A Dance in the Woods: A Mother's Insight

Copyright

Copyright © 2007, 2014 Janet K. Brennan. All rights reserved.

All rights reserved. No portion of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or recording without the prior written permission of Janet K. Brennan unless such copying is expressly permitted by federal copyright law. Address inquiries to Permissions, Casa de Snapdragon LLC, 12901 Bryce Avenue NE, Albuquerque, NM 87112.

Library of Congress Cataloging in Progress

Brennan, Janet K., 1947-

A dance in the woods : a mother's insight / Janet K. Brennan.

pages cm

Summary: The fundamental feature of Janet's character is a passionate quest to find some sign of her daughter even after her tragic death, and she strives for it at any cost. Her dancing in the woods becomes a 'priestlike task of pure ablution' round the world of nature, and this helps her to get rid of her pain forever. After her daughter's death, Janet lost faith in everything. All that remained was Nature with its dark woods, and she would worship it kicking her feet 'in a mock Tarantella,' with deepest reverence, as the only solace for her. This is Janet's new vision of herself. She now experiences Nature's healing power like Wordsworth in his Tintern Abbey--Provided by publisher.

ISBN 978-1-937240-48-6 (paperback)

1. Brennan, Janet K., 1947- 2. Brennan, Janet K., 1947---Family. 3. Mothers and daughters--United States--Biography. 4. Daughters--United States--Death. 5. Asthmatics--United States--Biography. 6. Parental grief--United States. 7. Dance--Psychological aspects. 8. Nature, Healing power of. 9. Brennan, Janet K., 1947---Homes and haunts--Italy--Montecchia di Crosara . 10. Montecchia di Crosara (Italy)--Biography. I. Title.

CT275.B6455A3 2014

792.801'9--dc23

2014044736

20150209

Casa de Snapdragon LLC

12901 Bryce Avenue, NE

Albuquerque, NM 87112

Dedication

In loving memory of my daughter, Kristen, who died from asthma, August 30, 1991 at the tender age of 21.

For my children, Nicholas and Katherine, who never forgot who I was, even though I did. And for my loving husband, Arthur, who gave me the confidence and encouragement to stay with this six-year project.

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank all of the wonderful people in the Village of Montecchia di Crosara, Italy for all their help in making this effort possible. A special thanks to the doctors and student nurses in Borgo Trento Hospital, Verona Italy. The Marcello Magnabosco family of Montecchia di Crosara, my very brilliant psychiatrist, Dr. Io’Paolo in Vicenza, Italy, Giuseppe Magnabosco, my individual doctors as well as the Director of the Vicenza Army Hospital who turned my case into a test case for all American patients admitted to Italian hospitals, to the Recreation Center and its personnel of Vicenza, Italy, and to Mr. G for his wonderful example and dedication in the youth program at Verona American Compound, Verona, Italy.

Thank you to my editor, Stephanie Hiller, for taking time out of his busy schedule to edit this book.

A very special acknowledgment for the beautiful poetry of Kristen Brennan left behind and published posthumously.

A Dance in the Woods: A Mother's Insight is a true story. Some names of people and places have been changed.

Catching Dreams

J.B. Stillwater

I caught a dream, or it caught me

It challenged my reality

A dream so pure, for my heart’s sake

I prayed that I would ne’er awake

Gold curls angelic crowned her head

You’ve caught a dream, my mum, she said

"For life is but a sparrow’s song

Short and sweet, please sing along

I’ll help you catch what dreams I may

Until we see the light of day

But you must promise not to cry

At dream’s end when we say good-bye

I’ll weave a net with threads so strong

I promise that it won’t take long

You’ll catch your dreams, the net will fill

Let’s place it on the window sill

Know we were meant to catch each dream

For things are never as they seem

So live your dreams, for they are you

Embrace your hopes for dreams come true"

