Chap. 17: New Year, A New Life Begins

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A New Year, A New Life Begins - Together


New Year's Eve, 1968-69. We were going to spend it quietly, at home. Two days before, I was asked if I would be willing to work that night, until about 1:00 or 2:00 A.M. Me and one other operator. Since it was double-time pay I had one heck of a decision.
"Al, the wife and I were going to spend that evening together. Just the two of us."
"Bring her along. She can learn more about your job. Most wives would love to know more about what their husband does for a living than they ever get the chance to find out."(Author’s note: Obviously this was before the need for heightened security at all corporate computer sites. The word ‘terrorism’ and all that it brought with it, had not yet become part of our vocabulary, or our lives. JAW - 12/27/07)
I called Lin.
"I'd love to! We were only going to sit around here, anyway. You like your job so well, I'd like to find out why."
So it was settled.
That afternoon we arrived at work about 3:30 P.M., to discover an interesting sidelight to working the shift together: Mark was working the Scheduling Center that night.
The end result of all this? Linda ran the stacks of tapes and cards to me, I'd run them, with her help, then she'd take them back to Mark and pick up a couple more. She loved helping me answer the questions it asked, hanging the tapes it called for, and tearing the different reports apart from each other. Not to mention the basic childlike fascination with watching the tapes turn and the lights blink. And I have to admit. I always got a kick out of those lights, too. So, with that thought in mind at one point, I turned out all the room lights and we just stood there, our arms around each other's waist, watching all the dozens of lights on all the machines blink their multi-speed, multi-colored greetings. Unfortunately, we couldn't have them that way all night. Reading the typewriter messages and hanging the tape reels would have been impossible.
When midnight came, the three of us were prepared. On the stroke of 12 we clinked our pop bottles together and Linda kissed Mark and me. We yelled "Happy New Year" and sang Auld Lang Syne, all in unison.
Finishing the night's work a little earlier than planned, we arrived home about 1:30 A.M., immediately hitting the sack.
How much did she enjoy that night? She would remark about it, with a look of contented, reminiscent-type thought on her face, many times throughout the remainder of her life. She never forgot that one. The simple things. Hallelujah!

As our first year progressed, we found that, for reasons initially unknown at the time, Linda was not easily able to get "turned on" in the bedroom. Typical foreplay was fine; no problem with that. But when we got to the lovemaking, she'd begin with an intentional effort to respond to me. Sometimes, by the time I'd finished she was openly responding with her own pleasure being obvious, sometimes we weren't quite that fortunate. We began to search for a cause. At times we would each blame ourselves for the problem, but we never once blamed each other.
We soon considered that the seizure medication could also be dulling her responses in other areas, possibly keeping her from fully enjoying the wonderful pleasures of intimate moments. We began searching for alternate ways of exciting her prior to our lovemaking to see if our thinking was on target. Would a touch of emotional excitement “burn” the edge off the medication enough to allow her to respond? With that in mind, one evening she hit on the idea of acting out her fantasies. By enabling her to live out a “fantasy” of some sort, where she knew where it would end but not always how we would get there, the anticipa-tion of what might take place excited her. Would that raise her metabolism enough to overcome the dulling effects of the medication without undue risk, and permit her to fully enjoy our intimate moments?
(Looking back, I can’t help but think the treatment she received over the years by those outside her family may have had a bearing on the development of many of those fantasies. I'm no psychologist, but to me there seems a strong similarity between the "constant" verbal (psychological?) abuse she received (i.e. from fellow students), and her favorite two fantasies. At times it seemed as though part of her still believed she deserved nothing better in her life, and she wanted to experience the life she thought she was in-tended for.)
In any event, I hesitated getting too involved in the fantasy thing for a long time, until she convinced me that it appeared to do the trick, and that it was what she really wanted. The fantasies became a 50/50 proposition. The nights she had ideas, we used them. Whenever a night turned up that she drew a blank, I let my imagination run for some ideas. If we hit something she got excited about, then we used that one.
The whole thing worked so well that whether it ultimately led to lovemaking or just thoroughly intimate contact, we usually came up with something about 4 nights a week. And she was ecstatic about it. If she got excited enough beforehand, her keyed-up condition overcame the dulling effect of the medication enough for her to react to lovemaking. On those rare nights, she ate it up. For the others, she was thoroughly content with the fantasies and the contact and/or lovemaking that followed. The detail we went to in acting them out made them more than real enough for her. At times it seemed strange to be doing some of the things we did, but she was finally happy in the romantic department and that's what mattered.

