Month: June 2016

1. What Solitude Is.

If you’re talking about peace and love, you usually think about the people you loved or a time of peace and harmony in a group. But there is such a thing as self-love.

You’re not a good American if you like to enjoy your own company. Remember the commercial “Be Sociable and Have A Pepsi?” Everywhere I looked, from early age and onward, everything, all of life, was centered around being in a group, mixing well with others, a sense of belonging.

The truth is that the most intelligent and creative people we’ve known about spent a lot of time alone, enjoying the quiet, letting their minds ponder serious questions. I always liked being alone, starting in childhood. I loved living on our block with people all around me, but when Arlene and Naomi went away for two weeks to camp, I contentedly read books and played by myself. I’ve always been this way.

My desire–let’s say my mania–for being sociable reached its peak in adolescence. Being part of a couple, having a group of friends, that was everything.

When I look back, I’m always amazed at the amount of information my mother passed on to me, a lot of it relating to the adults in the family. When my Aunt Esther got married, was raped on her honeymoon, came home pregnant, then the poor baby dying after only living a month…this all took place when I was 10 years old and I knew the whole story of it culminating in a nasty divorce, then my aunt remarrying. Why did my mother do this? Trusting me with the horrible details? I don’t know. But what does this have to do with solitude?

My mother started telling me about her hero, DH Lawrence, when I was about 15 and gave me Sons and Lovers to read. We discussed this book, also others. Her passion for his writing got transferred to me; and he wrote a lot about what he had gained from spending time by himself

I Love You Lennie/I Love Jackie too

Because a big part of my life was devoted to studying music, my curiosity about famous musicians drove me to reading and exploring about them. We had a few classical albums in our house; one of them was Rhapsody in Blue by George Gershwin. I remember stretching myself out on the living room floor, listening to this glorious composition. Sadly, I can’t remember what orchestra recorded it. However, around this time–I was 10 years old and not dumbing down yet–I watched a concert on television. It was the New York Philharmonic conducted by Leonard Bernstein, who also played the rigorous piano part.

I was “blissed out.” Never could I have dreamed that this handsome man could 1) conduct the orchestra and 2) play the piano part without sheet music. Leonard Bernstein was emotional about music (of course) and threw himself into whatever he conducted and, in this case, played. Sheer magic and I’ve always worshiped his talent. Now, with you tube, I can watch him playing and conducting anything. It’s still a thrill.

Also, in that same year, John Kennedy was elected president–and here comes this fascinating blue-eyed man with a cool accent who had gone to Harvard and said that Robert Frost was his favorite poet. Frost was made Poet Laureate. But his wife–she was born to be a queen. Her posture was perfect and she never slumped over; so refined and graceful; her new, modern clothing; but, lastly, when she went on a trip to Europe everybody loved her, even more than her famous husband. Why? She spoke fluent French and Spanish!! Brains and beauty.

A far reach for that ten year old who was me.

It was obvious that the hospital people who took care of Peter for that month viewed him as “special” because they were all worried that, with his arm, he wouldn’t be able to handle the colostomy situation. It amused me, I couldn’t help it.

One day the two surgeons called me aside.

“Mrs. Mastroianni, with your husband’s disability, he may have problems handling his situation.”

I laughed. “You are both very sweet men and you’ve been so great about everything. But did you ever find out what Peter does for a living? He’s a sculptor and mold-maker.”

The two doctors just stared at each other. I told them to relax and treat him like any other patient.

There was another situation that presented itself. With the type of surgery that Peter had, it was normal to send a medical person of some kind to come to the home and change the dressing. But at this point, our insurance was exhausted and would not cover this. I just said, OK, teach me how to do it. It can’t be all that bad. And it wasn’t bad at all. Fortunately I have a strong stomach and I don’t get queasy handling messy stuff.

So twice a day I changed the dressing that covered the wound. Believe it or not, it was educational. I saw how the body heals itself, and nothing bad happened. Everything was fine. In fact, Peter and Michael were able to go on a camping trip only not across the U.S. and back. We had a family meeting and it was decided that the two of them would plan the trip in three years from then. Michael would be 16 and could help with the driving.

So the two of them, after Peter got his strength back, strapped our canoe onto the truck and took off for a week’s camping trip in the Endless Mountain area of PA.

Part II. Everyone Pulls Together and We Survive

The first thing I had to do was to sit down with Michael and tell him that he wouldn’t be going on the trip that summer. My 13-year-old son’s answer:
“I don’t feel bad for myself, Mom. I’m just sorry that Dad is so sick. He was looking forward to the trip, too.”

Once I heard that I felt as if I could face anything.

I had already told Carroll, my wonderful supervisor at Williams and Wilkins, about what happened and, being his beautiful self, told me not to even think about coming back to work until Peter was stabilized. But the funny thing was that I wanted to keep up at work because I liked everyone there and it was comforting. It was only 20 hours a week, anyway. Also, I was taking a night class at West Chester University only one night a week. Then I told my professor about all of this and I was urged to take my time, not to worry for the present. Another angelic man.

