I Am Enough: My Journey of Self-Discovery and Acceptance

Copyright © 2015 Cheryl Miguel.

Cover photos Brodie Jayne’s Photography and Kim Byron.

Author photo Brodie Jayne’s Photography

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

ISBN: 978-1-5043-3856-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5043-3857-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5043-3855-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015912862

Balboa Press rev. date: 09/17/2015

Contents

Acknowledgements

Author’s Note

Part I:  A Cry in the Night

Part II:  Tough Choices

Part III:  Crossroads

Part IV:  The Collapse

Part V:  Stand by Me

Part VI:  The Chrysalis

Part VII:  Metamorphosis

In loving memory of Dad, Mom, and Steve,

for teaching me how to face challenges with courage

and strength, and to never give up.

As Dad would say: The game isn’t over until the final out.

We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are.

— Anaïs Nin

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank each and every soul that crossed my path. It was our energetic dance that contributed to my growth and understanding, allowing me to become the woman I am.

I have an undying gratitude to my daughters, Monique Williams and Brittany Williams, for standing by me when most everything and everybody fell away from my life. They were both student and teacher, as well as powerful mirrors reflecting back to me my feelings and beliefs at times when I needed it most. As with everything, they were my confidantes as I wrote this book; it was their belief in me that I had the courage to share the raw truth. They have been the greatest gift to me, and I am eternally grateful for their decision in choosing me as their mother.

Special thanks to Brandon Duff, Brittany Williams, and Laura Fichtel for taking time to read through drafts and offer helpful suggestions.

I am grateful to Barbara Bloom at Bloom Ink for her conscientious editing; it was her attention to detail that helped my best narrative to come forward.

I would not have been able to complete this book without the ongoing encouragement I received from my friends, Renée Moratto and Laura Fichtel; thanks for being my cheerleaders.

Author’s Note

To recreate events, locales and conversations, I relied upon my personal journals, letters, emails, consulted with several people who appear in the book, and called upon my own memory. Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals. There are no composite characters or events in this book.

I

A Cry in the Night

THE TALL MOCHA WITH TWO espresso shots and the chocolate chip cookie I ate while sitting near the lake weren’t enough to hold me over till morning. I needed to eat. With my hand gripping the paisley cane my mom bought me years earlier, I wobbled into the kitchen to decide what to do about dinner.

When I opened the refrigerator and saw the London broil that I had taken out of the freezer the day before, I reached for the package, stopping suddenly. Do you really want to stand in the kitchen for an hour making dinner for yourself? I thought. A big bowl of Grape Nuts cereal would have easily satisfied me, but the minute I glanced at the milk, I remembered Dave saying, Are you guys going to eat anything besides chili dogs for dinner? Dave’s not-so-subtle way of reminding me how much cooking he did when we lived together pushed me to pick up the meat.

I spent the next twenty minutes slicing meat and chopping bell peppers, green onions, tomatoes, and garlic. After everything was in bowls and next to the stove, I melted some butter in the skillet, then added the garlic and meat. Within minutes, the kitchen was filled with the pleasing aroma of garlic.

Picking up the scent of meat sautéing, Sandie, our two-year-old golden retriever, playfully appeared at my side with her ball attached to a rope, dangling from her mouth. Shaking my head and chuckling, I said, Someone is in the mood to play.

Realizing it was a quarter to eight and knowing that I didn’t want to miss the beginning of the TV show House, I quickly added the beef broth to the meat, covered the pan and stepped away from the stove. But instead of my foot meeting the tile, it landed on Sandie’s rope. My knees popped out from their locked position, and my body became as limp as a ragdoll. Rather than fall into the corner of the kitchen cabinets, I frantically pulled my head and shoulders back. The momentum caused me to fall backwards. My body went down like one of those giant redwoods in the forest, landing with a thump inches from the dishwasher, my head taking the brunt of the fall.

