By: Debbie Moore-Black, RN

Denial. That perfect defense mechanism.
I know it well. You convince yourself that all is well. And then you convince others…

That you have that perfect marriage.

That you have a terminal disease but you’re the exception because it certainly can’t happen to you.

That you’re in poor health with mysterious aches and pains but you don’t go to your physicians because you pray to Jesus to take your pain away. To cure you of whatever.

Denial.
I was a work horse. Three children to feed and clothe and always wanting the best for them while their father, highly educated but willing to work for minimum wage, while his wife (me) worked 60 hours a week night shift as an ICU nurse.
But he was a “great” father.
And I was great also at pretending that all was well, while frequently being gaslit, disregarded, disrespected and trapped in a verbally abusive marriage…. But it all looked great with the photos we took and presented  eventually on social media. the awareness of realizing he had multiple infidelities one after the other.
The realization that I would live my life through my children while sadly knowing that I had a miserable marriage.

Denial. His cancer. Pancreas, liver, lungs, lymph nodes. His surgeon and  oncologist promoting his denial…. “You’ll live another 6 years”..: and my husband saying “Do everything” while I drove him to the oncologists,  the surgeons, the chemo, the palliative care, the therapists, all along working nightshift and overtime.

Denial. Every day was a new ache. and pain. Her back, her bones, her chest, her unusual edema in her neck and hands and feet.
Every day. On social media. Not being proactive. Not going to her physician, but requesting her friends to pray for her. Waiting for that miracle from Jesus.
That miracle that never happened.

Denial. The nurse. Who comes in late to work. Disheveled  with  bruises up and down her arms. I ran into the walls. I fell. It’s not him. It’s me. I’m clumsy. Verbal abuse from her husband easily escalating to physical abuse.

And the list is endless. And so is denial.
It is not until you come to admit the truth first to yourself and then to others.

Denial is your protection in dealing with the truth.
It involves ignoring the reality of a situation to avoid anxiety. To avoid anger. To avoid the truth.
To protect yourself from the consequences of reality.

With therapy from a licensed therapist, you can come to grips with the truth. With chipping away at denial. And being honest with yourself and your situation.

They say “the truth will set you free.”   
Set yourself free. You deserve to live in truth.

By: Debbie Moore-Black, RN

My mother. 63 years old. Colon cancer.
She first noticed rectal bleeding. She made excuses. Maybe it’s hemorrhoids.

She put her physician on a pedestal. He said “you’re too young to die” and there was no need for further tests.

Her daughters, both RN’s (one an ICU nurse, the other an anesthetist) pleaded with her to get a colonoscopy. She refused.
Pleaded with her to get a second opinion.
She refused.
Her once plump body shrunk as she drastically began losing weight.

Her brothers flew in from New Jersey to visit her. They told her she looked great. And her response was “I’m too young to die”

We hired a hospice nurse for her. Mom would go in and out of comas. She was dying. Us daughters would help.
I would help turn and reposition my mother. Clean her bowel movements in bed.
Mostly an act of guilt, feeling that I was supposed to do this. Feeling obligated.

While remembering my painful past.

She was a negligent mother. A narcissist. Undiagnosed mental illness I suppose.

We lived in the big house but the inside told the secrets. The secrets of her neglect and failure to clothe us children while she wore designer clothes.

The secrets of my dad climbing the corporate ladder all along bumping into walls after he drank his daily gallon of wine.
Losing our lake house. Daddy losing both jobs because of his alcoholism. We were told he was taking an “early retirement”.
As I cleaned my mother, the memories flooded back.
The lies. The neglect.

She died at the age of 63 years old.
Yes. I also always felt she was “too young to die.”
I always wondered: “What if?”
What IF she had gotten a second opinion and went to another physician?
What IF she had listened to her 2 nurse daughters.
What IF she had been proactive?

A colectomy eventually was performed. But her colon cancer had frantically spread. Liver, pancreas, lungs.

Too young to die.
Too little, too late.

Denial and a long wait to face the truth.