I bought the biggest Get Well card I could find and walked up and down State Street in Media, telling all of Peter’s friends about this and everybody signed and wished a “speedy recovery.” One friend, a baker who sold muffins and pastries, cried when I told her that the two wouldn’t be going away that summer. Everyone in town knew about the special trip.

Next task: Peter’s clients and friends. Now, Peter told me not to let Michael come to the hospital while he was still hooked up to all these machines. He thought Michael would be traumatized. He also didn’t want his friends and clients to come. However, a few very close friends bypassed this ruling and walked in anyway. It all turned out OK and everybody got a big laugh out of it.

Finally, Peter was hospitalized for a month. This extended over Memorial Day weekend and Peter needed me to be with him. He was taking morphine and it was making him have terrible nightmares. So what would I do about Michael? Some very good friends–parents of a school friend of Michael’s–had him at their home for the whole weekend. Of course, I had my son on my mind but he seemed to be doing OK. Michael’s nerves are strong. The father of the school friend came over and mowed our lawn!

When I wasn’t at Williams and Wilkins or at night school I was at the hospital. It was most important to me that I got home when Michael did. It wasn’t hard to keep his spirits up, as is obvious. But we stuck close to each other. I decided, as a kind of therapy for myself, to learn to play a new sonatina–a new piano piece–when the day ended. So I chose a piece from a piano book and while Michael was falling asleep I would be playing it. This sonatina has a name but I always call it “The Colostomy Sonatina.”
Part III. I Learn About Wound Care and Other Lovely Things.

A Lesson in Family and Friendship

Part I Dreams Are Shattered (Temporarily)

The year was 1996 and Michael was 13. A special, very special trip had been planned for over a year. Peter was going to take off most of the summer and he and Michael were going to cross the U.S. and back. We had a nice, cute, efficient “pop up” camper/trailer which hooked onto our Ford F150 pick up truck. People kept asking me why I wasn’t going. I told everybody that pretty much–since in the delivery room having Michael–I knew this trip was going to happen. I wanted the two of them to go, just the two of them as a father/son experience. Truthfully, I didn’t even want to go. It was not my definition of a fun vacation at that time.

Everything began to come together in the spring. We had enough money to cover expenses–it had been a concern because Peter was temporarily taking time off from his business–so all was well. Then, on a Saturday in May, about a week before Memorial Day weekend, Peter began having terrible pains in his abdomen. At first we were not too worried; it seemed like a stomach flu thing. But it all got worse, Peter’s temperature went up and up and he became almost delirious. Forget the stomach flu. I remembered from something I learned as a child, probably girl scouts, that a high fever combined with abdominal pain meant big trouble. I practically shoved Peter into the car and I took him, not to our community hospital which I distrusted, but to a better hospital on Philadelphia’s Main Line.

It was one of the worst nights of our lives. The ER staff knew what was going on and they whisked him into an examination room. At this point the story is laborious, so I’ll just say this. He had a burst appendix and peritonitis had set in. This was bad. He was kept there with mega doses of antibiotics in the hopes that he would not need surgery but, in the end, he did have surgery and had one of those colostomy bags. I was told he would only need it for three months.

I can’t say enough about the staff of Paoli Hospital. Everyone was wonderful, the nurses, the ER people, and the surgeons. Peter was in surgery for hours and I sat in the chapel they have there and prayed, over and over, for the return of Peter’s strength and health. Finally–it was over, he didn’t die of peritonitis–this does happen. Once the surgery was over I had a world of problems to face but I wasn’t feeling scared or weak. I knew that everyone was looking to me to be both strong and compassionate.

A nurse gave me credit for saving my husband’s life. If I had waited any longer and assumed it was a stomach flu, he would have died overnight.

Part II Everybody Pulls Together and We Survive–next time!

An Interesting Mix of “Extras”

Years before I knew Peter he was very close to a number of young men, all connected to the arts, who drank gallons of cheap wine, and talked about many subjects, some trivial, but others serious such as politics. A lot of them lived close together in an enclave in West Philadelphia called Powelton Village. These young men were mixed races and sexes, some had published books, most of them painters and sculptors.

According to my husband they had a kind of code of honor with which the they treated each other and women and children.

After Peter and I were married he began telling me stories about this legendary “Knights of the Round Table.” That’s how these men saw themselves. I asked Peter where these people went, where are they? He replied that they were all living in West Philadelphia, as before.

“So if all of you loved each other so much and enjoyed each others’ company, why don’t you get together with them?”

We were living in Media then, less than an hour away. That began the connecting between, at first, Peter and his old friends–and then included me.

