Sand Castles and Fairy Tale Endings

Part II: Establishing the Frame of Support

Author: Robbie (gigglgrl26@hotmail.com)

Spoilers: Up through the Season 8 finale "Lockdown." However, bare in mind I might have taken some liberties along the way.

Archive: Ask and you shall receive.

Disclaimer:  While I'd love to be able to lay claim to every character in the story, not a one really belongs to me.  They are the property of the big shots at NBC, Warner Brothers, Amblin Productions etc …

Summary: Musings on the generality of life from a beloved ER character. Read on to find out whom.

Note: I'm upping the rating to PG-13 for some minor swearing and possibly offensive subject matter. 

Many thanks to CorruptCarbyChickie and Chanie for reading this over for me.  You guys rock my socks!

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            My life hasn't been perfect by any means.  Since the day of my birth, there's been a struggle to survive on this earth. 

The eventful story of that fateful day goes somewhat like this: January 10, 1969, a very pregnant Maggie Wyczenski woke up with shooting pains going up and down her back.  Shortly after, as the pain intensified and a puddle of wetness appeared in the bed, she made a frantic call to her husband, Joseph.  Joe rushed home from his job as a mechanic at the gas station, and the happy newlyweds made their way to the nearest hospital.

            Nearly 18 hours later, Maggie found herself in the delivery room, struggling to give birth to the stubborn child.  As the infant's head finally lowered into the opening of the birth canal, the doctors were chagrined to see that the umbilical cord wrapped tightly around her neck.  Dusky and barely breathing, Maggie and Joe's baby girl was whisked away to the NICU, not to leave the hospital until she was nearly 6 weeks old.  

            That night in the hospital after giving birth to me was the night that Maggie had her first Bi-Polar episode.  Before that, she'd had absolutely no indication that anything was wrong.  Twenty-three years of being a normal person without any medical problems.

            In fact, Maggie had always been very popular in her youth.  She'd been captain of the varsity cheerleading squad both junior and senior years and was prom queen at her senior prom. She was the type of person everybody wanted to be friends with.  Beautiful, and friendly, with a bubbly, fun loving personality. 

             Maggie and Joe were high school sweethearts.  Joe's position as captain of the football team almost insured the meeting of the two teens. They immediately hit it off and from there; their relationship blossomed naturally from a platonic, sodas-after-school-with-classmates-type friendship into a full-blown romance.  Shortly after graduation, they'd proclaimed themselves soul-mates and vowed to marry after college.

            This wish finally came true in the summer of 1966, when they were re-united and promptly got married.  At 23, the couple found out that Maggie was pregnant.  At that point, their life was perfect, plucked from a fairy-tale.  They were both young and healthy.  They were both earning a fairly decent income at their jobs.  They lived in a quaint little house with a lush green lawn and a white picket fence and a baby was on the way.

They were happy. 

            But as sure as life is no fairytale, everything suddenly changed. Life was no longer perfect; their relationship no longer flawless.  Maggie was sick. The new baby was sick.  And all happiness was temporarily (or so they thought) put on hold.

And so it began.  The beginning of the end. The end of the beginning.  A never ending circle of blissful highs and rock-bottom lows.  Maggie and Joe, barely adults themselves, were thrust into the real world; the world full of tragic pain, sorrow and not-so-happy endings. Thrust head first into situations they'd never even imagined, without warning, as the beasts of fate reared their ugly heads.  The change was sudden, like a fiery red streak smashing into their lives, burning holes into their hearts and leaving all sorts of destruction in its wake that demanded repair. 

The doctors immediately put Maggie on all sorts of drugs to prevent any more outbreaks.  Maggie hated the drugs.  She claimed they stripped her of all creative ability and made her job impossible to do.  Joe struggled between his love and devotion to his wife which made him want to keep her happy, and the knowledge that she needed the meds to remain "normal."