And so, I learned that dreams and streams

Of woven net without said seams

Will ‘oft times catch what is beyond

What lies in wait twixt dark and dawn

Prologue

Iwas aware that I was dreaming. It was like an altered sleep pattern, yet not quite as confusing or murky. This dream was quite vivid. I was alone in deep, dark woods and thoroughly lost. I wandered here of my own volition and in the process I had become desperately disoriented and anxious to find my way back to the wide, open glen where I had started. The more I wandered, the more lost I became; the more lost I became, the darker the woods grew. Where was that familiar path? Did I pass it somehow and not recognize it? I was very frightened. My heart was pounding out of control and the mere sound of a snapped twig caused me to recoil in fear. I felt that I was very much alone. The pit in my stomach told me so. I began to cry in frustration as I wandered in circles. I noticed a slight flicker of light twinkling on the path in front of me. Then it was gone.

No, I sobbed, I will never find my way back. I will die here in this forlorn place.

There it was again. It was a flicker of light pulsating with life. A tender voice spoke to me almost in a whisper. I had never heard such a voice before. It was rich and filled with compassion and love. It resonated through the forest in an intimate manner.

You are not lost, child. If you follow me, I will show you the way back to the glen. You must always pay close attention to all that we pass on the way. Every detail, however small and meaningless, must be noted. Every landmark, every tree stump, every gnarled branch, and every broken limb that you must crawl under must be embedded in your memory.

I was overcome with joy that I would be saved from such a dark, formidable place. I retraced my steps with the flickering light directly in front of me. When I stopped to rest, it stopped and hovered close by. When I ran, it moved very quickly, guiding me out of my dark place.

Suddenly, off in the distance, I could see what looked like a ray of light filtering down through the trees. It cast a golden glow on all of the leaves as it caressed them gently. When I came closer, I watched as it expanded. I knew that I was approaching the open glen. The grass was tall around me. It lapped and tickled my ankles as it swayed in a gentle, soothing breeze. Thankfully, I threw myself to the ground, embracing the beauty of the clear, turquoise sky above me. Suddenly, I heard familiar voices off in the distance.

Mom . . . Mom, we’re over here!

I rose quickly to my feet. Across the glen were my two children and my husband waving frantically and calling me to them. I tried to run, but felt that my feet would not move beneath me. It was a strange and frustrating sensation.

No, no, said the gentle and now familiar voice. You cannot go to them just yet . . . you must retrace your steps back into the wood. You must follow the same path you were on when you became lost. You must make note of everything that you pass along the way until you find yourself in the place that was the darkest. This you must do a thousand times ten. I was devastated.

But why must I do this? My family needs me.

So they do, was the gentle reply, "but no more than you need yourself. Once you have taken the dark journey back and forth endless times and recognized all the places along the way, you will never find yourself lost in the wood again. You will always say ‘I know that branch. I stood on it a few times. It was weak and it broke and I fell. I know those briars. They scratched my ankles and feet and made them bleed. Those thick, cruel vines hit my face and forced me to question my sense of pain. I recognize those crossroads. If I go left, I will reach the swamp, wet and infested with disease. If I turn right, I will find the glen.’

And catch your dreams along the way, Janet. Catch them and carry them with you on your back. They will be heavy and difficult to bear, for there will be many of them. Carry them like a sack of stones until your back is sore from the load. Follow that path back into the wood. Do not be tempted to drop them to ease your burden or to use them as a means to find your way home. They will do you more good upon your back than on the ground. If you do this, all things will become familiar. You will have no problems maneuvering your way through those vines and out of the woods should you ever have the misfortune of finding yourself lost there again. I promise.

Dream Journal - Verona Italy, 1992

~

How many years had passed since I had that incredible dream? Judging by the appearance of the wrinkled, thin fingers which rested on the arms of my favorite wicker chair, I knew that it must have been many years ago. I could remember that time in my life as if it was yesterday. I traveled back to that dark place many times and felt I was as familiar with it as with my own soul. Indeed, had I not made that frequent sojourn, I would not have come to know what I now recognize as my very essence. I could vividly remember all of the events that occurred during that deep, dark period of my life. Perhaps it really was yesterday.

