quite possibly the worst thing to say to anyone ever. Especially to say to a self proclaimed Daddy’s girl, whose father is inches away from getting diagnosed with a debilitating disease.
Around thanksgiving however, the calls got more frequent, and more obscure.
“Hey Kris, it’s dad, I don’t have MS, but could you give me a call back?”
A bittersweet message, his tone was off, and I’m pretty sure I could hear sirens in the background. What in the world is going on?
That is when the topic of brain surgery came into play. My dad after months of being misdiagnosed, had finally snapped, indignantly taken his file from the HMO doctors, and went to mass general. Within an hour of being in MGH he was transferred to the neuroscience ward, and diagnosed with Chiari Malformation syndrome, an illness so obscure, that it is not even in the Microsoft word bank. It is the same syndrome that causes Sudden infant death syndrome. Basically it makes your cerebellum grow down into your spinal cord, causing the loss of feeling in limbs, double vision, chronic sluggishness, and a wealth of other symptoms that can be linked to MS. It is curable, however its cure involves a 4-hour surgery, on the brain.
I was ecstatic. My father was not diagnosed with a life long debilitation, but rather something that could be fixed. This excitement quickly wore off however after the following weeks.
The first surgery took place two weeks before thanksgiving. My family spent days in MGH, waiting for surgery times, MRI results, and every seemed to be falling into place. I did not shed a tear the entire time, that’s saying a lot seeing as I could probably be referred to as a “crier”.
The Neurosurgery ICU is an extremely awkward place to be, and my family’s dark humor was not really appreciated. When my father first came out of surgery, he was beardless, and half of his dark head of hair was shaved off. My family thought it would be a good idea for me to go into the ICU alone to see my darling dad. I was shaking the whole time, walking slow on purpose and not knowing what to expect.
I pulled back the curtain to my father’s room, and saw him. Tubes were everywhere; there were more EKG displays then I wished to count, and a hodgepodge of other instruments that resembled torture devices.
“ Hey pops how are you feeling?” I was barely audible at this point.
“ glahhh bahhh hmmarhhh” at this point I finally broke down,
“ Holy shit, my father’s brain damaged, my genius of a dad ruined. Shit… “
“ Gotcha, sucker…I’m fine.” My dad’s voice came out strong and sure, he them promptly hit the morphine button that was taped to his hand, and slipped back into a drug induced rest. My family likes to joke about things as quickly as possible, a pet dies and it is never to soon to make a witty quip about dead dogs. At this point I wasn’t sure whether to be angry that he would play such a trick, or thank god that he was still capable. He was fine for the most part, slightly groggy, missing some patched of hair, but all and all completely ok.
That lasted for about a week. Then the voicemails started again.
“ Hi Kristi it’s mom, we’re at MGH, you’re fathers being admitted again. His stitches are infected.”
“Hey Kristi, it’s mom again, dad’s going to have to stay here for awhile, he’s back in the room he was before 1214 in the Ellison building. The view is nice.”
By the end of the second hospital stay every nurse knew my brother and my name, where we went to school, or prospective majors, the names of our boyfriends and girlfriends, and what our favorite thing to do in our downtime was. My dad like I said is a schmoozer. The second hospital trip also resulted in a new addition to the family. An IV pump, whose job it was to fill my dad with liquid medicine to make sure he did not get another infection. It fit in great with the Walles’; it was loud, obnoxious, and compact.
The third and final trip the MGH was a complete surprise. It was over winter break, and around 8 in the morning. My mother came barging into the door, and told me that I needed to call 911 for dad, another horrible thing to say to a daughter. I called and within minutes the ambulance was backed into our driveway. My father’s head was bleeding, and he had perfectly clear yet doubled vision. This was not good. The quickly whisked my father away, and I was left to fill in the police report. I’m pretty sure the officer thought I was drunk by the way I was stumbling over my words.