            But normalcy would never again reign in the Wyczenski household.  The next grueling six weeks in the hospital would be spent battling over the medication and its implications.  Heated fights like the two had never before shared would ensue; interrupting the peace outside the solitude of the NICU, where troubled parents leaned upon each other for comfort and Joe and Maggie's own frail newborn fought for her life. The baby that had been expected with such eager anticipation was suddenly an afterthought, among new tribulations.  The tiny being that was supposed to bring them together as a family was breaking them apart inside and out.

            They were stressed, fearing the worst for the baby's future.  Their future as a couple was even more ill-fated.  The angry, hateful words between them could never be taken back.  The terrible hurt was established once and for all, engraining itself like carved messages in the chambers of their hearts.

            When I finally came home at six weeks old, things got a little bit better.  The doctors convinced Maggie she needed to take the drugs in order to care for the baby, whose health was, at best, rocky.  But her ambivalence towards the medication soon morphed into sheer animosity towards life and other things that had once brought happiness. She was quickly fired from her job and was confined to hours at home with only the company of her child. Joe was forced to take a second job to be able to support his wife and the baby and the newly added expenses that had suddenly arisen.  Maggie grew more and more depressed as time dragged on, and the euphoria of their synthetic happiness wore off. 

            The sickness acted like a stake that was driven between them.  A stake that soon morphed into a wooden fence, finally becoming a solid stone wall neither could cross.  This was my world those early years of my life, which is the crucial time a baby bonds with their family.  I was there for the fights, the fits of blind rage, yelling, screaming, hysteria, and sobbing.  I watched as they talked less and less, distancing themselves from each other and from me. 

            It took me a long time to realize that my life wasn't like the life of the other little girls I met and played with.  The realization came gradually when I was about 4.  At that age, I began to see other children interacting with their families and allowed myself to wonder what was so different about my family.  I wondered if something was wrong with my family and why we couldn't be like others. 

            I remember voicing these worries to Mom one night as she gave me my nightly bath.  For as long as I live, I'll never forget the look on her face.  It was indescribable, a motley mix of umpteen emotions, spilling out before my eyes. 

            Not even a month later, mom announced she was pregnant again.  Sure enough, roughly nine months later, my little brother Eric came into this world, with a much less eventful birth than my own.  It was that talk we had prior to Eric's sudden conception that always led me to wonder whether he was a last try to keep my parent's failing marriage together.  Don't get me wrong, I love my brother, but I simply can't shake the feeling that they hoped a new baby would bring them closer as a couple and us closer as a family.

            Unfortunately, things don't often work out the way you'd like.  Sometimes, not only do things not exactly suit the purposes they're supposed to, but they come back to bite you in the ass. Hard.

            And sadly, this was the case yet again; another bullet to add to the ever-growing list of sorrows and failures in the life of Maggie Wyczenski.

            I suppose that Eric's birth really marked the point in my life when I was forced to grow up, and forever lose the innocence of my childhood.  With the stress of the new baby, Maggie snapped.  Joe was never home to help out, and the burden fell entirely on me, aged four. Suddenly everything changed. A new being came to live with us.  He was tiny and red, with shriveled warm skin. He was always with Mom, nursing, being rocked, being sung to, or wailing incessantly in her arms.  His needs were always first, before mine. If I fell and needed a hug, Mom's lap was full.  At that early age, I began to learn how to fend for myself. The way I saw things, he stole my life. Mommy wasn't Mommy anymore.

            And soon, like a mirror image of how things happened the first time around, Maggie got bored of her new responsibilities.  At four years old, I not only lost my mother, but I became one.  It was my job to make sure the baby was fed, clean, changed, content.  At first, I was bitter.  I hated Maggie for making this happen, I hated Joe for never being around, and I hated Eric. 

            But slowly, gradually, I learned to channel that anger into love.  And in retrospect, those early years together are probably the reason that Eric and I are so close.  And as things got easier and he got older, my life got better.  He learned to talk, and I had a pal. 