How fortunate I was! The one thing I had prayed for in my long journey was to be blessed with a memory that would allow me to retell the tales of my lifetime to my grandchildren, those wonderful and sometimes awful adventures. I had always made every effort to absorb those moments which weave the fabric of one’s actuality. A fabric, a coat, so resilient and warm that I would be able to wrap it around me in my twilight years and rely on it to keep me safe until I did not need it any longer. Oh, the threads of that coat! Some of them were brightly colored and interwoven amongst the dull and coarse ones. Most of them were worn now, allowing the cold to seep through occasionally, causing me to shiver.

I stretched my thin legs in front of me and sighed as I watched the waning sun spread dark shadows over the peaceful lake in front of me. The gentle lapping of the waves on the sandy beach would have lulled me into a peaceful sleep, but I wouldn’t let myself drift off. I never liked to miss a moment of the precious time that I spent at my place in the woods.

My husband Arthur and I bought the small cabin several years earlier as a refuge from our busy lives in the city. Now, after all these years, we could look back fondly at the countless Thanksgivings and Christmases spent around the fire or sipping coffee at the large, oak hewn dining table. Arthur had spent many a summer teaching our grandchildren to dive off the old, rickety wharf that was now nothing but a few pieces of worn and aged wood protruding rudely from the water. Lately those remnants seemed to beg to be hauled away. I could not bear to do it. It seemed sacrilegious.

I had my piano moved up a few years ago, and now this place in the woods was the most precious place in the world to me.

The screen door behind me slowly creaked open and, without turning around, I knew that Erin was sharing my moment. Sweet, beautiful Erin, the oldest and most spiritual of all of my grandchildren; the one who had been diagnosed with leukemia at the tender age of five and had overcome the insidious disease with flying colors, the one I had helped to raise during her first years in this world.

Gram, she said as she knelt down on the rough, wooden floor of the front porch. Gram, you should come inside. It is getting cold.

I smiled as I listened to the soft, lilting voice of this most precious young woman. She had the voice of her mother, a breath of fresh air with every word she spoke.

Mom just made popcorn and you should come in while it is still warm. If you come in, Gram, she smiled affectionately, I will play your favorite songs on the piano. I leaned forward in my chair and kissed the now swollen belly of my fair-haired love.

Oh! she exclaimed, I think I just felt him kick! We both laughed happily and our laughter echoed in the night air across the lake, rippling back to us like a kiss.

I will come in shortly, Love. Tell your mom not to worry. I’m just fine out here. Besides, I said softly, I’m warm. Didn’t you notice that I have my coat on? I said softly, patting the sleeve of the now threadbare garment.

Erin laughed. Oh Gram, we need to get you a new coat, that one is old and wearing thin. Mom and I will go into the village tomorrow and pick up a new one for you. I shook my head. No, Love. Don’t be silly. This coat has kept me warm for a long time. It will be just fine. Now you go on inside and I will be there in just a few minutes.

I watched as my granddaughter disappeared behind the screen door. Oh yes! I simply needed a little more time to sit and remember. I laughed to myself when I thought about the irony of it. All these years had gone by, and I was still going back into those woods. I still needed to look back. But now there was a great comfort in remembering those painful, yet awesome years of my life, comfort in knowing that I would not have to reminisce very much longer.

I closed my eyes and folded my fragile hands in prayer. My cherished wedding ring, now two sizes too big, hung precariously on my finger, threatening to make its way onto the floor. In the distance I could hear the soulful yet exquisite songs of the night loons on the lake serenading me . . . peaceful and glorious in their somber melody. I would remember one last time and then I would go into the warmth of the fire and my family. They were waiting for me there and . . . I had promised.

Annabelle

Kristen Brennan

July 26, 1970 - August 28, 1991

We thought of her late last night

As we listened through the door,

The passive silence . . .

Hoping to hear her gentle footsteps

Wondering if any of it were true

You and I, we said her name at once

We felt that she was here,

It was a memory, we smile at now ...

Her soft voice, which no mortal could hear

I always wondered ...

