I was named for my father's fifth grade girlfriend. He also wanted to stick me with the middle name of Anastasia. Thankfully, my mom talked him out of that idea. When I was around 8 years old my grandmother told me that she and Grandpa had to leave the birth of my cousin Lois, who is forty six hours older than me, in Minnesota to come back to Illinois and pay the hospital bill for my parents. She confided in me that the hospital didn't put me in diapers until the bill was paid. I was mortified, although I don't think I knew what that meant at the age of eight, but I was more embarrassed than mortified when she first told me this. To know that I was the only naked baby in nursery, oh my, because I knew that all the other parents had been able to afford, pay for and clothe their little babies. As I grew older I kept this 'secret' to myself because I was embarrassed for my parents. I didn't want them to know that I knew. Even in the worst of times when my father and I were at war and battled everyday, I never blurted out, well, you couldn't even pay the hospital bill when I was born' and of course I would have left off the part about not being properly clothed and diapered. Even though I liked to win arguments with him and I was not one who didn't use whatever means possible with words to win, in my heart of hearts it was too low of a blow to shout out this knowledge. I didn't quite want to expose his lack of money at my birth, since money and the accumulation of it seemed to be the most important thing to him now. It must have been in my late 40's that I finally said something to my parents about grandma's story of having to pay the hospital bill when I was born. I could tell by the shock and surprise on my parent's faces that this story might not be true. My father in particular was the most upset by this bit of newsy news. He went to his home office and pulled out a binder that stored all my medical bills since, well since day one. He took great care to show me the invoices and that he had paid the bill in full. He had the cancelled check to prove his point. What really had me worried was the fact he still had all my medical bills in a binder because it had been years and years since he had been responsible for their payment. I couldn't fathom why at that moment but later as I thought about it, I knew it had come back to money. Not see how much we loved you, we took care of all the bills. It was our joy to take care of you. No it was more like this is what you cost me.
I am reading The Book of Peach by Penelope Stokes. Great, easy summer read or so I thought. I wasn't ready for this 'light' read causing me to contemplate. The main character, Priscilla (Peach) is telling her story through journaling. Not just journaling but doing so after a divorce and a move back home, to the south, to the old ways of her mother and Peach is trying to deal with all the emotions this encounter with her mother and town she couldn't wait to leave is having upon her. On a side note, most Southern stories are about place, leaving that place, finding yourself in NYC, LA, or Paris and then coming home because of a hole in your life or the life you found so fulfilling is now weighing you down or because you are down on your luck and home...your growing up home is the only place left to retreat into. This quote grabbed me, not because I still want my father to love me or at least like me, because I don't. That hope died a very long time ago. Here is the quote from the book:
"...the principle of intermittent hope-how our psyches can be seduced by a fleeting moment of gratification into believing a miracle has occurred, that change has come to someone we desperately want to love us. When the object of our longing reverts again to the old ways of cruelty or indifference, we cling to that shred of hope and make ourselves believe that we are loved, even with a lifetime of evidence to the contrary."
The principle of intermittent hope. Who knew it had a name? Who knew it was a principle? I think there is a lot of us that have moved on from the intermittent hope stage and I also think there are more who find themselves smack dab in the middle of this phenomenon.
In the midst of intermittent hope there might be some naming going on by the person who is cruel or indifferent. Being named not after your father's fifth grade girlfriend but being labeled or named is a hard thing to process through. If my fifty something self could tell my childhood through married young adult self is; don't listen, don't take it to heart, and don't give very much time considering if the names are true or not. You might not yet know who you are but you for sure can know who you are not. If you follow the Lord and are so inclined get out your Bible and read the Epistles. That will point you in the right direction.
That day that I revealed my secret knowledge of my birth, according to my grandmother, I also was shown just about every bill or invoice that had cost something, dental, doctor, surgery and the like. It was organized so well. A flipping through the files didn't take long to see what he was looking for. Funny, when I turned 50 my father put together a binder of pictures of me. First thing in the book, the hospital bill for my birth. The rest of the contents pictures and such had no rhyme of reason to them. High school was mixed in with childhood. Class pictures and pictures from Illinois thrown together. The years were not in order it was put together like, get this stuff out of my house. It was the same old comparison of what was important, accumulating money or giving a heartfelt gift that one could treasure, only I wasn't the treasure. Yep, sometimes silence and actions of the other give us a name. We don't have to take that name.
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