We'd just hit the sack one night, exhausted after a hectic day. I reached over and gently covered a breast with my hand, through her nightgown.
“Oh, you!” she said playfully, moving over and snuggling up. “I do hope you don't get too excited tonight, honey. I am kinda tired," she said lovingly.
"No, sweetheart," I said as I changed position and took her in my arms. "I just want to hold you for a minute, and that's it." (That's another thing I can honestly say about all our years together. No matter how bad she felt, she never refused me. Not once. Notice she just said "I HOPE you don't get too excited". She never said 'no'. Not once in all our years together. She would have still done anything I wanted to do. Remember back when we took that moonlight walk the night before the wedding? She said, “Jim, I want to thank you for caring so much about me. For not walking away like all the others. I meant it back when I said you gave me a reason to live. Now I have a chance to repay you.” I had hoped to make love tonight, but I loved her too much to force it. It wouldn't have meant the same, and would have strained our relationship. That's not what true love, like ours, is about anyway. Forcing it I mean. But I didn't tell her I'd had to change my plans. She always did anything she could for me; remember that ‘devotion to duty’? Times like this were the least I could do in starting to repay HER).
I squeezed her a few times, added a few kisses for good measure, and we said goodnight. But what seemed like about ten minutes later, I heard:
"Jim? You still awake?"
"Yeah, honey. What is it?"
"I'll say it now so I forget about it by tomorrow night. If I'm still feeling this good, come after me then. O.K.?"
"You bet!" I said, with a touch of enthusiasm, knowing full well what she meant. It could mean she was looking forward to making love then, or at the very least that she wanted a good deal of intimate contact. But it always meant one or the other....