Contents

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Part One: The Woods

Chapter 1: And so it begins . . . Remembering

Chapter 2: Blossoms

Chapter 3: Roommates

Chapter 4: A Dream and a Promise

Chapter 5: The Stand Dance

Chapter 6: Hospitals and Questions

Chapter 7: Visions and Farewells

Chapter 8: A Visit with Gracie

Chapter 9: Trapped

Chapter 10: Sights and Explorations

Chapter 11: Shrinking Violet 

Chapter 12: The Epiphany

Chapter 13: Recollections of a Rough Landing

Chapter 14: Answers and a Not so Fond Farewell

Part Two: The Way

Chapter 15: Gracie’s News

Chapter 16: Montecchia di Crosara

Chapter 17: A Question of Faith

Chapter 18: A Unique Dining Experience

Chapter 19: Settling In

Chapter 20: Dr. Paolo’s Reluctant Diagnosis

Chapter 21: Giancarlo’s Accident—Going Back into the Woods

Chapter 22: Rage, and a Secret is Revealed

Chapter 23: The Garden

Chapter 24: Out of Control

Chapter 25: The Hospital Dream

Chapter 26: Nick’s Good News and Janet Needs a Sign

Chapter 27: Janet’s Confession, a Break in the Ice

Chapter 28: The All-Star Tournament and Jellyfish

Chapter 29: Mists, Music and Another Strange Dream

Chapter 30: Spiders

Chapter 31: Right Where I’m Supposed to Be

Part Three: The Willow

Chapter 32: Life in the Villa and a Gruesome Discovery

Chapter 33: Bequeathing and Strange Messages

Chapter 34: The Rumor

Chapter 35: A Wonderful Reprieve

Chapter 36: Dear Moochie

Chapter 37: Angelina’s Story

Chapter 38: When Ariel Comes to Play

Chapter 39: The Announcement—The Family Rallies

Chapter 40: Letting Go

Chapter 41: Big News for the Brennan Family

Chapter 42: The Pizza Team All-stars go to Vilseck

Chapter 43: A Dance in the Woods

Postscript

About Janet K. Brennan

Also by Janet K. Brennan

Part One: The Woods

Chapter One

And so it begins . . . Remembering

Istood in the great hall gazing out of the huge window overlooking the courtyard below. My hands were shaking. My legs were weak. I felt that I truly needed to see if the world outside and all it comprised still existed.

It had not been easy making my way to this point in the hall. I was exhausted.

As usual it was drizzling. The visibility was such that one would not want to be driving on the tiny, cobblestone streets that seemed to abound in this pre-historic city. The buildings surrounding the courtyard below were old and covered with thick, greenish black mildew. In the fog that constantly permeated the country this time of year, I could just barely discern the outline of the dark, grey brick building across the way. The almost brown, bare vines creeping steadfastly up its walls and covering its many ancient windows did not help. The scene looked more like something out of an Alfred Hitchcock movie than a place of healing.

I thought the hospital must be close to the River Adige. I could smell it through the thin panes that made up the hospital windows. The stench of dampness and mold along with the ever-present fog reminded me of the area surrounding the Hotel Castelvecchio where my family and I were temporarily living. It was located along the Adige.

Hotel Castelvecchio . . . the thought of the crusty, old hotel caused the bile in my stomach to rise and I forced the bitter taste back. How I hated that place! It had been my self-proclaimed prison, the one where I had kept myself locked safely away before coming to Hospital Borgo.

Finding a suitable place to live had not proven to be an easy prospect in this ancient Roman country. Most of the apartments were too small, and the houses were either unaffordable or ugly. We had been living in the hotel for months and at that particular moment I truly believed that walking the old halls of the hospital was preferable. In this place, I could stretch my arms out and not touch the walls on either side of me. And, praise God, in this place they would finally cure me. Did I dare hope?

