Last week as I often do when we’re returning from Chicago, I dropped Marie at O’Hare, then set off on a meandering road trip home with no time constraints.
On this occasion, I decided to take a trip down memory lane. Following the same route I took more than 60 years ago, I motored down US 66 and Ill 47 to Champaign, Illinois where I and many friends were students. And where I met Lynn Dewey … and fell in love … and learned to fly … and married in haste … and joyfully celebrated the birth of our son Scott … and graduated from the University of Illinois.
Leaving Champaign, I had nothing to do but pound down miles and listen to Willie’s Roadhouse. Boredom overtook me and my mind drifted to road trips from my youth. In particular, a family trip 70 years ago. I was but an adolescent 14-year-old, having freshly graduated from Lincoln Junior High and eagerly anticipating my freshman year at Maine Township High School.
Mom and Dad’s business had taken off and afforded them a new station wagon. Perfect for the whole family – even room for us three kids to put the seats down and sleep while they kept driving. It begged for a road trip – down their memory lane.
The first stop was Two Harbors, Minnesota where we watched iron ore transferred from rail cars to ships bound for steel mills in northern Indiana. But the real reason for the stop was to visit Dad’s birthplace and several of his relatives I’d heard of for years, but never met.
The next stop was the Mesabe iron range where ore was mined and loaded onto the rail cars. Steam shovels with buckets that could swallow our station wagon without a burp loaded the ore onto trucks with tires twice as tall as I was. The trucks climbed out of the mine at a dizzying 12 mph to be emptied into rail cars.
Our last stop was the Twin Cities. For Mom and Dad, this was like Champaign was for me. Dad studied engineering and Mom nursing. It was natural that Dad enrolled there – he was a native of Minnesota. Mom, however, was drawn there by her aunt, a professor at the University. His campus in Minneapolis, hers in St. Paul. It took a church picnic to bring them together, and together they remained for the rest of their lives. And like my son Scott, I was conceived while they were still students.
On our last night before the marathon ride home, our family stayed in a hotel. Or rather, Mom, Dad, Larry and Edie stayed in a room that accommodated only four. I was left with my aunt, who seemed ancient, and whom I barely knew.
In the middle of the night I awakened in pain. One of my testicles had blown up to the size of an orange. I was scared … I wanted help … and the only help available was the very old stranger in the next room.
Mom and Dad quickly responded. Mom was a nurse, and her attention to bodily needs was spot-on. Off to the emergency room. After consulting with the doc, they told me that my testicle was infected and I was going to lose it. Yikes.
The surgery went off without a hitch. Dad, Larry and Edie headed back to Chicago. A few days later I took a train home with Mom.
On one hand, the timing of this was fortunate. I was between schools, there was a clean break and I’d meet a whole bunch of new friends in the fall.
But on the other hand, I was about to do all this having been deformed. Deformed in a most private way. I was scared and ashamed that I was now only half a man. And my parents were no help – from them I never heard another word about my loss.
At school, life was frightening. What if someone found out. In the boys locker room another boy, Alejandro, had had a similar experience. He joked with the guys and became “One Rock Ollie.”
All I could muster was to suck it up and pray no one found out about me.
Dating was scary. Although sex was still just talk among my peers, it was always hovering in the background. And I was handicapped.
As I grew into adulthood, I realized that in order to have sex I’d have to reveal my secret. Initially, after opening up I was unable to perform. This plagued me again years later, when, after divorcing, I wanted to have sex with new partners. The feeling of inadequacy reared its ugly head again. Often I’d avoid sex just to be safe.
I’m now 84 and have had enough.
A business experience from 40 years ago gave me an insight. I had accumulated a mountain of debts. My backpack was filled with big rocks and I could never set it down. I felt like a fraud. When the s**t hit the fan I chose to face dozens of creditors – openly and honestly. One at a time, although unhappy with my news, they universally understood and respected my openness. I began to feel that, although I might be standing naked in the middle of a busy intersection, it didn’t matter. I had gone public.
My humility and openness had freed me from shame.
Mirroring that experience, I’m sharing my deepest secret with you. Today is my 84th birthday. My gift to myself is unloading a burden that I’ve been bearing 70 years – ever since I was a scared 14-year-old. As I write this, with each word I type, the load in my backpack is reduced.
If you find yourself saddled with something buried deep within your soul, I hope you’ll decide to share it. And enjoy the same boundless sense of freedom I’m finding as I post this.