“ He had ummm… What’s that called… oh yea brain surgery… umm he’s 43? I think or maybe 34... no definitely 43…”
By the end of it the police officer just handed me his card and told me to call if I needed anything. I promptly called my best friends, who came to the rescue with 3 packs of cigarettes; a couple of cheesy romance movies, and anything else they thought would distract me.
I became the liaison to the extended family to keep them updated. In the end my father had 3 more surgeries to repair a sub dermal hematoma, which basically means he had a broken blood vessel in his brain. Awesome. Surprisingly after this surgery however my dad reported that “ he hadn’t felt this good in years.” This feeling is still continuing today, and growing stronger. He is no longer reliant on an IV pump, and also got his doctor to allow him in enjoying a little “herbal essence.”
He is currently suing the original HMO Doctor, who tried to give him a spinal tap, if he had not been incompetent and succeeded, he would have killed my father. You better believe Jim Sockolof is hearing about this one.
granted i wrote this for a class, and haven't edited it yet, so its full of typos and grosso stuff.... umm yup
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Twenty seven staples, eighty stitches, five head scars, three iv lines, a handful of stays in mass general, and miles of gauze later, my father has become an entry in a med student’s text book.
My father is a glamorous man, not by sight but by attitude. He grew up in the typical Boston working class family that owned a meat shop in the north end. I still have no gotten a straight answer if there were indeed Mafia connections. It would explain the amounts of “uncles” I have that are in no way actually related. Because of my father’s upbringing, he has become an entertainer, he is a bass player and also the director of global something or other at some company who’s name does not matter, what really matters though is that my dad is a schmoozer, a dazzler, a charmer. His job is to keep people happy and impress them, and man is he great at it.
Our name has become somewhat of a legend around Somerville mass. My father wanted this celebrity to follow us to New Hampshire, and attempted this by posting out name throughout our house. There is a light up “Walles” sign which is visible through both the front and back doors, a painted plaque at the front door just incase you missed the lights, and god knows how many other Walles flack there is.
The first time I started to notice my father acting strangely was the summer before my sophomore year of college. I had gotten a temporary job at the devil of companies, the Satan of selling, the bastard that is Wal*mart. It was the only place that would hire me full time and that I wouldn’t care about blowing off at the end of the summer with an enormous smile on my face. I worked 9-5 Monday through Friday for the entirety of my summer. What was weird about this however was that my father didn’t. More and more often he was still in bed when I left the house, and on the couch, watching trashy television, when I got home. I was not used to this my father had worked 13 hour days for my entire life, seeing him living like a rich housewife bothered me. I never wanted to ask about it however, in case he had lost his job, mostly though because I didn’t really want to know the answer behind his weird behavior. It scared me.
I decided instead of questioning my father directly, I would ask my brother Bob what was going on. My brother was basking in the sun, smoking a cigarette, and stoned, when I approached him. He also had a 9-5 job, and that job was pool boy… at our house. It suited him just fine really, he smoked all day, put some chemicals in the pool, and if the water didn’t turn green it was a great day.
He rolled over when I approached him, asked “ is papa dukes awake?” and quicker than I could shake my head no, lit two American spirits and handed one to me.
“Thanks man, hey can I ask you something?” I forced out between drags.
“ Sure, what do ya need?” he had a troubled look on my face, like he knew what I was about to ask…. This only succeeded in making me more anxious.
“ Umm have you noticed anything weird about dad lately? I mean he’s been working from the house a lot, and watching way more jerry Springer than I though possible for any human being.” I took a long drag from my disgustingly rich cigarette as I waited for Bob to answer. I was visibly shaken, and I think that might have been what distracted Bob enough to tell the truth.
“ Well, I’m not exactly supposed to tell you this…. But the doctors think dad has MS.” He said each word slowly as if that would make it better, as if he put enough space between each word they wouldn’t form the awful sentence that was coming out of his mouth. Doctors…. Think…dad… has…. M…. S.
