I remember reading The Diary of Anne Frank. She wrote her diary addressed “Dear Kitty.” Maybe I should try that.
No. It’s a journal, not a diary. Well, maybe there is no difference.
God, I’m rambling.
Maybe I can be forgiven.
I got a death sentence today and I’m scared.
At least I know what causes the headaches. Too bad it’s a tumor growing deep in my brain. Doctor Bob said I might survive surgery to remove it (he gave that 60-40 against, but not bad odds). But he said the chances of surviving it with my mind, my personality, my very SELF intact were, well, basically ZERO.
And so now I need to make some decisions.
Do I want to live badly enough to lose myself to do it?
What will I do about David?
And I don’t know how long I have. I think I could actually deal with this better if he had said “you have six months” or something like that. But he said there’s no way to tell. We can “monitor” it (I’m a nurse but I hate when doctors go so cold like that, even doctors I kind of have a crush on) and see how it grows.
God, I am so frightened.
June 16, 1961
Well, so much for my idea to write in this journal every day.
I guess I can be forgiven for a four-day bender (God my head hurts right now).
The aspirin I have been taking doesn’t help. Even the Excedrin (these are truly Excedrin Headaches) only blunts the force.
Vodka helps. A lot of vodka helps a lot. More vodka and I can sleep.
I think I’ve found my solution.
I worry what Davey thinks. God, this is a lot for an 18-year-old boy to handle.
I’m going to call Al next week and let him know what’s going on. I wonder how he’ll take it.
God, I must have been having nightmares last night. When I woke up my nightgown was hiked up around my waist and my boobs were out. I hope I had fun.
June 18, 1961
Well, I got up my courage and called the ex.
What a surprise that was.
He was so supportive, God, if he’d have been that good when we were married we’d still be married.
He said he understood that I didn’t want to disrupt Davey’s life any more than I had to so I should call him when, as he put it delicately, “things got too bad” and he’d come and take his son back to Chicago.
I bawled for an hour.
I barely had myself under control when Davey got home and he was so sweet seeing that I had been crying.
God, he held me like I was the child and he was the parent. Sort of stroking my hair and telling me it was okay. And so, of course, I started crying again.
Jesus, he must think his mother is a drunk wreck.
Actually, he wouldn’t be all that far off, would he?
June 23, 1961
I’m not sure how it happened.
Okay, I’m being honest in these pages and of course, I know how it happened.
My son is the man of the house now.
It started last week.
After my crying binge, I asked him to make me a screwdriver, which he did.
I wasn’t up to making dinner so he made some egg sandwiches, his one culinary talent and he makes excellent egg sandwiches.
After we ate we were sitting there watching something (Perry Mason I think) on TV and I asked him to make me another drink. When he came back he had my screwdriver in one hand and a beer in the other.
He looked so grown up when he sat down and casually took a drink of the beer before setting it down.
He looked at me, kind of challenging, but I didn’t say anything.
Really, what could I say? Here I am a quart of vodka a day drunk. I couldn’t very well begrudge him his beer, could I?
Later he woke me up. I had been sleeping with his arm around me. Okay, I had been passed out with his arm around me.
“Come on mom,” he said softly as he helped me to my feet.
I wasn’t completely falling down, puke-on-your-shoes drunk, but I was pretty darn close.
He led me into the bedroom and reached down to the hem of the pullover I was wearing.
“Arms up,” he said and I looked at him and, well, hesitated.
“Come on, arms up,” he repeated and there was just a hint of command in his voice and I lifted my arms over my head.
And there I was, standing before my 18-year-old son in my slacks and bra.
I watched, kind of fascinated, as he got down on his knees before me and started working on the button and zipper of the slacks.
I had to grab his shoulders for balance as he started peeling the slacks down and then as I did that awkward little two-step to get out of them.
And there I was in bra and panties before him.
He stood and turned me around gently with his hands and unhooked my bra. My arms went up sort of automatically to hold it on but he worked it down and gently pushed my arms down until he could toss it onto the chair in the corner.
I have never been as aware of how my boobs sag as I was at that instant, as I stood with my arms crossed to cover myself.
He smiled and turned down the bed for me and then held my hand as I lay down.
When he went to the other side of the bed and started undressing I almost panicked. I thought he was going to come to bed naked but he didn’t. He left his shorts on.
And then he crawled in beside me, kissed me, said “I love you,” and snuggled against me, his arm across my belly. He was snoring softly before I went to sleep, but not by much.
I whispered “I love you too” as I drifted off, taking his hand in mine.
June 28, 1961
Oh God, it happened.
Anyway, I think it happened.
I’m leaking between my legs so it must have happened.
What have I done?
Is it wrong?
God, I can’t let this happen.
But I’m not sure I can stop.
My head hurts.
June 29, 1961
My head was about to explode by the time he got home from school yesterday but I knew I had to be sober to talk to him.
He walked in and tossed his books on the coffee table and came over to kiss me as he had been doing lately.
I stopped him, holding him at arm’s length, holding his gaze with mine. He met it, actually, he met it boldly.
“Davey,” I started, and then had to think. It had all sounded so straightforward when I had been rehearsing it in my head.
He waited, his eyebrows up a little.
“Davey,” I started again, “did you, ummm.”
And I didn’t know how to go on.
He stood there and I found myself being the one embarrassed in this conversation.
And he waited.
“Oh god,” I said, taking a deep breath, “Davey, did you, well, did you,” and again my voice trailed off.
His smile was far too knowing for someone 13.
I couldn’t hold eye contact and looked down at my feet.
And he did that thing that men seem to know how to do from birth. With two fingers he lifted my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes.
Holding my gaze as he said, slowly and clearly, “did I fuck you?”
I think I actually gasped a little and then I couldn’t hold his gaze anymore and broke the contact.
“Isn’t that what you want to know?” he asked, his hands on my shoulders.
My voice was barely audible even to myself as I sort of whispered “yes.”
Then he did that two-finger thing again, two fingers under my chin.
His hand lifted my chin until I was forced to meet his eyes.
“Yes,” he said simply.
Before I could respond or faint or something, and my knees did go a little weak, he went on.
“I love you, mom. You love me. Why can’t we,” and now it was his turn to sort of stammer.
“Why can’t we, well, show it?”