From the first I loved these young men; certainly I had never met people like this. There were a few women involved in the group but I was terribly shy; I had my seltzer with lime when we went to Bacchanal. This was a combination bar and art gallery where we spent many happy Saturdays, with me slowly getting to know my husband’s old friends, loud music playing, and dancing. Then I became pregnant.

Once this group of guys met me they knew I wasn’t like the other women they hung out with. I was “lady-like” which could mean that I was a “stuffed shirt.” But they made a special place for me and all of them envied Peter for finding a different kind of life partner. It was so much fun. But then, when I got pregnant and had a large belly, they were just so respectful of me, seemed as if they were in awe of my supreme power of fertility and regeneration.

I would sit high up on a bar stool and the men would come and gaze at me, some wanting to touch my belly. Some women would not have liked this. However, I was living in my pink cloud pregnancy, full of warmth and life, and treated like a goddess.

Once Michael was born I think we took him to Bacchanal about twice. It was terribly smoky in there and did not feel right. But Peter was congratulated on being given a beautiful son. One of the old time friends also had a son born within the same week. Both boys were beautiful, both talented and intelligent. What a time that was.

Another Kind of Falling In Love: Children

Peter and I kept changing our minds about having kids. I had a miscarriage the first time around which I found traumatic. It took me time to move on. But then I conceived again so of course on every bumpy ride in Peter’s pickup truck I thought I’d lose the baby. God Bless my “OB/GYN.” He was a very relaxed type of person, just right for me. He told me that “if it’s a viable pregnancy, a bumpy ride in a pickup truck won’t dislodge the fetus.” After that, I relaxed–and I mean RELAXED–into pink cloud pregnancy.

Peter was thrilled and lived vicariously through my joy. He kept on telling people before I had a chance to spread the news. But I couldn’t be mad at him; my joy was his.

I had an old-fashioned doctor who didn’t believe in too many tests. I was under 35 so he didn’t want me to have that test–I forget the name–where a needle is pushed into the uterus to draw out fluid. Pretty soon I was putting Peter’s hand on my belly when Michael kicked and danced. It was such a miracle…

I often thought during those pink cloud days that it’s not a good idea to have a baby to save a marriage. But during the pregnancy we were brought closer than ever. He had so much respect for my femininity and a primitive worship of my fertility. Peter’s soul is forever young and his awe of these things brought me closer to him…

Watching me in labor for 20 hours–no medication–and then–I still laugh when I remember this–I actually fainted once Michael was safely delivered. Fainted from exhaustion. Peter had a lot to say about the experience and, as is his way–told everybody he knew that if anybody ever belittled women again he’d loudly protest.

And it kept on piling up, the respect we had for each other’s abilities as parents, I mean. When I was unable to nurse Michael–it’s called “failure to nurse” and nobody knows why it happens–after 48 hours of sheer hell I sent Peter out to buy bottles and formula, Michael received his badly needed nourishment, I took a sleeping pill and the home was reorganized and tough decisions made. Peter’s respect for me grew even more because, although my friends were able to nurse their babies and I couldn’t, I was the one to quit trying, because the baby was starving and nobody got any sleep.

And it just kept on piling more joy. Peter as a father would make any woman happy. Not queasy handling the messy side of things–taking Michael to virtually every museum, zoo, a marvelous display of toy trains at holiday times. We fell in love with each other as parents and there’s no doubt that Michael got the most benefits; but I’ll change my mind and say that we all breathed in joy and hope. Nothing was perfect but there is no doubt that we were/are a happy family.

Sometimes I think that Peter and I grew up together. I had already been married and divorced when I met him, and at the age of 26–he was 29–I was no child. I met him at a brunch to which I was invited and he was cooking omelets for people. It was an almost love at first sight thing. I remember thinking: if this person doesn’t ask me out for a date, I’ll get his phone number and call him. I was a very angry person then, mad at the world and mad at all men. I hated everything. So it didn’t feel like falling in love. It felt as if I met a person who could be a good, good friend. And I was right.

Peter was making omelets and he had his grated cheese and vegetables all organized and ready. The first thing I said to him was: “Can I help you?” He likes to remember this. He responded: “You could cut up the mushrooms.” So I sliced them nice and thin. After this brunch was over we went for a walk and we were never really separated again.

When I say that we grew up together, it means that we made all the mistakes that young couples make but we survived them. Right from the first we found that we had things in common. He loved Robert Frost’s poetry, we liked the same music. He also liked the “nonsense verse” written by Edward Lear and Lewis Carroll and had fun, laughing and reading it out loud to each other.

Everybody thought–our families, I mean–that we were crazy. My poor mother, on my bringing Peter home for the first time, with his arm and his Catholic background…but I’ve never “seen” Peter’s arm. My eyes can see it but in my head it doesn’t register. Sometimes, when we’re out and people stare, I’ve perfected a way of fixing my eyes on this person and moving my body so that I’m “protecting” my husband from their stares. Of course I’ve been lectured to not try, ever, to protect him but, hey–when you love someone, you just do those things.