I live now as Emile Zola
suggested, “If you asked me what I came into this world to do, I would tell
you, I came to live out loud.” For many years, I’ve worked through my childhood traumas, yanking out
embedded toxins of sorrow and neglect, replacing them with encounters that heal and regenerate this
too-quickly aging body. I surround myself with people who foster the pure and
loving spirit of each child and recognize we are all children of the universe: learning, growing,
seeking compassion, joy and acceptance.
Six Castaway Babies in Search of a Miracle
Whenever someone speaks of a family reunion, I feel a ping of angst. Many might say the same, but a twist on my reunion of 2004 made it pretty unique. My siblings and I came together for the first time in 45 years. I had completely forgotten the last occasion until the morning we met for breakfast at the Machine Shed Restaurant in Des Moines. My brother, Bill, pulled out the last photograph taken of us lined up on Grandma’s couch in 1958. The photo captured stories of the past, present and future in the eyes of six children, ages ranging from a few months to 13 years who would be separated from each other for most of their lives.
Jan had been the first unplanned child born to 17 year old David and 18 year old Lori. Any play house fantasies the teen parents may have once entertained quickly dissolved beneath adult pressures of marriage and parenthood. Yet, they brought me into the world two years later. By the time Davy and then Marla arrived, Jan and I had already been intermittently placed in foster homes numerous times. I knew the words “parental negligence” before I could write my name.
Eventually, our parents divorced and married other partners. At the same time, I needed to leave my current home because my foster mother, Nana, was dying of cancer. Though I came to them withdrawn and malnourished, Nana and Pop dared me, through patience and affection, to hope and to trust. A judge returned to me to my mother.
Jan and Davy went to live with their father and his new wife. Four year old Marla lived with foster parents who’d received her straight from the hospital. Time and again they'd begged the court to be allowed to adopt her. Now they were required to relinquish their baby to our mother.
What a shock for little Marla who had only known the love of a true family. She had only occasionally visited her birth mother at our grandparent's house. As an 8 year old, who'd been in many foster homes by now, it was a different kind of shock for me. I remembered living with Lori off and on in the past. The last time, our mother left Jan and me with a social worker. She took us to an indoor playground, said you wait here and walked away without a good-bye.
The social worker took us to live with Mrs. Chance who we thought was the wicked witch from Hansel and Gretel. Her bottom lip nearly touched her nose, and when she wasn’t looking Jan led the search for the human mask we were certain Mrs. Chance hid as a spare. I was separated from my sister a year later when I was taken to a home on a farm and then to Nana and Pop Hauser. Some months after Marla and I rejoined our mother, Lori gave birth to Judy and two years later to Billy.
Now, if you’ve followed all that, you will better understand the excitement mixed with trepidation pervading the reunion. There was even a point when my partner Jim was making flight reservations from our California home that I ran into the room screaming “Put down the phone, I’m not going. I can’t do it. Stop talking! Don’t give your credit card number. I mean it. I’m not going. It's too much to think about. You’ll eat the tickets. Put down the phone. Oh, no.” Jim had ignored my outburst as if he neither her me screaming nor saw my arms flailing. He promised me he'd be supportive for the whole week of our visit and I melted into submission.
Once in Des Moines, I learned that my sisters and brothers had, collectively, worked their way through addictions and unhealthy marriages and insecure futures into successful friendships and marriages and happy parenthood and grandparenthood and financial stability. Still, no one could forget their lives of chaos and hardship. And all agreed that too rarely is anyone able to listen when we could sure use an attentive, not pitying but compassionate, ear. Mostly, we haven’t told our stories. They just don’t fit into normal conversation. My siblings joys eased my anxiety, yet as the psychologist of the group -- you do know that we study psychology to understand ourselves -- I knew enough about each of us to want to rip out the unshed tears that children in our circumstance had been forbidden.