“ What? … Why didn’t I know this? When did this happen? Holy shit… not dad… that man is my world… wow… no this isn’t true… nope not true.” An indecipherable amount of things ran through my head, but all I could utter out was a simple… “Oh, I guess that explains it.” I’ve always been one for sentiment.
“Mom didn’t want to tell you until they knew for sure.” Bob spilt out quickly before I could really get enraged that my mother had yet again burnt down that amazing bridge of communication that we’ve always had. She often mentioned things in a matter of fact manner months after they had happened, while claiming she indignantly she had told me.
“ Oh so Grammy is completely recovered from her hip replacement, thank god.”
“Grammy had surgery? What?”
“ Yea and papa Joe no longer has fluid on the brain, the draining when just fine.”
“ What the hell mom… “
She mentions these things like one would mention a tuperwear party, or someone’s awful taste in clothing at a department store. Like they are small menial things that might have just slipped her mind.
I had to be tactful about approaching my mother, I didn’t want to spark one of those “ I swear I told you, you just forgot, or you didn’t listen fights.” So I approached her when she was at her happiest, red cup white Russian in her hand, and smoking butts on the back porch with my best friends. She loves hanging out with my girlfriends because its brings her back to the age before she had two kids, a husband, a big blue ranch style home, and a small furry dog. Basically it brings he back to when she wasn’t a stereotype.
I tried to bite my tongue for as long as possible, until I just couldn’t hold back the words any longer, they were burning inside of my mouth, threatening to push my teeth straight out of my mouth. I grabbed a cigarette from the table, lit it and spat out, “So what is going on with dad?”
My mother slightly stunned and shocked that I was smoking in front of her, took a deep breath and started in with her story.
“Well your father was having trouble with his hands, and his eyes, and blah blah. Sorry we didn’t tell you… blah blah… Blah… didn’t want to worry you… Blah.”
I heard about every other word, seeing as I had already known most of it. Also I knew if I actually listened to every word I would either cry or get really angry. Instead of doing either, I just lit another cigarette, and took a swig of my spiked crystal light.
My mom later apologized for telling me like that, in front of my friends and all. But I would not have wanted it any other way; my friends who are close enough to call my parents “mama and papa Walles” deserved to know just as much as I did.
After finding out this information however, the flow of it just never stopped. I wasn’t quite sure if I was glad to be let into the knowing circle or if I was happier to be ignorant. The following weeks were filled with trips to the doctors, MRIs and talk around the dinner table that really had no place to be there.
It always provided interesting telephone conversations with my Grammy however. It has been my personal mission to make her slightly more appalled by me every time I talk to her.
“ how’s dad?”
“ Oh he’s great, the doctor missed his mark with the spinal tap three times today, and dad looks like he got in a gang fight.” This was great; I didn’t even have to lie to scare her these days.
This continued until I went off to school. And then it became a game of voicemails. Both my mother and I time our calls to each other, we call when it is least likely that the other will answer. That way we can both get out what we want to say, and there will be a recorded record of the event.
When I first got to school the voicemails were more or less the same.
“Hey Kristi, dad had another MRI, they are still not quite sure if it is MS or not. He’s doing fine though, don’t worry.”
Don’t worry, is quite possibly the worst thing to say to anyone ever. Especially to say to a self proclaimed Daddy’s girl, whose father is inches away from getting diagnosed with a debilitating disease.
Around thanksgiving however, the calls got more frequent, and more obscure.
“Hey Kris, it’s dad, I don’t have MS, but could you give me a call back?”
A bittersweet message, his tone was off, and I’m pretty sure I could hear sirens in the background. What in the world is going on?
That is when the topic of brain surgery came into play. My dad after months of being misdiagnosed, had finally snapped, indignantly taken his file from the HMO doctors, and went to mass general. Within an hour of being in MGH he was transferred to the neuroscience ward, and diagnosed with Chiari Malformation syndrome, an illness so obscure, that it is not even in the Microsoft word bank. It is the same syndrome that causes Sudden infant death syndrome. Basically it makes your cerebellum grow down into your spinal cord, causing the loss of feeling in limbs, double vision, chronic sluggishness, and a wealth of other symptoms that can be linked to MS. It is curable, however its cure involves a 4-hour surgery, on the brain.