When I awoke Sandie was standing over me, licking the blood off the floor. I was disoriented with a sharp pain coming from the back of my head. Looking up at the fire under the skillet and knowing that on my best day I couldn’t get off of the floor, I knew I somehow had to get to a phone. I tried to push myself to a crawl position, yet I continued to slip on the blood. It wasn’t working. Too weak to get up, I returned to my side, facing the stove. Sandie was practically on top of me. Move it! I shouted, as I swung my body to the right, my knees brushing against the kitchen island. In an awkward, jerking motion, I rolled onto my stomach. I’m not supposed to be alone at this point in my life, I thought.

With my head balanced on my chin, stomach flat against the tile, and arms bent at my chest, I began moving my body in the direction of the office. With about as much grace as a wounded snake, I wiggled through the cramped space between the cabinets and the kitchen table. Barefoot, I was losing a little more skin on my toes with each push against the jagged uneven tile and felt my chin becoming raw. The thin jogging shorts I was wearing, combined with my tank top bunched up below my bra, made it feel as if I wasn’t wearing anything.

When I stopped to rest, the room felt like it was spinning. God, I changed my mind. I’m not ready to die, I said as I rolled onto my side, placing my hands under my head, treating them like a pillow. For over twenty years—during my struggles with lupus—I had frequently wished to leave this life. However, as I watched my animals nervously pace the room, I wanted nothing but to stay.

My eyes were tightly shut when I began bargaining with God. Please help me get to the office. I’ll do whatever you want me to do if you help get me out of this situation.

Moments later I experienced a surge of panic and began to scream, Help! Can someone call 911? Each time I shouted, my cries became louder with a rhythmic quality to them as if I were chanting during a rite of passage. It was hopeless. The house sat on three quarters of an acre in Windsor, California; the neighbors were too far away to hear my pleas.

Frightened, weak, and helpless, I closed my eyes again in hopes of gathering the strength to help me push forward. There was a slight breeze coming through the opened glass door leading to the backyard and a soft ringing from the chimes that hung on the patio. Even though it had been a warm September day and I was exerting a lot of energy moving my body, a chill ran through me.

When I opened my eyes, Sandie and our two cats, Candie and Lucy, were circling me. A thin layer of smoke had begun drifting through other rooms of the house and there was a strong smell of burnt garlic. Thank goodness the patio door is open. At least the animals could get out if a fire starts. I gently rubbed the back of my head where a large bump had already formed. It was moist and sticky, and the hair was matted from the blood.

To think I laughed at Dave when he placed a phone on a small table under the desk. In case you fall again. You’ll now have a phone accessible to you, he said. I wasn’t laughing now. Tonight, I was grateful that he thought of such a thing. Cheryl you can do this, I encouraged myself as I flipped onto my stomach with my arms bent at my side, ready for round two. The office door was within limits, and the edge of the desk was now visible.

Inch by inch, I continued squirming my body through the furniture-filled family room. I couldn’t bring myself to push anymore. I was out of energy. It was as if someone had pulled the power plug, forcing me to give up five feet from the entryway and office.

My head was throbbing, I felt sick to my stomach, and desperately needed to pee. It was dark out, so I knew it couldn’t be much longer before my youngest daughter Brittany walked through the door, but my bladder was full, and the longer I held it, the more painful it became. Oh, what the hell, I muttered before letting it go. My shorts and shirt absorbed the warm urine like it were a sponge. Although the release brought a sense of relief, shame soon followed. Shit! I thought. Brittany isn’t strong enough to pick me up off the floor. She’ll have to call someone. Now I’ll be doubly embarrassed when help arrives.

With the porch light illuminating the entryway, my eyes remained fixed on the front door. For years I had been asking God to bring me home, away from this horrible disease, yet as I waited on the cold tile floor, curled in a fetal position, soaked in urine, shivering, praying for the night to be over, my attitude shifted. I decided not to bargain with God anymore. One, bargaining wasn’t working. Two, I knew I should ask for forgiveness in not accepting the gift of life. And three, I knew I should trust his plan for me.

My vision blurred as tears filled my eyes. There has to be a reason for all that has happened. As the tears made their way across my cheek and into the hair line, I felt myself surrendering to sleep, praying, no, begging for some sort of sign as to why I was put through so much in this lifetime. I then promised myself to unravel the events of my life in search of clues that would help me heal.