This was the kind of place one would not want to scrutinize too closely. I had done that once at the hotel in the early evening hours. I needed a breath of fresh air and, in the almost dark corner of the eaves of the hotel, just a few yards away from my own window, I saw something stick its long neck out and gaze back at me. Then it retreated. Startled, I had felt it must have been my imagination. There it was again. Hastily, I had slammed the window shut so hard that I felt it might shatter its glass. Luigi, the hotel manager, had warned about snakes in the gutters. In his broken English, making a desperate and funny attempt not to sound Italian, he tried to explain that the hotel was ancient and that its antiquity made it a very desirable place in which to live. Unfortunately, that included snakes.

The hotel was built hundreds of years ago. Because of its proximity to the river, snakes were known to make their way up through the rain gutters and occasionally, albeit fiendishly, find their way through an open window. I had learned in the short time in country not to look too closely.

Borgo di Verona was an old hospital, built sometime between World War One and World War Two. It was named for the section of Verona where it was located. It was just outside the original city walls. The Borgo di Verona area was the first section of Verona to be developed beyond its original fortification, along the first bend of the Adige River and the hospital was an antiquated and run down structure with ancient memories held deep within its walls. Hospitals had been built on this war-torn site for centuries. This one had suffered great damage, as did most of Verona during the bombings of the Second World War. It almost seemed to sigh beneath the weight of its burden. It begged to be replaced with a cleaner and more modern structure.

Beneath the buildings were miles of tunnels that encompassed huge city blocks. Patients could be transported through the tunnels, making it possible to travel from one section of the old hospital to another without having to go outside in inclement weather. They were more like dungeons with wet floors and huge steam pipes hissing and whispering like phantoms and goblins abandoned long ago amongst the deep, dark labyrinths that snaked beneath the seething hospital. I was certain that the goblins liked it there.

I watched as a few people walked hurriedly through the courtyard below. They were hospital personnel busily going about their daily routines. They seemed oblivious to the harsh, February wind that whipped their white coats around them. A nurse dropped some papers and they flew off in many directions. She scurried to retrieve the ones that had not fallen into one of the large puddles of water. A group of students ran quickly past her, laughing as they dodged the woman. They made no attempt to help her retrieve her documents. Yes, the world was still out there and everyone was still the same. No one really seemed to care about other people or their problems. Everyone was busy going about his daily business. Would I ever be that way again?

This was a good place for a window. I stopped here often to gaze upon the outside world that seemed so distant to me, most of the time it was as if I were looking through a thin veil. I was an observer. The pain in my soul was too intense to allow me to do anything more than watch. It was safe and it was easy, but it was not real. When would it be real again?

This was the place on my slow and methodic walk down the hall where I always became tired. Perhaps it was necessary for me to get tired at that particular place.

I continued down the hall to my final stopping point, the huge statue of the Virgin Mary watching over the nurses’ station like an alabaster vigilante. She had a beautiful, serene face with bright, pink cheeks and lips that turned up at the corners in a delicate and knowing smile. As pagan as I felt it to be to pray in front of a concrete statue, I appreciated the way that this particular one always seemed to be issuing an invitation to stop for a while and commune. Tell me your troubles, Janet. I can relate to you.

It amazed me how Catholic this country was with its plentiful churches and monasteries. Huge pillars and famously carved statues adorned all of those ancient facades. Yet as elegant and pious as it appeared to be, tiny grottos were crassly and sporadically built along the autostrada. It astounded me that people would actually pull over for a quick novena while en route to the movies or dinner. Yet, pull over they did!

Now it seemed as if I was following suit. I always stopped to say a quick prayer in front of the statue. Somehow it gave me comfort. I was a hypocrite! I couldn’t help but laugh at myself. For most of my life I didn’t practice my religion and I refused to raise my children in the faith. I often felt that religions had the inane capability of stealing an individual’s soul rather than offering sustenance. I did encourage my children to discover their own individual spirituality. Every once in a while my Catholic school upbringing, nuns and all, reared its head. It reminded me of the snakes in the gutters around the hotel. This thought made me shudder.