“Let’s re-create it now,” I said loudly upon seeing the old photo as if everyone in the restaurant needed to hear. It was my way, though, to strike down my shock over seeing us as we were those many years ago. Thirteen year old Jan, with no smile from her red lipstick-painted mouth, held baby Billy as if she were his mother. Though Davy & Marla half-smiled, I only saw their bewilderment and was thrown back to that time where I’d rather not return.
My declaration for us to retake the picture was also unlike the sulking little girl of eleven who usually remained silent while soaking in all the devastation around her. I live now more like Emile Zola who said, “If you asked me what I came into this world to do, I would tell you, I came to live out loud.” For many years, I’ve been working through my life experiences, yanking out embedded toxins of sorrow and neglect, replacing them with healthy, happy, trustworthy experiences that heal and regenerate this too-quickly aging body. I surround myself with people who foster the pure and loving spirit of each child and recognize we are all still children of the universe, still learning, still growing, still seeking compassion, joy and acceptance.
“This is a do-over,” I exclaimed, as we pulled up chairs and began to sit in the order of the original photo. Bill looked at Jan, shrugged his shoulders, then plopped his six foot, two hundred thirty pound biker’s frame down on her lap where he had been in our childhood photo. As he did, the pout I’d worn in the first photo dissolved into freeing laughter that unhooked me from the trauma of those many years ago.
The seventh person in the line-up came into picture later as my half-sister, Mickey, born to Joanne and Dave deRegnier. We met for the first time in Des Moines in 1988.
How, you might be wondering, did this reunion come about. The short and true story is that my son, Adrian (remember that name) who died in 1987 brought my siblings and I together for this not so small miracle. I could recount numerous serendipitous experiences to try to convince you that my son visits me, guides me and sometimes intercedes in my life to deliver lessons I’m not always happy to learn. However, I don’t bother with skepticism any more. Since I let go of disbelief, after years of wasting energy in doubt, the power of my son’s presence has grown beyond incredulity. In the week I spent with my family, I had expected a sign from my son since he so often provides them. I told Jim that I didn’t need one but just thought there would be one. Jim had witnessed enough coincidences to agree.
When I arrived home, I uploaded the photos onto the computer. The first one up, though not the first one taken was one of the re-created scene, and above us there is a sign that no one noticed at the time, while we were so focused or perhaps hypnotized by our experience of being together. The four foot sign on the wall says “Adriance Farm Machinery.” The small red sign on the shelf above it reads “IN-VITE.” And I do, always!
My son had led my sister to find me; for me to see the miracles my siblings had achieved in their lives; for us to bond in our common yet unique experiences; to be supported by a friend as I faced reminders of our torments; for me to feel loved by my family. And the miracles continue as my siblings and I nurture our relationships.
Epilogue: (From left to right in the photographs):
Jan deRegnier has worked as Closing Coordinator for the top
Real Estate Agent in
Bill Eklund and his wife Kathy take road trips on their
cherry Harley from their
Diana, that’s me, lives in
Judy Eklund Messer has worked for Wellmark Blue Cross and
Blue Shield in
Dave deRegnier enjoyed a
prosperous career in mortgage banking. He and his wife Jan reside in Mound,
Marla deRegnier and her husband Spike live in Houston. Marla has two children, five grandchildren and a dog named Jean-Pierre. She has worked for PV Car, Truck and Van Rental agency for 17 years. Marla owns a complete set of Lucille Ball dolls, which reside in their own room.
Bill plopped down on Jan’s lap where he was in the photo taken in 1958; Diana; Judy with a band-aid on her knee still; Dave; Marla; and Mickey. Together for the first time in 45 years, at the Machine Shed Restaurant, Des Moines, IA, March 2004
Diana
deRegnier lives in Mill Valley, California. Diana writes the weekly column SpiritLinks for
United Press International www.ReligionandSpirituality.com . She is
webmaster and writer for www.spiritlinksnews.org,
© copyright 2006 by Diana deRegnier
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