We were halfway through the first month of 1983. It was a cold night. The kind of night where the chill creeps down to the bones. At the top of the staircase, through double doors, my dad lay in his bed. I could hear him crying as I approached the top of the stairs.

Poking my head in the doorway, I asked if he was okay. He was thrashing his legs under the covers as if he were trying to shake something loose. It hurts. My ankles hurt, he said with the voice of a frightened child.

With the only light coming from the fixture hanging over the staircase, I walked into the shadow-filled room and sat at the foot of his bed. The thin bedspread had formed around his body, accentuating his skinny frame. The muscular body he had in his youth had long ago withered away. After almost ten years of suffering with lupus, scleroderma, and rheumatoid arthritis, his appearance had changed considerably. His face was puffy from the effects of the medications. His hands were swollen and his fingers were crippled. His eyes were dull and droopy, expressing years of pain and toxicity.

I lifted the covers and discovered the source of his pain: His feet and ankles were three times the normal size, and the skin was tight with a shiny appearance. Sitting at the foot of the bed, I began gently massaging his feet. In an attempt to divert his attention from his pain, I asked questions about the upcoming softball season. If there was one thing that had the ability to ease his pain, it was coaching; it acted like a drug.

As I listened to him talk about each of his players with admiration, I was reminded of his story of having declined two separate athletic scholarships in order to help his widowed mother on the farm, losing his chance at a college education. It was no accident that he was offered a coaching position with Pioneer High School shortly after being put on permanent disability. He was an athlete at heart. I could still hear my mom saying, I feel like I have five children instead of four, each time my dad went out to play ball with the kids in the neighborhood.

Thirty minutes had gone by, my hands were cramping, and I was getting sleepy. I could feel the helplessness welling up within me as I covered his feet, announcing I needed to get to bed. The fear I felt while witnessing his excruciating pain was something I had been experiencing since I was twelve. I should have been used to it. But I wasn’t. Each time he had an episode of extreme pain, I felt as frightened as a child alone in the night battling the boogey man.

Walking down the L-shaped hallway to my bedroom, I asked myself how much longer he was going to hang on. Disease was slowly swallowing him up.

After I turned out the lights and climbed into bed, I heard my dad talking to himself as though questioning why. He was crying again. I didn’t know what to do. It was late, and I was tired. I couldn’t sit in his room massaging his feet all night. I had to be up early for school.

The moans and cries were maddening, but I somehow managed to silence the screams that were on the tip of my tongue by clutching the comforter up around my neck. With the help of the moonlight, I was able to see the outline of the furniture, which mesmerized me and allowed me to focus on something other than his cries.

My mind began filling with chatter. Why can’t I have a normal life like those of my friends? Why don’t I get to have a mother and a father living in the same house? Why do I have a father who is sick? With my knees crunched to my chest, arms tightly hugging them, I prayed to God. Please God, take my dad’s pain away, he has suffered enough. Let me take his pain. Please do anything, just make him stop crying.

Wow, it’s smoky in here. Brittany said as she closed the door. Mom, are you okay?

I opened my eyes to see Brittany walking toward me. She was wearing her cheerleading outfit—a short black skirt with a wide white stripe around the bottom and gold trim and a long- sleeved black jersey with the word Jaguars sewn on it.

I fell while I was making dinner and hurt my head, I said looking up at her. Can you turn the stove off?

She set her cheerleading pack in the red high-back chair next to the wood-burning stove a few feet from me and headed in the direction of the kitchen. Whatever was in this pan is beyond burnt. I think it’s permanently stuck to it, she hollered.

I wasn’t surprised by Brittany’s calm demeanor; it was one year earlier that she found me curled up on the bedroom floor after having crawled from the kitchen when I fell while watering the plants.

After returning to my side, she asked if she should call Monique.

Monique, my oldest daughter, lived in Santa Rosa with her boyfriend, Jerry. She was used to coming to my rescue after my falls, but things felt different this time. I was hurt. I don’t know. It’ll take her twenty minutes. Maybe we should call Dave since he’s just across town and could get here faster, I said.