My prayers were always the same. Please God, make me better. Help me to be myself again. Help me to feel well. And they were always for my oldest daughter Kristen who had passed away two years before. I had not been well since Kristen died. Oh, I knew deep in my heart that I was probably going to die as well, and it would be soon!

Buon giorno, Janet, come ‘sta?

A student nurse came up behind me and reached out to me and touched my shoulder. It made me feel somewhat uncomfortable. I enjoyed my space and usually encouraged others to feel the same way.

"Stanco, I replied in what little Italian I knew, molto stanco."

Did I get my message across? Damn! Was that the right word? I wanted everyone to completely understand just how sick I was. So far I had little luck in that department. They just didn’t seem to understand. It was imperative for them to find a cure for me so that I could return to my family and be the woman I had been before. Not that I had been Ms. Perfect, but at least I was me. This was a hideous and mysterious illness that had befallen me yet I was incapable of making anyone understand or care how important it was that I be healthy again.

Slowly I turned and walked back down the hall. My snail-like pace frustrated and embarrassed me. It seemed that every bone in my body ached. Every one of my muscles forced an explosion of pain. I never thought I would admit it, but I wished I could have my wheelchair with me all of the time. They did not allow that. It was important for me to try to walk up and down the hall at least once a day. Where was their compassion? Surely they knew how difficult that was.

Finally reaching my bed, I collapsed under the covers, exhausted from the trek. I made a mental note to look up the word stanco in my Italian dictionary, which I religiously kept by my bedside. I would do it as soon as I regained my strength. Judging by the expression on the young student’s face, I felt I might have used the wrong word to mean sick, very sick.

I had used the wrong word. In fact, I had told the nurse that I had felt, "Tired, very tired." That was the frustrating part of my situation in hospital. I could not make them understand that I was not tired; I was sick!

Nothing felt comfortable about my bed. I wondered why it was necessary for hospitals to torture their patients in such a manner. It occurred to me that the only times in my life I had been forced into a hospital were when I gave birth to my three children, Kristen, Kate, and Nicholas. Oh, I had been in my share of emergency rooms, but I had never been hospitalized for anything other than the birth of my children. I thought of my children. How difficult this time was for them too, never knowing when I would be home with them again . . . my children, my sweet, wonderful blossoms. They were my life!

My first child, Kristen, had been delivered with virtually no pain whatsoever. I had laughed at the jealous nurses who told me, It isn’t always this way. Your next one will be difficult. They were wrong. Kate, my middle child, was delivered the same way. With Nicholas, it was touch and go, nearly proving the prediction true. He had almost been born in the comfort of my own bed rather than the Army hospital at Landstuhl, Germany where he made his entrance into the world. Giving birth to all of my children had been nothing short of joyous. That was another time and place. This was now. I most certainly was not the same woman. Now I felt the pain and discomfort of my hospital bed.

I stretched my five-foot-nine inch body until my toes touched the cold, hard steel of the frame. Sheets never seemed to be long enough for my tall figure and these were starched to the consistency of a board. I tucked my feet up and under the blankets where it was warmer and a great deal softer. It was more pleasant to think about my children than my present environment, so I allowed my mind to wander whenever it felt inclined to do so.

I thought about the birth of my children, which seemed like yesterday. How happy I had been!

Chapter Two

Blossoms

Those were such carefree and magnificent days! Kristen and Kate had both been born in New England on warm July mornings, in the same hospital and delivered by the same doctor. The only difference was that they had been born eight years apart. Easy deliveries, they were true gifts after what seemed like a forever gestation.

Kate was gorgeous! She had curly, brown, Shirley Temple locks that covered her head and framed her face like a doll. She resembled a little leprechaun and loved to dance around our tiny apartment. We were certain that this child would be our ballerina. Every dance step known to mankind was practiced to perfection and then performed proudly with an inordinate amount of exuberance. Her loving audience consisted of my eldest daughter Kristen, my husband Arthur, and me. She invented dance stops on the spot and with wonderful ingenuity. Each dance routine generally ended with a grand finale consisting of one leg over her head or balanced over one of her shoulders. All of this was done on top of the coffee table! Yes, this child was blessed with an easy-going and pleasant personality. She also possessed a tiny, brown spot in the center of her left eye, a keyhole. It was a portal to her soul. When Kate entered the room, peace and serenity were restored to my universe.