That next night, I sat quietly in the living room, reading, as she did the supper dishes. I knew that she would become absorbed in that work, and that she would also be thinking other thoughts. Let alone the normal things that would have come up in this last 24 hours. Therefore, I counted on her "forgetting" where I was, and forgetting her request of the night before. Quietly, I moved to the door into our hallway from the living room.
Minutes later, she finished, leaving the dishes in the rack for the time being. She laid the dishtowel over the edge of the sink to dry, and began walking toward the hall.
She turned, her back to me, and headed down the hall, toward the bedroom, or the bathroom. I made my move, quickly clamping my left hand over her mouth, and my right arm around her waist. Pulling her back against me, I said, "Don't scream and you won't get hurt. You understand?"
She nodded. I took my hand from her mouth.
"Hhh..how'd you get in here?" she stammered, already into the plot.
"You shouldn't leave the doors unlocked when you're home alone, lady. Don't those things on T.V. ever teach you nothin'?" I asked gruffly, intentionally butchering the language to add to the realism for her.
"Wha... what are you gonna do? What do you... want?" she asked, sounding perfect for the part. "Nervous" and "scared".
"Wudda ya think, lady? Which way's the bedroom?" She pointed down the hall. I pushed her ahead of me, still holding her.
"P...p..please. My d...daughter's asleep in the next room."
I thought, "Ah-ha. A new wrinkle. I'll play along and see where it leads." Aloud, I said, "Well, we wouldn't wanna wake the kid now, would we?"
"No."
"Good. That means you'll cooperate. Right?"
"Y..yes. I'll t...try."
In the bedroom now, I made her stand against the wall, facing it. I tied her hands behind her back with my belt, and made her stay in that position while I reached the proper state of dress for the occasion.
Untying her hands, I turned her around and backed her into the wall so she couldn’t back away from whatever contact I wanted. Not saying a word, I raised her chin with my hand, bringing my lips down hard over hers. Moments later I made her share a very deep, penetrating, arousing kiss. She didn't usually like to kiss that way except at special times, but it was just one of many things she avoided under normal conditions that she seemed to enjoy when "forced" into it. She knew I'd quit whenever she wanted, yet she went along. (Looking back, I think (just a theory) she may have rationalized her fear of trying new things by telling herself she "had no choice" - no control over the situation in which she found herself).
As I fondled her, she just looked at the floor. I made sure she felt it. Solid, firm contact. "Say, girl. I think I'm gonna enjoy this one." I brought her out a step from the wall, and reached behind her. As she felt the zipper of her dress begin to open, she just lowered her head and said, "J..just don't wake my daughter. Please."
"Whether that happens or not is up to you, doll." I reached for her shoulders and slowly slid the dress from them; it fell to her waist. Playacting just perfectly, she made a meager effort to cover herself. She knew what that would do.
I grabbed her wrists, pushed her arms behind her, and held them there with one hand as I finished removing the dress with the other. "You're not cooperating, lady!" I said sternly. "I'll get rough if I have to. Don't forget that."
As if to illustrate that I "meant business", I roughly grabbed the lower edge of her bra with both hands and pulled upward. Openly playing with her now, I began sucking on a nipple. She must have decided to change the mood of our episode, probably feeling she wasn’t getting keyed up enough to “burn” the edge off the medication. She pushed me away.
“You're sick, mister. You need help!" she shot out.
I firmly, but safely, slapped her face, gruffly finished removing her bra and shoved her toward the bed. I made her lay on her back, her head and shoulders hanging over one side. In that position she couldn't reach up far enough to defend herself very well. She tried in vain to keep me from taking off her panties. I grabbed her arms and pulled her up onto the bed.
"Not without a fight, Buster!" she yelled, firmly clamping her legs together and de-fiantly crossing her arms over her chest.
"If that's the way you want it, doll!" I snapped. She instinctively smiled, then caught herself and resumed that determined look.
I took hold of her wrists and forced her hands up over her head. "Spread your legs for me, baby!" I commanded.
“No!"
I brought my right knee down between her shins. As I anticipated, her legs parted a little. I roughly shoved my knee upward, coming to rest forcefully at her crotch. She playfully yelped from the impact. Her legs parted.
“You animal!"
"Spread 'em wider, lady!"
She obeyed.
As I got into position and made my final move, she openly grinned and hugged me as we united. Moments later, the medicine overcome, her legs wrapped around mine in eager enjoyment of something she didn’t always experience to its full potential: the deepest act of love in the human world.
"Thank you, Jim. I love you," she purred as we lay side by side afterward. She moved over and laid her head on my bare chest. I put my arm around her and gave her a squeeze.
"I love you too, Squeek." I kissed her.
Suddenly, her lips parted and I found myself deep in another warm, wet, probing kiss. Ecstatic, I let her continue, enjoying it all too much to even think of breaking it off.
"You deserve it," she said, grinning.
“Thanks, sweetheart. I’m sure glad we found the key to unlocking all that pleasure for you.”
“Me too, Jim! And I’m really glad it didn’t take us years to understand what was wrong. I would be really disappointed looking back on all the pleasure we could have had."
We laid there for about 15 minutes enjoying the closeness we felt, both physical and emotional, then since it was still early we got dressed again in case any unexpected com-pany showed up.
In May of that year, Cork gave each of us one of her school pictures for our wallets. Linda’s Little Sister was beginning to grow up now, too. She would turn 13 on June 14th.
That third major event, the arguments, continued to develop, too, unfortunately. That year, they began as hassles over what she did and did not currently remember following seizures:
"Lin, don't forget we're having dinner at your folks tonight."
"You never told me that! I've got chicken thawing out!"
"Honey, they invited us three days ago, when we stopped by for the coffee table they loaned us." She melted.
"You're right, Jim. I remember now. The table reminded me. Damn."
"It's o.k. honey. I know where you're coming from. I'm getting used to it, now. Things are starting to make sense." She came over and hugged me.
"Damn, Jim. You know, now that we're married I feel twice as self-conscious about stuff I can't remember after seizures. 'Cos it effects you too, I guess that's why."
I hugged her one more time and we headed for the door.
This problem (what she did or didn’t remember following seizures) would resolve itself, as noticeable patterns would develop that enabled us as a couple to comfortably deal with the situations as they occurred. (But Satan was, as the years went by, to escalate the arguments to larger scales, on sometimes crucial, sometimes pointless subjects or situations. J.A.W.)