I watched Brittany as she searched through the contacts on her phone, pressed Send, then nervously lifted the phone to her ear. Once she explained my current predicament, I heard Dave’s voice, however couldn’t make out what he said.

He’s on his way, she announced.

After covering me with a blanket, Brittany retreated to her bedroom to change out of her uniform, and she didn’t return until the garage door opened ten minutes later, signaling Dave’s arrival.

Dave got down on his knees, his face close to mine and carefully moved the hair around from the back of my head. The blood is dried, so I can’t see the wound very well, he said in a soft voice, different from his usual gruff tone. Placing his arm across my back, he added, I’m so sorry. It’s my fault you’re alone. I should be here.

I could hear the guilt in Dave’s voice. He had just returned to Windsor hours earlier, after a long weekend in Southern California. Part of me agreed with him as I thought, Yeah, you should be here. But rather than stay true to myself by acknowledging my feelings, I responded in a manner I thought was expected of me and said, No, it’s not your fault.

When Dave realized I wasn’t willing to try to get to my feet, he convinced me to allow him to call an ambulance.

Smelling of urine, I was embarrassed knowing strangers would be helping. I hated this disease more than anything. I watched my dad deteriorate, his body slowly and painfully wasting away, until he ended up in a nursing home. Was that what I had to prepare myself for?

After Dave called 911, he went into the kitchen to check things out. I could hear dishes clanking around in the sink and cabinet drawers being opened and closed. I listened to hear what Dave was doing in the kitchen and watched Brittany sitting in the chair in front of me. She was quiet with a look of concern on her face. That look wasn’t there when she first found me. Maybe knowing an ambulance was coming told her this was different from all the other falls. It could have been Dave’s presence; when he was around, she had a tendency to close up and be on guard.

At the sound of the siren, Brittany stood up, walked to the door, and opened it.

I heard male voices, and what sounded like heavy boots and equipment. I was still lying on my side, facing the chair, when I saw the men. There were four that I could count, in their heavy fireproof pants and jackets and thick sturdy boots. I had no idea they’d send firemen. Just great, I thought. Good looking firemen and I’m lying on the floor soaked in my own urine. It was as if life was playing a cruel joke on me.

Several of the men walked through the house, confirming there was no fire. One stayed with me. As he examined the back of my head, his questions came at me like a swarm of bees. Does your neck hurt? Were you unconscious? How long were you out? Are you dizzy? It was all too much, but I managed to respond from a semiconscious state.

To be on the safe side, I think you need to go to the hospital, he said as the stretcher was wheeled in.

Two more men appeared at my side. They got on the floor with me and were about to roll me over when one of them removed the blanket. I blurted out, I’m sorry, I peed. I couldn’t hold it.

It’s okay, we’ve seen a lot worst, one of them said.

After securing a brace around my neck, they slid a board underneath me, lifted me onto the stretcher, and wheeled me past the office and out the front door.

As I was being wheeled down the long driveway, I caught a glimpse of Dave in the doorway talking with a fireman. Brittany was standing beside Dave with her head resting against him, his arm around her shoulders. I felt as though I were dreaming.

The doors to the back of the ambulance were closing, when Dave instantly appeared. Which hospital will you be taking her to? Dave hastily asked.

Although the Healdsburg hospital is closer, we’re going to Memorial in Santa Rosa because they have better equipment, said the EMT who was sitting beside me.

Before we drove away, the EMT introduced himself as Greg, then asked, That man who wanted to know where we’re taking you. Are you comfortable with him driving your daughter to meet us there?

Was he sensing something that I was unable to see in my current condition? I don’t remember telling him Brittany was my daughter. Had I lost consciousness again? I was having trouble organizing my thoughts around the events taking place. My stomach was rumbling, and I could taste vomit in the back of my throat. I just wanted to have some clean clothes on and be in a warm bed. Convincing myself that it was safe for Brittany to ride with Dave, I responded Yes, it’s all right.

