I Forgot to Remember: A Memoir of Amnesia (16 page)

Sex was another thing that baffled me, because “nice” in our bedroom was definitely not “right”! Jim had long since explained the birds and the bees to me. Even so, I had no idea what the hell I was supposed to do, or why. I have vague memories, from when I don’t know, of Jim telling me very firmly that we were supposed to
have sex because we were married, and that’s what married people do. He told me how much he loved me and just wanted to be able to show me. Except when we did eventually engage in sexual activity, I thought it was disgusting, gross, smelly, and sweaty, and it really hurt! Plus, Jim frightened me.

Just like I did not comprehend most of what was going on during the day, nighttime really bewildered me. Jim is not, and has never been as long as I can remember, a quiet sleeper. And I don’t just mean that he snores, although he does that, too. No, Jim is “not quiet” in a disturbing, scary way. Certainly not every night, but often enough, he becomes talkative and very physical with me. Despite being asleep, he has shouted at me, and called me all manner of derogatory names, as well as many other women’s names. He has slapped and scratched me, held me down, kept a pillow over my face, and hit my head repeatedly against the wall or headboard. Yet what is even more upsetting to me than any of that stuff is the fact that I thought that this behavior was totally normal. And it is troubling that I put up with this craziness for so long thinking it was just part of what “marriage” was. I honestly did not know that I could say “No!” or defend myself in any way. When I finally figured out, after several years, that this conduct maybe wasn’t so normal, I asked Jim about it. I think we were living in the house on Beaver Ridge Road, in the Washington suburb of Montgomery Village, at the time. I have no idea what I actually asked him, but probably something like, “Why do you feel the need to occasionally hit me, scratch me, and shout at me during the night?” He probably looked at me as if I was insane. He says he honestly had no recollection of ever doing anything hurtful or hateful to me.

Since then Jim has participated in a number of sleep studies, and has tried various medications, for “sleep drunkenness” and a
variety of other diagnoses, but unfortunately “Nighttime Jim” has to this day never completely gone away. There seems to be no kind of pattern as to when the “bad nights” will occur, and sometimes up to six months will pass with blissful, uninterrupted sleep. And then those bad nights appear again out of the blue.

Over the years, I have come to learn to love. And I understand the difference now between “loving” ice cream and the “love” I have for my kids. But what about Jim? That is a tricky and far more complicated question. If it makes any sense at all, I have always loved Jim, and I have never loved Jim. In a way, Jim was assigned to me. I never really had a say, which sounds incredibly cruel, but that’s essentially the way it is. Jim is all I know. I have only ever made love to one person. I have only ever shared a bedroom, a bathroom, and a bank account with one person. I have only ever slow-danced with one person. Before writing this book, I have only ever told one person my deepest secrets, my most hopeful dreams, and my darkest fears. And that person was always Jim. Jim is the only person who has ever made me feel truly beautiful, sexy, and desirable. Even during those times when I am feeling neither beautiful nor sexy, and those other times when I am clearly not desirable. There can be no stronger love anywhere than the love I feel from him at those times. Regrettably, Jim is also the one person who can with no more than a look, a word, or tone of voice make me feel small, scared, stupid, insignificant, embarrassed, and worthless. Bottom line: I have always been trying, and probably will continue to always try, to get Jim’s approval, because there is nothing on this earth better. However, there is a conflicting side to his personality, and when that side comes out there is without fail hell to pay! That being said, I am somewhat convinced that his behavior, both good and bad, over the years is directly linked
to how much our lives were altered by a ceiling fan when we were both so young.

Despite all of these circumstances, life goes on, and the Meck family continued to muddle through as best we could.

Jim lost his job in Baltimore early in January of 1991, but thankfully he was able to find another job within a few months, working for a small software company based outside Boston but with offices in Greenbelt, Maryland. This job required him to travel most of the time, either to the company’s headquarters or around the country selling the company’s software. With this new job he was gone for about three weeks out of every month, and even when he was “home,” he spent most of his time driving to his office in Maryland, near Washington, D.C., sometimes a two-hour drive one way. Having him away so much was both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, I was nervous about being by myself with the boys. Jim, regardless of his behavior toward me, was my touchstone. He was familiar and I somehow understood myself better when he was around. On the other hand, I was guaranteed a good night’s sleep without Jim around, and Benjamin and Patrick’s behavior seemed to improve when he was gone. After several months of all this driving and traveling, it became clear that we couldn’t stay in Bel Air. Jim decided we would move to Montgomery County, relocating from suburban Baltimore to suburban Washington, to be closer to his office as well as National Airport.

Montgomery Village is a planned community, and a great place to be a young family. There are swimming pools, recreation centers with all kinds of year-round activities and camps for kids, lakes with walking trails and bike paths, and shopping centers all
close by. Our house was at the end of a court, and behind it was a little creek and woods to explore.

Jim was away traveling the day the boys and I actually moved into the house on Beaver Ridge Road, and one specific episode from the day is extremely vivid in my mind. This house had a ridiculously dramatic, sweeping two-story foyer with a little balcony right off the master bedroom that looked down over that foyer. (Picture the Pope looking down from such a balcony and blessing thousands of devoted Catholic pilgrims inside my front hall.) It did not take long for my boys to come up with a magnificent plan to make this boring moving day into something a bit more exciting. They walked around the house gathering up all the bedding, blankets, towels, linens, sleeping bags, and pillows that they could find and proceeded to build a huge “nest” in that front hall. What was I doing while they were being so industrious? I honestly have no idea. What I do remember is coming upon my five-year-old, thrill-seeking son flying through the air from the balcony, landing (mostly) in the “nest” of bedding, immediately standing up, and beckoning to his three-year-old brother, who was himself perched on the edge ready to jump! I’m sure my shrieks were heard throughout the neighborhood, but fortunately they did not startle Patrick enough to cause him to fall. After that incident, I distinctly remember literally tying both boys to my physical person for the rest of that day.

