Growing Up and Losing “Normal”...
I was no more than two the first time my father was operated on for his brain tumor. By the ripe old age of five, I was a pro for his third and most major operation - the one that saved his life at the sacrifice of his lifestyle and most of his identity.
As a youngster, I never remembered any of the times he went to the hospital, but I often recall a stranger returning – someone different from the person I knew just weeks ago as my father. Each time in a different bandage or cast. Each time with different equipment. Each time a little weaker and a little more disfigured. Eventually my daddy would come back, albeit in a slightly different form.
After the first few years of a “normal childhood” there were suddenly no more games, no long car rides, no going to work with him on Saturdays, no friend to confide in anymore. Just slow and painful recuperation that even a toddler could feel.
My younger brother was born just about the time of my father's most major surgery. For the first two years, his development paralleled dad's recovery. Then my brother surpassed him. I guess every father hopes that their children will accomplish more in their lifetimes than they, just not at such an early age. As the middle child, my sister got lost somewhere in the middle.
Mom’s Challenges and Losses...
In many ways my mother was the rock. They were newly married when the tumor was first discovered. Within a few short years, they twice celebrated its apparent surgical demise. Then, three operations later, with three children and a severely disabled husband, she held us all together and stayed my father's partner. The cost for her fortitude was the sacrifice of much of her own emotional life. Something had to give to meet the overwhelming demands and painful challenges of each day. Years later, after we had all safely passed through the many storms, it was still hard for her to hug and hold for more than a brief moment. Her love and devotion were without question. The fatigue and callouses of the fight had simply weathered the more delicate areas of her heart's expression.
In time of acute personal need, mom or dad weren't always there. Not because they didn't want to be, but because they couldn't. But a young heart didn't know this and abandonment set in. With no one to turn to there was discounted acknowledgement of personal needs. Yet, this unconscious defense didn't stop the pain of repeated disappointment and rejection. It only served as fertile ground for self-devaluation, limits on trust, and overbearing vulnerability. The world is a very big place for a small person. When it is not possible to understand the world (alone or with the help of others), you make it smaller; unknowingly casting off the very gifts that sanctify your dominion.
Children Become Caretakers at a Cost...
All three of us children became good caretakers at a very early age. Both parents tried to shield us from much of the chaos and commotion. But, there was just so much time and energy. Attention customarily devoted to nurturing and learning had to be deferred to basic survival. The tables of caretaker (parent) and recipient (child) began to turn much earlier than expected. Inadvertently, a disproportionate piece of our personal values was shaped by what we “did” instead of who we “were.”
The pressure of the situation was played out in confused roles and conflicting emotions. With the loss of his work and independence, we children became a larger source of dad's identity. The good intentions of his attention were often overwhelming. He tried hard to be the best provider he could be, and wished he could have been. In the process, many boundaries were crossed as he inadvertently sought to live those now denied parts of his own life through his direction of ours. The ensuing confrontations resulted in heated emotions, but little chance for communication. We often did not have our respective roles and boundaries to return to; to work out the pieces, to sort out the love from the frustration, or the hurt from the caring.
Life’s Critical Lessons...
Friends and family helped, but even within the warmth of our house and the presence of others, we children were alone more than we realized. We each developed “independent spirits” yet missed many of life’s critical lessons in intimacy, communication, self-esteem, conflict resolution, and other areas that would become so important as we grew older. Remediation of these lessons has often been painful and incomplete with the effects visited upon our own loved ones as well as ourselves.
Over time each of us has come to place these experiences within the greater perspective of the many other gifts and challenges in our lives. No matter how profound the experience was, it remains as only one aspect of our development. At the same time, we remain acutely aware how past circumstances still influence us. Thus, my sister, whose early years paralleled dad’s multiple surgeries, still fears becoming ill and not being able to care for her daughter. My brother, who never knew dad before his disability, looks for a role model he never had now that he is a father. As the oldest child, I continue to search for the “holy grail” of earlier years I exclusively knew, before our family was changed by disability.
Dad passed away a decade ago. He got his dream to see each of his children achieve adulthood and self-sufficiency. I got mine too, as we re-established our friendship several years before his death. Mom died six years later, suddenly, of cancer. An unfair lot for someone who was just beginning to live after giving her life so selflessly to others.
The relationship between my brother, sister and myself remains magnetic. Attracted to one another as only family can be, yet repelled at times by past issues that have not yet been identified or resolved. In that way we are no different from any other family...
This article has been adapted from its original publication in Innovations section of TBI Challenge!, National Head Injury Foundation, Washington, D.C., Fall 1993.
Dr. Harvey Jacobs is a partner and VP/Director of Training for Lash and Associates Publishing/Training, Inc.
This material is provided by:
Lash & Associates Publishing Training Inc.
708 Young Forest Drive, Wake Forest NC 27587
Tel: (919) 562-0015 www.lapublishing.com
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