TO JiM...IRiS

I don't speak of him much.  He was in my life for such a brief season and I was so young.  Sometimes I recall bits and pieces, but not much of it is significant.  My mother had been dating him for some time and took us to visit him at his home.  He was the radiologist at the local hospital and his house proved it.  I first noticed his refrigerator.  It had a real ice maker and real water dispenser.  I pushed its black lever and the water shot out onto my hand.  His wallpaper had a shimmer and a velvet, intricate design.  I traced my fingers over the blue  pattern.  My walls at home were painted.  He showed us the upstairs; five bedrooms.  My bedroom at home was my mother's room.  My sisters shared a bedroom and a bed.  He had a "sitting room" which was a large ballroom with a fireplace.  We had no fireplace at my house and with only five rooms in our house, we would not have been able to designate one specifically for "sitting".  On his living room walls, several mounted boar heads were staring at us, tusks protruding angrily.  At our home, my mom got mad if we stomped a nest of bagworms.


My older sister pulled me aside.  She had found a deck of playing cards.  She whispered to me that she didn't like Jim.  She said she was going to lay the card out on the carpet and we could walk on them so we could avoid walking on anything that was "his".  She was eight, and smarter than I, so I agreed.  My mother just thought we were being messy and hollered for us to pick up the cards.


He adored my mother and appreciated her strength in rearing three daughters.  He had only boys, five, and they were grown.  He knew he was up for a challenge with us, but he wanted more than anything to make life easier for my mother now.  We were resigned to the fact that he would be our step-dad and that we would need to share our mother with him.

Breaks Interstate Park

Farm on Porter Gap Road

Life did get easier.  We went on trips to Disney World, Sea World, out to fancy dinners in his Trans-Am and to parties.  He bought us "Kangaroos" tennis shoes and they hadn't even been worn by anyone else before.  He owned property in the country, too.  We would spend our weekends exploring the forest, eating picnic lunches and swinging on the rope swing.












 

He was a giving, generous man all around.  He donated frequently to Mother Teresa.  He took us to see her speak once at The Breaks Interstate Park.  I remember it being very warm and we weren't allowed to get close to Mother Teresa.
  

Jim's English Setter, "Rebel Jean"

I grew fond of the boar heads on the wall and was semi-ok with not sleeping with my mom every night.  The only way I can describe my life at that time is to say it was comfortable.  Comfortable in the sense that there was no worry, no stress.  Jim wanted it that way.  Even in the parties he threw, he wanted it to be casual and comfortable.  He would invite all of his doctor friends out to the farm, away from the stress of the hospital, for a pig roast, some keg beer and to listen to bluegrass.

Doctors of Lawrence Co. General Hospital

Jim went to the farm every Sunday with his sons.  One afternoon, I begged my mother to let me go with Jim and the boys.  My mother caved and allowed me to tag along.  The boys went off into the woods and I stayed with Jim while he cut firewood.  I have no memory of what happened next or how long I was with Jim before one of the boys scooped me up from behind and threw me into the front seat of Jim's Jeep Wagoneer.  The other boys carried a sleeping Jim and placed him in the back seat.  I hung both my arms over the bench seat and alternated staring at Jim and the worry on the boys faces as we raced toward town.

We pulled up in front of the hospital and a young nurse was quickly approaching with a wheelchair.  The youngest of Jim's sons then screamed at her, "This is Dr. Zimmerman.  We don't need a fucking wheelchair.  We need a goddamn stretcher."  I remember being curious about those words.  I had never heard them before. 

Someone must have taken me to my grandmother's house because I remember rocking on her vinyl glider when I finally saw my mom walking toward the house.  She picked me up and put me on her lap.  I thought that the worst thing that could happen to someone was being put in a wheelchair, so I asked "How is Jim?  Is he in a wheelchair now?"  My mother responded "No, Iris.  Jim, he died".  Then she told me some child-friendly version of the real cause of death; something like "the things that are in your body to keep it going, poisoned his body".  I remember teachers at school later asking me about Jim and telling me they were sorry.  I told them all the same story that my mother told me.  They were puzzled and silent.  I must have sounded so lost.

I wanted to help my mother.  I wanted her to stop crying beside the casket.  I wanted Jim's doctor friends to come lift him out of the casket and fix him; fix him and get our old life back.   

I asked my mother to put a picture that I drew of Jim in his casket.  When I was looking for photos of him for this story, I came across an old photo album and this picture was sealed under one of the photo sheets.  She saved it back.  More than the pictures of our vacations and parties, she wanted me to someday have a reminder of how my young eyes saw Jim.  I saw no stethoscope.  I saw no white coat.  I purely saw comfort and joy.