Regardless of that shaky start, we settled into our life in Montgomery County. Starting that September, Benjamin attended afternoon kindergarten at Goshen Elementary School, and Patrick was enrolled in the nearby afternoon preschool. At one point I remember Patrick’s teacher taking me aside and asking if everything was all right at home with Jim and me. I nodded and asked why
she wanted to know. She said that Patrick told her that his daddy only ever came home to mow the lawn. About this same time, both boys had drawn pictures in their Sunday school classes at Gaithersburg Presbyterian Church that included a smiling mom and two smiling boys. No father anywhere in either picture. (Hmm.)

I got another part-time job teaching aerobics classes at Athletic Express, a large gym not far from where we lived. From connections I made working there, I was invited to teach classes at two other gyms, Philbin’s and Fitness First. “Part-time” eventually swelled into teaching up to fifteen or sixteen classes a week, with many often back-to-back.

I continued to keep a detailed calendar listing everything I needed to do, and I referred to it several dozen times a day. As long as I was teaching classes, getting Benjamin and Patrick to and from school, driving them to soccer, gymnastics, cherub choir, and dance classes, “helping” with homework and school projects, “volunteering” at the library at the elementary school, preparing meals, doing laundry, going grocery shopping, and cleaning the house, I never had to interact with people at anything more than a superficial level. I came in contact with a lot of people during my days, but didn’t, for the most part, know anybody’s name and often didn’t recognize people from one day to the next. I could play the part of the “Montgomery County Mother” at the kids’ schools, and I could turn on the charm to teach aerobics classes, but I was horribly insecure and nervous whenever I had to speak or socialize with anybody for any length of time. I actually
was
only playing the part of a mom. I didn’t do things because I
knew
they were the right things to do. I did things because I saw what other moms were doing, and I simply copied what they did. At the health clubs where I worked, it wasn’t much different. I initially just
copied what other instructors were doing, and over time teaching certain classes became second nature. Surprisingly, after many years of teaching, I developed my own style and became a fairly popular instructor.

Jim and I continued to play the part of a married couple, and eventually we even resumed a sort of sex life. But Jim thinks that sex, from this point on, was simply one of the many things that I just accepted, without question, as part of the marriage and family routine. Now I wash dishes. Now I cook dinner. Now we go to church. Now we have sex. Now I fold the laundry.

He is probably right about that and about me to a certain extent, especially in the beginning. But I can also remember (eventually) countless special times that we shared over our years together, moments that included laughter, passion, intimacy, and a closeness that I have never experienced with anybody else. And I certainly can’t remember him ever complaining to me about our sexual escapades, particularly once I finally figured everything out.

But I am jumping ahead.

Early in the fall of 1991, Jim and I received an invitation to attend the wedding ceremony of Kathy VanSchaick and Randy Brown. Kathy was one of the few people that I had kept in touch with from high school and to this day is one of my very best friends. Jim remembers that she was a terrific help to me after my injury, especially after we moved east from Texas, patiently retelling me stories and showing me photos of our high school antics. Kathy and Randy’s wedding was to be held in November at Wayne Presbyterian Church, the church I had attended with my own family when we lived outside of Philadelphia. Kathy told me that she
and I had been active in choir and youth group at Wayne Presbyterian when we were in high school, and my sister Diane and her husband, Paul, had been married there in 1985.

Philadelphia was an easy drive from Maryland, so it was decided that Jim and I would go to the wedding, but we would leave Benjamin and Patrick with friends for the weekend. I have a feeling that Jim thought (correctly) that attending Kathy’s wedding would be stressful enough for me without adding our active four- and five-year-old to the festivities. There would not only be lots of people and confusion, which, in and of itself, could be problematic for me, but also many other guests who most likely would know me from before my injury. They would know me, but I wouldn’t have a clue as to who they were, which was always a bit awkward for everyone.

The sanctuary of Wayne Presbyterian Church is an enormous and gorgeous old stone building, which that Saturday afternoon was made even more beautiful with abundant flower arrangements and other tasteful wedding decorations. Kathy was gorgeous as well, although I do think she told me she wore white Keds rather than heels. Randy was in his dress uniform from the U.S. Army, looking incredibly handsome. The ceremony itself was not long, but I remember coming to a significant realization as I listened to the pastor speak, and as I listened to Randy and Kathy exchange their vows.
This
is a wedding. After
this
wedding ceremony, Kathy and Randy will be
married
to each other, just like Jim and I are married to each other. I do not have any idea why I made this particular connection on this particular day, but I did, and it has stuck with me as one of my big aha moments. The rest of that day is a blur. I think the reception was right next door at a beautiful old Victorian mansion. I recall a ton of people there, with food,
music, drinking, and dancing. But the only thing I
really
remember about that day was thinking constantly, I am
married
to Jim just like Kathy and Randy are married to each other now! This was a strange realization.