The Book That Helped Me Grieve

When I was almost four years old, my brother, Denny, was born.  Denny was the fourth child:  Jack was born in 1945 in Caracas, Venezuela; Tom was born in 1946 in Wabasha, Minnesota; I was born in 1948 in Tegucigalpa, Honduras; Denny was born in 1952 in Spokane, Washington.  Shortly after his birth, we moved to Medellin, Colombia. Before very long, Mom and Dad knew that Denny was very, very sick.  He was diagnosed with cystic fibrosis, a genetically transmitted illness.  The chance of a baby being born with CF was one out of four.  So, In 1954, when another baby (Margarita) was "on the way," Mom and Dad were not only dealing with a critically ill child, they were extremely worried that the new baby would also have CF.

In order to provide better care for Denny, our family had moved back to the United States in 1953.  We lived in North Carolina briefly, but when Dad was hired as the assistant director of the English as a Foreign Language program at American University, we moved to Falls Church, Virginia. The fifth McAuliffe baby, Margarita, was born in Washington, D.C. in 1954.

Denny died at Johns Hopkins Hospital in the spring of 1956, when he was almost four years old.  Jack had just turned eleven; Tom had just turned ten; I was seven; Margarita was almost two years old.  Margarita has said she has no memory of Denny at all.  Of course, not having any memory of her little brother doesn't mean she escaped the impact of his illness and his death -- none of us could escape that.

Sadly, at the time of Denny's death, there was no such thing as family grief counseling -- none of us had any professional help or counseling at all.  My parents were deep, deep in their own grief, and I think the prevailing wisdom at that time was to simply not talk about the death of a child.  Whether I'm right about that or not, I do know that we did not talk about Denny's death -- or his life.  Once he was buried, it was almost as though he had never existed.  I don't believe I even cried when he died; I know I didn't cry at the funeral.

So now we finally come to the subject of this blog post -- Little Women, by Louisa May Alcott.  My great aunts, May and Marge Quigley, sent me this wonderful book when I was nine or ten years old.  I read and reread it many times over the years, but the first time I read it was the first time I cried -- finally -- over the loss of my brother.  Not until I cried over the Beth's death did I cry for Denny. 

Probably for most girls, Little Women was about the tension that almost every girl experiences between wanting to be completely herself -- to be able to dream about being anything and anyone -- and the messages that we get from the world around us about what a woman "should" do and who she should become.  In many ways, this book is a precursor of the whole discussion about whether or not a woman can "have it all."  And while I know this book certainly informed my ideas about having a profession and/or having a family, the real impact this book had was that it allowed me to finally grieve for my darling little brother.

Denny is buried in a cemetery in Herndon, Virginia, in an unmarked grave.  In 1999, I went to that cemetery, and there just happened to be a woman there who knew where the unmarked graves of child who died in that time period were located.  Even  now, as I write this, tears come to my eyes  -- tears for the life that ended far too soon, but tears also for my mother, who never ever was able to voice her grief over the death of her beautiful child.  I am so grateful to Louisa May Alcott for helping me express my grief for Denny.  I think crying about Beth's death was far more beneficial than any self help book I've picked up since.

I Am a Feminist

The Feminine Mystique, written by Betty Friedan, was published in 1963.  I don't believe I read it that early on, but I'm pretty sure my mom bought it when it was first published, so I would have seen it in our house.  I probably read it around 1971 or 1972, when I was 23 or 24 years old, and I was caught up in the feminist movement of that time.  I could see how this book would have been very meaningful for my mother.  She was one of the smartest women I've ever known, but she didn't finish her bachelor's degree (from George Washington University) until she was in her 40s, and she earned her master's degree (from the University of Chicago) when she was in her 50s.

My mother was born in 1916 in White Earth, North Dakota.  She spent her early years in Wabasha, Minnesota, but then she was sent to live with her "maiden" aunts in Washington State. Aunt Mae and Aunt Marge were both teachers, and when I visited Wabasha during the years my parents lived there after retiring, I was told by some of the "old folks" that my mother had been sent to live with her aunts because her potential was not ever going to be met if she stayed in her mother's household.  I think it was the right decision.