Kristen was my first-born, fathered by my first husband. She was blonde and beautiful, with huge, blue eyes and her father’s delicate, French features. That morning, as I lay on the delivery table with my daughter draped across my belly and gazing into my eyes, I did not know it, but that would be one of the few times in my little girl’s life that she would be healthy, happy and content.

I had to be honest and say that life when Kristen was born was far from carefree. Nor was it glorious, not at that point in my life. Eric, my first husband, tried his best to be a good father to Kristen. Unfortunately, drinking had been his favorite pastime and remaining faithful to me proved difficult for him more times than I cared to remember. Most of the time, in spite of the fact that he could not remember the night before, he would vehemently deny being unfaithful. He never knew where he had spent the nights when he did not come home to us. When he was sober, he was loving and attentive. Life with him was a merry-go-round ride set on fast forward and I came to the point where I knew that, for the sake of my own sanity, I needed to jump off.

By the end of our seven-year attempt at marriage I thought I was the ugliest woman alive. To make matters worse, Kristen had developed full-blown asthma. She spent most of her winters and part of the spring in the Intensive Care Unit of our hospital. When everyone else was celebrating the beauty of the purple-lilac season in New England, I was sitting in a hospital room beside my daughter. I was praying that she would be home with me for Mothers’ Day.

Nicholas, my youngest, came to us in Germany on a cold and snowy night in December. We had been having car trouble all week and I was worried that we would not be able to start our unreliable Taunus, a German monster of a car when we needed to get to the hospital in Landstuhl, some seventy-five kilometers away. Luck was on our side that night. Although Arthur had to push it and quickly jump into the driver’s seat, he found that after a few practice runs, he became quite adept at the process. In turn, the car would cooperate and its tiny engine would turn over just in time to get me in beside Arthur.

Handsome and beautiful at the same time, Nicholas possessed long, curly lashes which enshrouded the most beautiful pools of blue. My son, born on St. Nicholas day, arrived quickly with a whoop and a holler, also characteristic of his future personality. The doctors and nurses in the delivery room questioned us about the newborn baby boy’s name. Informing them that we had not yet decided on either Joseph or James, after each of our fathers, the assemblage in white pronounced him Nicholas, since it was Saint Nicholas day in Germany. There just seemed to be no other appropriate choice, so Nicholas it was. We had spent nine months trying to decide on the perfect name for our third child, and there it was!

Kate was just two and a half years old when Nicholas was born. Kristen was eleven.

Ten years after Kristen’s birth would begin the most glorious years of fun and excitement for the Brennan family, as we explored the German cities and villages. Arthur had taken a job in the evenings with The University of Maryland as a computer instructor and this extra income afforded us the opportunity to travel to any country we desired.

Germany was our favorite with its meandering country roads and quaint little villages tucked away in valleys that always seemed to be hidden in a mysterious, soft mist. We adored the narrow, winding, cobblestone streets. These streets often led to sprawling, green countrysides which were surrounded by gently sloping mountains and half-decayed castles. In the wintertime, we would venture down to the Bavarian sector of Germany and ski the Alps in Garmisch and Berchtesgaden.

Our summers were spent at Lake Chiemsee, a gorgeous lake in southern Germany. The lake was surrounded by the tall, snow covered Alpine peaks. Not far from the shore, but accessible only by boat, was Herrenchiemsee, one of Mad King Ludwig’s castle homes. We visited it often.

Fall meant Oktoberfest in Munich with its wonderful rides, huge beer tents, and waitresses carrying enormous platters of schnitzel in one hand while balancing half of a dozen tankards of beer on trays perched precariously over their heads. I wondered why they were not listed amongst the Wonders of the World for that incredible feat!

Germany was home to us. Nicholas had been born there and when we received orders to return to the states, we were reluctant to leave our second country.

