This is What Happened Next Door

My neighbor's yard is beautiful. There are no weeds in the lush green grass, and in the back, where the abundant sun begs for a swimming pool or an orchard of trees, they have created a kind of oasis garden - an island of soft leaves of various colors that surrounds a single inviting lounge chair reclined to the perfect degree. For her or for him? I've often wondered.

The front has fastidiously kept borders of blooms, greens and purples that delineate an adorable sitting area for two and the path to the entrance of what could be a magical and mysterious cottage in a garden.

From the outside, it seems the picture of perfection...the incarnation of Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young's "Our House". She cares for the flowers, while he cares for the lawn.

She died on Monday night. I had only met her once...on the day she had been jumping through her sprinkler with the seven-year-old from across the street. I thought she was a teenager. My daughters insisted that she looked terribly familiar and that we should find out who she is.

If I had not approached her that day, I would not have known that she taught  at the beloved Montessori school where my youngest still attends. I would not have known that last year she taught one of my older daughter's closest friends. She was my next-door neighbor.

On Monday night, my street was filled with emergency vehicles, including a trail of police cars that reached the intersection to the main road. This was not an ordinary call...something had gone wrong.

Suicide, says her partner, but the police suspect him and take him into custody. They questioned all the neighbors, trying to gather information for how to inform her family before Facebook beats them to it. Their red and blue lights danced through my windows and tightly closed blinds until well past 1:00 am.

"Are the disco lights gone?", asked my youngest as she opened her eyes the next morning. I was left with the burden of easing this news into my children's lives.

There are things that must be done after a tragedy like this happens in a home. After two days, a van with the word "Aftermath" on the side appeared. I wondered if they had cleaned up my grandmother's apartment after my stepfather shot her and my mother.

The family has been in and out all week...removing all kinds of belongings from the house. Someone mowed the lawn, and there is a solar light that illuminates the yard at night. From the outside, the house looks pristine and serene. No one would suspect the nightmare inside.

...there are so many houses like that.

I'll light the fire, you place the flowers
In the vase that you bought today
Staring at the fire for hours and hours
While I listen to you play your love songs
All night long for me, only for me

(from Our House, Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young)
 

In High Heels and Makeup and Mint Green

It was time for high heels and makeup again tonight. It is the kids' weekend with daddy, and he has taken them to the beach. I came home from work exhausted after a long week and a long drive during which I tried desperately not to nod off. When I was finally at home, I locked my door, closed the blinds, and took the nap that I had been needing since I left the OB/GYN on Wednesday. I iced my wrists and then slept with abandon.

Getting out of bed was a struggle when I woke, and I knew that the night had the potential to turn dark. I could not let that happen after everything I have been through, after all the progress that I've made, after having come so far. I willed myself out of bed, demanding that anything I do be done downstairs and out of the bed.

Getting out of the house was a must, so I found a theater to watch a movie...not just any theater, but one of those fancy ones where you can dine and drink while you watch the movie - the kind that I had always been curious about but an expense that my husband and I never seemed to be able to justify.

I wanted to feel good...and beautiful...and graceful...and elegant...and serene. I slipped on my favorite summer maxi dress, the one so long that even with my three and a half inch wedges, it drags just so. The one in the lovely mint color, reminiscent of the '70s, that drapes so perfectly over my body I can't help but feel like a beautiful siren as I feel the movement of the fabric over my skin.

I pulled my hair back into a slick and youthful pony tail and adorned it with a pretty silver butterfly barrette. I slid on a huge white ring, which I had picked up at the costume jewelry counter in one of those quaint antique shops my husband and I used to drop into during our good days. Lastly, I put on the whimsical elephant bracelet, in the same mint as the dress, that my youngest had picked out for me for my last birthday.

I put on my lipstick, turned my chin up and my shoulders back and stepped outside. I felt fabulous, radiant, happy! I floated through the theater lobby, as an attendant showed me to my seat.

I ordered the duck and the Riesling and settled back to enjoy the new experience. I was having such a great time that I cried (good tears). It had been so long since I have felt like I have been allowed to enjoy life so purely and so freely. I loved myself.

I know that I could have called some friends or my cousin to share this evening...but I was trying out the night. I had to do this by myself. I was trying out my new life, and I wanted to feel the pleasure of my own company even in places where others are usually accompanied.

Tonight, I felt like a star in my own movie, and it had nothing to do with the words or actions of others. It came from within me.

Sexual Abuse and the OB/GYN

I don't know how to begin this post, except by warning you (especially male readers) that it will probably contain way too much information. If you would prefer to never know what goes on during a pelvic exam, please stop reading now. I will write prettier things another day...but today I have to write this. It has really been troubling me.

Tomorrow I have an appointment with my OB/GYN. I have not seen him in approximately six years. There always seemed to be a reason - the kids had too many doctor visits, so I had no time to schedule my own, I was no longer taking oral contraceptives, I was not pregnant or giving birth to a baby. Scheduling this appointment was very low on the totem pole.

Years passed, and my youngest outgrew her chronic ear infections, both kids started school, and their well visits decreased from every few months to once a year. Still, I would not schedule the OB/GYN appointment. At this point I understood that I was avoiding this physician, but I did not understand why.

I had been seeing this same gynecologist since I moved to this town about thirteen years ago. I had never had any issues to speak of during my visits (barring the time when I adamantly refused to allow the nurse to take my blood pressure because I had fresh cuts on my wrists). The exam itself was uncomfortable for about five minutes, and then I was OK. I never thought about it before or after.

So why now? Why do I suddenly have an aversion to the pelvic exam? I scheduled tomorrow's appointment as part of an effort to take care of myself. It was on the same mental checklist as calling the hairdresser and the eye doctor - just another thing that I deserve to do for myself.

It wasn't until a few days ago that I realized how afraid I am of going through with this exam. In talking with my therapist about it today, I realized that I don't want to be touched in my pelvic, vaginal or breast areas...by anyone. If I were touched in these areas, I would feel violated.

I shudder when I visualize the way an exam with the OB/GYN normally proceeds. First, I would have to remove my own clothing and dress in a scant little robe that would allow the doctor easy access to my body - how vulnerable. Next, he would feel my breasts for lumps and whatnots, while I fervently remind myself that this is not my soon-to-be-ex reaching for my breasts against my will and desire.

Lastly, he would have me lie on my back with my feet up on stirrups and he would insert his hand inside of me. How utterly humiliating. It always hurts, I always gasp and hold my breath. I often feel like the little girl being held down by her stepfather. How am I supposed to walk into that office tomorrow and allow him to do these things to me?

Courage?

Be honest with him about the way I feel, suggested my therapist.

I am afraid that I will "freak out" in his examining room and not allow him to proceed with the exam. The day I refused to have my blood pressure taken, three different nurses came into the room to find out why I was having such a problem with it and to try to convince me otherwise. My doctor would not write me a prescription for my contraceptive without knowing my blood pressure. The more they asked and pressed, the more upset and withdrawn I became. I don't want to go through anything like that again.

So could I talk to him before the exam and apprise him of my fears? Probably not, but perhaps I could speak with the nurse and let her tell him. It may sound a bit childish, like asking mom to talk to dad about something you want, but it's where I am now. My voice is so much bigger than it used to be. Two years ago, I could not have imagined talking to anyone other than my therapist about this topic. Today, I am strong enough to discuss my trauma with another professional in order to alleviate some of my fears that may interfere with my receiving proper medical care.

I've come a long way...I'm going to be OK.