II

Tough Choices

WHEN MY DAUGHTERS WERE TEENAGERS, dinnertime contained very little conversation. Each time I tried to get the girls to talk about their day, I received short, blunt, closed responses. It wasn’t clear whether the girls didn’t talk much at the dinner table for fear of being corrected by Dave, or if they just wanted to get through the time, sitting together, as quickly as possible. Long periods of silence were intermittently filled with Dave telling us about his day at work. I had learned to accept that I was always the last one to finish eating. The girls’ tapping feet and averting eyes were my cue that they had sat long enough. At that point, I excused them on the grounds that I didn’t need a babysitter, that I wouldn’t choke.

I wasn’t sure if the irritability Dave and I were expressing was due to the final days of tax season that March in 2008, or if the four of us had spent too much time together looking at a house earlier in the day, but the others ate quickly, which led to an early dismissal and me sitting alone at the table moving around the last bit of Chinese food in the Styrofoam container.

Monique left to hang out with friends while Dave and Brittany were in the family room watching the movie The Pursuit of Happyness (sic).

The small but cozy family room opened up to the kitchen, and the oak wall unit that housed the TV was on the opposite wall from where I sat, allowing me to watch the movie while I finished eating. And although I was tired of sitting in the small chair with its rattan seat and metal back, I was uncomfortable asking for help. I remained there watching the movie, staring past the back of Dave’s shiny head. His arm hung over the side of the red and green southwestern-style sofa and his legs were casually lying on top. Must be nice to stretch out on the furniture, my furniture; furniture that I only get to look at when walking through the room. I was feeling jealous and resentful. I wanted to be comfortable and not feel like I were bothering someone in order to do so.

Brittany walked into the kitchen, stopped at the counter, and opened a fortune cookie. Can you hand me one too? I asked.

Shrugging her shoulders and rolling of her eyes, she said, I guess, with irritation in her voice.

Dave practically flew off the sofa. He was in front of Brittany in a blink, pointing in her face and yelling, When your mother asks you to do something, you’d better do it.

His stocky build overpowered her five foot two frame, causing her to back up against the cabinet, her head uncomfortably against the microwave. You can’t tell me what to do. You’re not my father. She hollered back to his face, spit flying through her braces.

The energy was harsh—adrenaline pumping through Dave and Brittany—and hit me like a hot gust of wind. Unable to stand and break up the confrontation which was turning ugly, I frantically shifted my body so I could face them and shouted for Dave to stop. When Dave glanced over his shoulder to look at me, Brittany slid to her right and ran into the other room, grabbing the phone on her way out.

What the hell is wrong with you? I yelled. Get me out of this chair!

As Dave lifted me to a standing position, I added, disgusted, What were you thinking?

Dave said nothing, but his rigid body said a mouthful standing inches from mine. When I reached for my cane that was leaning against the table, Dave turned and walked out of the kitchen. I was in a state of disbelief as I watched him walk through the family room, where only moments earlier he and Brittany were casually relaxing as they watched Will Smith portray a struggling single father. It was when he reached the hallway that I screamed, We are so done.

Dave glanced back at me but continued walking down the hallway to our bedroom.

I found Brittany sitting on the sofa in the living room. Are you okay? I asked.

Through her tears she announced that she called Monique to come home. I hate him, Mom. I don’t want him living with us anymore.

I slowly guided myself down next to her, sitting on the arm of the sofa. I know, I said. I’m not happy with what just happened either. We’re all under a lot of stress right now. That’s no excuse for his actions, but maybe the pressure caused him to snap.

The movie continued playing in the other room as Brittany and I sat and talked about our lives before Dave entered the picture.

Dave and I had been dating for a year and a half when we rented a house in Santa Rosa and decided to move in together in November 2003. I was nowhere near ready for marriage again, so this seemed like the next logical step. I didn’t know if it was the fact that Dave was between jobs or that he wasn’t a parent. Whatever it was, something didn’t feel right. As with every major decision that involved Monique and Brittany, I ran it by each of them first. It had been just the three of us since Brittany was three years old, and I included the girls in everything: the decision in 2001 to move from Stockton to Santa Rosa, whether we should move again, whether Dave should move in with us. It was a group decision.