Dad gave her the grande funeral.
The mahogany casket.
Large photos of her with her “Jackie Kennedy-like” hairdos.
As her casket lowered to the ground. A still and hot sunny day, a wind gust through. I guess that was her final goodbye.

The grande funeral that left me thinking: “What If”
And I cried.
I cried for the mother I never had.

*** In retrospect….to say: “I’m too young to die” doesn’t validate anything. No one is too young to die….. especially when you are not proactive in your diagnosis and treatment and finding a physician that speaks the truth to you!!

By: Debbie Moore-Black, RN

His mom was 14 years old when she had him.
He grew up in the projects and grew up in chaos.
The chaos was reflected in school. He was disruptive, and angry, and seeking some type of validation. Granny took over the household.
And beyond having a stable grandmother, he had nothing else.

A young teacher had heard about him and his antics and requested to have him as a student in 5th grade.
This teacher knew that she could guide him in the right direction. That he was special.
And she had the time, patience and love to guide him appropriately.

His young teacher noticed that he was a smart kid but with little confidence or guidance. She teamed him up with a school partner.
Jerome and David were different colors but that didn’t matter. They became best friends and partners and easily wove their way through math and science classes.

Though he had random outbursts, his new teacher saw his hidden glow. She knew he just needed guidance and a glimmer of hope.

Jerome grew up in the projects. He didn’t always know if he’d have dinner at night. They were poor and besides having grandma, he had no nurturing from his mother who had birthed him when she was only 14 years old.
He never knew his father until he was an adult.

His teacher stuck by him for that year in 5th grade. Made sure he always had pencils and paper and lunch and nutritious snacks after school.

Recently Jerome contacted his dear teacher and they met for lunch.

He has a wife and 5 children now. And a good job. With therapy and realization he easily talked to his once young teacher who found a little kid. A little kid that was confused, angry, and disruptive. And needed to know someone cared. Someone to guide him in the right direction.

He told her during this reunion that SHE was the reason he found a purpose in life.
He spoke to her saying “You were beyond giving me hope. You gave me life. I am the man I am today because of you.”

The ultimate compliment for any teacher.

His hierarchy of reverence was God, Grandma and his teacher from 5th grade!
And of course, his wife and children.

One child. One life.
And a chance to find hope and purpose in a crowded chaotic life growing up.

(This is a composite story that has been fictionalized)

By: Debbie Moore-Black, RN

I cradled  my guitar in my arms.
The dearest Christmas present I would ever receive from my daddy.
Christmas was always a time for great anticipation but easily let down when we would discover 2 presents each under the tree.

My two presents would be an extra large polyester shirt. The second present was matching pants with an elastic waistband.

Extra large because mom said it would last me longer.

I was a shy child. And lonesome. I had few friends.
My mother was mentally absent with us kids. Negligent. We wore rags in unmatching outfits. Kids laughed at us, while mom wore designer clothes. Dad climbed the executive ladder of IBM. Alcohol was his friend.
Until it wasn’t.
It was a Christmas I’d wake up to with no presents for me.
Daddy opened a closet door and brought out an oddly shaped present. I was clueless.
A guitar. A classical Yamaha guitar.
I was in 3rd grade.
I cradled this guitar like it was a baby.
I insisted on lessons, taught myself also how to play.
And suddenly “All my troubles seemed so far away”….. the Beatles came to life. Eleanor Rigby, Yesterday, Let it be…
Stairway to heaven.
I learned them all

My guitar became my best friend.
How could my dad know?
I named her “Stella”

I haven’t played it for a long time.
It’s officially 60 years old.

I remember strumming to my babies as they grew. I played a few tunes with my guitar at church “folk” mass. A few tunes at church for fund raisers for the homeless.

My sacred guitar may have emotionally saved my life.

Today I ordered new strings for my guitar.

Today I picked her up and strummed “My guitar gently weeps”…. And Yesterday and Stairway to heaven….
I didn’t forget those famous songs.
Stella fit so nicely in my hands.

I felt her breathe new life in me!!!!!!!

(Photo: me at 17 years old with “Stella” playing to my little brother and his friends. 1973)