I had been told when I was a young girl that I had a double crown on my head. This made it very difficult to comb or style my hair. This also meant that I would show allegiance to two countries in my life. I felt sure that Germany was one of them. Little did I know!

~

I met Arthur not long after my divorce. It wasn’t love at first sight, but we both felt a strong, mutual attraction. We couldn’t have been more different. I was a New England girl who had never really left home, and he was the son of a Command Sergeant Major in the United States Army. Traveling the world was all he really knew.

I smiled as I remembered our early years together. Our first date had been a Frank Zappa concert. Wild and crazy as it was, I loved it! I had been raised on classical music and the Boston Pops. Watching Frank Zappa jumping around on that stage, throwing a small, stuffed poodle shocked me into an entirely new world. I resolved that our relationship would be a learning from each other relationship. I would teach him how to appreciate the fine arts and he would teach me how to have fun. Right! In theory it could have worked. He won out. I soon abandoned my rather snobbish persona and embraced a much more laid back and fun lifestyle. I soon discovered that it was a lot more fun rollicking and dancing around at a rock concert than it was sitting dressed in formal attire at an accomplished, if not somewhat boring, symphony.

Arthur Brennan was tall, lanky and handsome in a bohemian sort of way. He had the grandest sense of humor I had ever known. His mop of curly, brown, shoulder length hair attracted me, as well as his soft blue eyes. His left cheek gently and lovingly sported the most beautiful dimple I had ever seen. He seemed to enjoy every aspect of his life, including his work, which often involved long hours into the night on his computer. Arthur wrote programs when writing computer programs was a very rare talent. Write them he did, and in seven different languages! And he could always make me laugh!

A year after we met we decided to make a life together. I felt that any man who could reduce me to tears with his practical and not so practical jokes until I lost all sense of respectability was well worth keeping. I knew I would finally be very happy.

After one too many freezing, midnight excursions to shovel the drive way after the snow plow moved through, as well as mornings when neither one of us could get to work because of storm of the century snow conditions, we decided to leave the harsh winters of New England behind us. Arthur enlisted in the Army.

Chapter Three

Roommates

As I lay in my hospital bed in Verona, Italy, I felt that I could lose what little was left of my true self. Remembering life as it used to be gave me great joy. It took me away from the harsh reality of my present existence. If not for Arthur’s smiling blue eyes and gentle voice, I was certain that it would have been completely impossible for me to continue each day. He gave me the courage to be well again. Just the sound of his voice could transport me into a reality of peaceful existence. At least, it used to. Now it seemed that nothing could do that for me.

Suddenly I was awakened from my reverie by a loud crash down the hall and the sound of someone wailing. I knew that this was nothing to worry about. They were simply hospital noises. I had grown used to such disturbances and I barely winced.

As I lay in my bed, I gazed up at the lofty ceiling above me. A long, fluorescent light was affixed directly over my bed. It seemed to hang precariously and I wondered if it might someday fall. The room was extremely austere; no television, no vanity, no bathroom. There were a few luxuries. Beside my bed was a dingy little table and at the foot of my bed resided an old musty wardrobe with a door that squeaked every time I opened it. It would awaken anyone who was sleeping or attempting to sleep on the entire ward.

I must make a note to ask Arthur to bring me some water when he came to visit. Only Rosa, one of my roommates, drank the dirty, bacteria filled water from the tap. I was certain that the only reason Rosa was able to do so was because she had been raised on the stuff and her intestines had obviously become accustomed to it.

Rosa, everyone knew Rosa. Her deep, raspy voice could be heard three floors down and her genderless appearance made it difficult to tell if Rosa was a man or a woman. It was also impossible to determine her true age. She seemed ancient and hardened by life. Rosa constantly coughed blood into a tissue. She had done that for years, however now it was out of control and painful. Her complexion was grayer than her hair, and she spoke her language far too quickly for me to understand. Everyone in the hospital did. I found that I could only pick up some familiar words now and then, but it was enough to realize that Rosa was suffering from some form of