I was ecstatic. My father was not diagnosed with a life long debilitation, but rather something that could be fixed. This excitement quickly wore off however after the following weeks.
The first surgery took place two weeks before thanksgiving. My family spent days in MGH, waiting for surgery times, MRI results, and every seemed to be falling into place. I did not shed a tear the entire time, that’s saying a lot seeing as I could probably be referred to as a “crier”.
The Neurosurgery ICU is an extremely awkward place to be, and my family’s dark humor was not really appreciated. When my father first came out of surgery, he was beardless, and half of his dark head of hair was shaved off. My family thought it would be a good idea for me to go into the ICU alone to see my darling dad. I was shaking the whole time, walking slow on purpose and not knowing what to expect.
I pulled back the curtain to my father’s room, and saw him. Tubes were everywhere; there were more EKG displays then I wished to count, and a hodgepodge of other instruments that resembled torture devices.
“ Hey pops how are you feeling?” I was barely audible at this point.
“ glahhh bahhh hmmarhhh” at this point I finally broke down,
“ Holy shit, my father’s brain damaged, my genius of a dad ruined. Shit… “
“ Gotcha, sucker…I’m fine.” My dad’s voice came out strong and sure, he them promptly hit the morphine button that was taped to his hand, and slipped back into a drug induced rest. My family likes to joke about things as quickly as possible, a pet dies and it is never to soon to make a witty quip about dead dogs. At this point I wasn’t sure whether to be angry that he would play such a trick, or thank god that he was still capable. He was fine for the most part, slightly groggy, missing some patched of hair, but all and all completely ok.
That lasted for about a week. Then the voicemails started again.
“ Hi Kristi it’s mom, we’re at MGH, you’re fathers being admitted again. His stitches are infected.”
“Hey Kristi, it’s mom again, dad’s going to have to stay here for awhile, he’s back in the room he was before 1214 in the Ellison building. The view is nice.”
By the end of the second hospital stay every nurse knew my brother and my name, where we went to school, or prospective majors, the names of our boyfriends and girlfriends, and what our favorite thing to do in our downtime was. My dad like I said is a schmoozer. The second hospital trip also resulted in a new addition to the family. An IV pump, whose job it was to fill my dad with liquid medicine to make sure he did not get another infection. It fit in great with the Walles’; it was loud, obnoxious, and compact.
The third and final trip the MGH was a complete surprise. It was over winter break, and around 8 in the morning. My mother came barging into the door, and told me that I needed to call 911 for dad, another horrible thing to say to a daughter. I called and within minutes the ambulance was backed into our driveway. My father’s head was bleeding, and he had perfectly clear yet doubled vision. This was not good. The quickly whisked my father away, and I was left to fill in the police report. I’m pretty sure the officer thought I was drunk by the way I was stumbling over my words.
“ He had ummm… What’s that called… oh yea brain surgery… umm he’s 43? I think or maybe 34... no definitely 43…”
By the end of it the police officer just handed me his card and told me to call if I needed anything. I promptly called my best friends, who came to the rescue with 3 packs of cigarettes; a couple of cheesy romance movies, and anything else they thought would distract me.
I became the liaison to the extended family to keep them updated. In the end my father had 3 more surgeries to repair a sub dermal hematoma, which basically means he had a broken blood vessel in his brain. Awesome. Surprisingly after this surgery however my dad reported that “ he hadn’t felt this good in years.” This feeling is still continuing today, and growing stronger. He is no longer reliant on an IV pump, and also got his doctor to allow him in enjoying a little “herbal essence.”
He is currently suing the original HMO Doctor, who tried to give him a spinal tap, if he had not been incompetent and succeeded, he would have killed my father. You better believe Jim Sockolof is hearing about this one.