That July, one night about 8:00 we went into the living room to do a little reading.
“OW!” she yelled as she jumped back out of her chair.
“What’s the matter, honey?” I asked, concerned, as I walked up to her.
“I don’t know,” she said, a little fearful. “I’ve got something back there that really hurts. But a zit never hurt like this.”
“Let’s have a look,” I said as I walked behind her. She dropped her slacks and un-derwear. “Lin, I said calmly, you’ve got a little more than a zit here, honey. Looks more like a boil.”
“Oh, swell,” she said, a bit embarrassed now. “Can we drain it?”
“I wouldn’t want to try that, honey. Could get infected. We’d better call Dr. Car-dosi.”
“Oh, boy!” she laughed. “This’ll sure be embarrassing!”
She called his office the next day and got an appointment for the following afternoon. On the morning of the appointment she stopped me as I was getting ready to kiss her goodbye and head for work.
“Jim, would you go to Dr. Cardosi’s office with me this afternoon?”
The expected embarrassment she felt was obvious in her voice. “Sure, sweetheart. You always come first with me. You know that.” That’s one thing I’d decided I would do with any potential employer I had. They would be told up front of her epilepsy, and that I would, on some occasions, be leaving the office at a moment’s notice when she needed me, and that I’d work out things like timesheet issues, etc., with them later. If they chose not to hire me, that’s fine. I knew someone would. Like I said: Linda came first with me. Without exception.
”Thanks, honey. It’s going to be embarrassing enough as it is. I want you there with me.”
I smiled inside. The child in her was showing again, even at 20. And I liked it. Not just because it meant she needed me; I already knew that. But it kept the child alive in me, too. That’s why we could still get such joy from the simplest things in life. I didn’t want to lose that. Ever.
That afternoon, when they called her name to go see the doctor, she grabbed my hand as she rose from the waiting room chair, pulling me along behind her. She’d been sit-ting on the very edge of it to at least get off her feet.
“I’m sorry, Linda,” the nurse said. “Only patients are allowed back here.”
“Please,” Linda asked, almost begging. “This is going to be embarrassing enough as it is.”
After some thought, possibly noticing the fear in Linda’s voice, the nurse did shortly decide to let me accompany Linda to the exam room. Linda took off her dress and panties and laid on the table. The nurse put tissue paper over her bra straps for modesty, then left the room. Linda hadn’t let go of my right hand since she laid on the table.
“Good afternoon, Linda,” Dr. Cardosi said warmly as he entered. “Hi, Jim.” We shook hands.
“Hi, Doctor Cardosi,” we said, almost in unison. He smiled.
“You two do make a pair, don’t you?” he laughed.
“Yeah, I guess so,” Linda said, still feeling embarrassed. “I hope you don’t mind. I wanted Jim to be here.”
“Not at all, Linda. If it keeps you more calm, then it’s fine by me. That’s important in your case. I heard the exchange between you and Freda. I’ll tell her that for you it’s OK for Jim to come back here with you anytime.”
“Thanks, Doctor.”
I could tell both he and I noticed the relief she felt. He looked at the boil.
“Yep, that’s a nasty one, alright.” He retrieved a sterile instrument from its container. “Linda, this is going to hurt a little bit, but not for too long. Ready?”
“Yes,” she said, gritting her teeth and squeezing my hand before he’d even begun.
I knew what was coming, and what she needed to hear. “Go ahead, sweetheart, squeeze my hand as hard as you need to. I’m not going anywhere.”
“OW!” she yiped as the needle went in. “Thanks, Jim,” she said, squeezing my hand till it felt like it would turn blue any second. “I needed to hear that right now.”
In a few seconds it was over and she relaxed her grip on my hand. She saw me flex my fingers.
“Sorry, honey,” she said a bit sheepishly.
I laughed. “Don’t worry about it, darling. You did just what I said you could do. You took me at my word. I like that, and I love you for it.”
“You two really do have something special, don’t you?” Dr. Cardosi asked as he finished putting the gauze and tape in place.
“Yes, we do,” I said proudly.
“Now,” he said to both of us. “Leave this on overnight. When you take it off in the morning, you’ll probably see a patch of dead skin you can peel off. Go ahead. That’s just the skin that was inflated by the boil. Then put a band aid on it for another 24 hours.”
“Thanks, doctor,” we said in unison. We all laughed.
“Jim, I’m glad you came into Linda’s life. She’s much happier now than I’ve ever seen her, and much more at ease. About everything. And with her that’s extra important. It can help avoid seizures.”
“I’m glad he came into my life, too!” Linda interjected, squeezing me one-handed.
“Thank you, doctor.” I smiled at Linda. “I just happen to be totally in love with this little girl, that’s all.”
“It shows, Jim, on both of you. I’m glad you’re here for her. Please keep it up,” he said, smiling.
“THAT you can count on, doctor!” I said with deliberate emphasis.
I noticed we were all smiling as he left that exam room. Linda dressed and we headed home.


This work is taken from “A Once In A Lifetime Love: An Autobiography of Two High School Sweethearts”, copyright 2000, as yet unpublished, by the same author.