My mother graduated at a young age from high school and returned to Minnesota where she completed enough education to become a one-room, rural school teacher at the age of 16.  (At that time, I believe teachers only needed two years of education beyond high school; she attended teacher's college in Winona, Minnesota). Eventually, my mother began taking courses at the University of Minnesota in Minneapolis, and that is where she met my father.  He was earning a master's degree after having graduated from Boston University.  He thought she was smart and funny -- just what he was looking for in a wife.  Oh, and she could cook.

So, to make a long story short, Mom dropped out of college to marry Dad.  When I read The Feminine Mystique, I felt like I understood a lot of undercurrents in my parents' marriage -- Mom seemed to be unsatisfied so much of the time.  I realized how frustrating it must have been for her to be so smart and (eventually) educated and yet to always be the one who was responsible for "running the home."  Her job never ended.  At the end of the day, Dad would sit in his comfy chair in the living room and smoke his pipe and read, while Mom graded papers and did housework!  I can remember her doing laundry late at night -- by then Dad would be sitting at the piano, playing for hours.  I never questioned what that must have been like for her until I read Friedan's book.

My Fitness Journey

I'm 5'4" and I have a small frame.  In my teens, I weighed under 100 pounds.  In my 20s, I weighed between 104 and 115, but it was no big deal to lose 5 pounds whenever I got up to 115 (I thought that was HEAVY!).  In 1978, as I was approaching my 30th birthday, I lived in Chicago, in a really wonderful apartment building.  I lived on the 3rd floor (top floor), and a young couple with a young child lived across the hall. 


  (Typical apartment building in Chicago) 

The husband was an avid runner.  At one time, he had been seriously overweight, but having a child had forced him to think about his health in a way he never had before.  I can't claim that my motivation to start running was health, though.  It was nothing but vanity.  I simply did not want to enter my 30s (old age!) struggling with gaining and losing weight constantly.  So I went out for a run one cold, snowy winter's day -- all bundled up.  And I could not run even one city block.  It was so painful!  How could anyone enjoy that!  (And, mind you, I wasn't even overweight; I was just that out of shape!)  Well, my neighbor cheered me on, and he suggested I read The Complete Book of Running by Jim Fixx.
  (Fixx's legs are on the cover!)

This book was such an inspiration.  I started going with my neighbor to run at the track at Loyola University.  I gradually went from being happy to have run 1/4 mile to running two miles regularly.  And it didn't hurt any more!

I had lived in San Antonio, Texas, from 1974 to 1976, and in 1979, I returned to San Antonio. I continued to run my two miles -- as far as I was concerned, that was good enough for me.  I never gained weight, and I could eat anything I wanted!  Life was good!

In 1980, I was dating an Army guy (saxophone player in the Army band), and he was a runner.  One day when we were running, and I had run my two miles, he took me by the hand and told me I was going to run another mile with him.  I was really annoyed.  How dare he tell me how far I was going to run.  But guess what!  I ran that extra mile, and I loved it.  I felt so great.

I'll make a long story short -- by the time I was in my 40s, I was running 6 to 7 miles a day.  At least once a month, I would enter a 5K or even a 10K -- and I would almost always place in the top 3 places for my age group.

Then I hit 50.  You know what they say about how your metabolism changes?  They're right.  Oh, and then there's menopause.  Hmmm...ever heard of the meno-belly?  Well, I'm 62 now, and I have re-committed to running -- once again, I'm running 2 miles regularly.  But I'm thinking it's time to find The Complete Book of Running again -- I'm sure it's at the library!  I really want to run 4 miles on a regular basis, and I think maybe Jim can talk me into it!  I'll let you know!

(Run for the Grapes, First Place, 55 - 59 age group, 2007)