Then tragedy struck again. Just when things were getting better again, our lives were turned upside-down.  It was almost like we were riding on some insane, never ending roller coaster, with sharp turns and stomach-churning drops around every corner.  But this was slightly different.  It was our life. 

I'd just begun school.  Every morning, I would wake up and get dressed.  After a quick breakfast with the family which Daddy insisted on, whether or not Mommy was present, he would drive me the short way to the local elementary school.  I'd spend the morning in the kindergarten classroom, and take the bus home at lunch.  Then one morning, something happened that I have still to this day, never forgotten.

It started out completely normal.  I woke up, got dressed, ate breakfast, and got into the car with Daddy.  Every little detail of that ride is still imprinted in my mind; the color of the shirt he was wearing, the distinct scent of his cologne, the feel of his stubbly face beneath my trembling hand. We pulled out of the driveway, and he turned to me. "Abby dear, Daddy's not going to be coming home tonight." And I looked at him and smiled sweetly.  He turned his eyes back to the road.

I was so damn naive. 

As we continued on the familiar route to the school, I noticed his brow crease together, knitting a strip across his face that vaguely resembled a sting of crochet Mommy had helped me create.  At the next stop-light, he turned to me again. "Sweety, it's going to be awhile until I might be able to see you again, but always remember how much your Daddy loves you." Again, I looked in his direction and smiled, nodding my head as the light flipped to green.  As we pulled into the school parking lot, he took my hand in his. "I guess this is good-bye, honey.  Can you give Daddy a kiss?" I was oblivious to his meaning, only picking up on the fact that this was more serious than the usual good-bye kiss he asked me for.  In my head, I can still hear my tiny voice piping up with a high pitched, "Bye-bye!" and see the younger version of myself lean across the seat and run a tiny hand across his stubbly chin.  I see myself lean forward, place a tentative kiss on his cheek, and turn around to get out of the car and into the school.

And that would be the last time that I would ever lay eyes on Joseph Wyczenski, the man who called himself my father.  I would learn later that he ran off to Vegas with one of the female clerks at the gas station.  For awhile, he sent monthly update letters with money.  Slowly, the letters grew shorter, the money came in smaller amounts, and finally they ceased to come at all.  My fantasies that he would return with a new wife and whisk me away to a normal life trickled to a stop, and I began to face the life that was ahead of me.

You would think that as time wore on; my memory would be obscured by other experiences, new memories, or simply the effects of time.  Not true.  It's almost funny how the memories that we retain the best are those that have caused us pain. To this day, every time I catch a whiff of the cologne he used, or touch a red corduroy fabric bearing a likeness to that of the jumper I wore that day, these images come back to haunt me.  I can see the entire scene play out in my head like a movie, complete with sharp color picture and surround sound.

After that fateful morning, things do get a little bit fuzzier.  I can see Mom crying, Eric crying.  But never me.  As my fragile world came down around me, I struggled to hold things together, to be strong for my distraught mother and brother.  I began to build walls around my feelings, bottling them up inside and sealing them tightly.  I convinced myself that my bastard of a father had never loved any of us anyway and eventually came to terms with the fact that it was just Mom, Eric, and me. 

At that point, I was young and innocent enough to think that if I never let my emotions show, they would dissipate and I wouldn't have to deal with them.  The hypothetical bottle of emotions inside me would never open, if I sealed it tightly enough.  I could handle it.  Just suck it up and smile became my mantra.  You're too good to cry over him, I assured myself.  And to this day, I have difficulty opening up to people.  They say the habits you pick when you're young last a lifetime.  Whenever I feel pain or sorrow, my body goes on auto-pilot and I suck it up and smile.  Tried and true, the method seems like it should work, but somehow I always reach a breaking point.  A point where you're forced to deal with things, although your method doesn't necessarily help things much, you move on. 

            We all healed in our separate ways, and at times I would almost say we were happy. I have memories of us laughing at the dinner table or on the couch in front of the television.  Memories of hosing each other off with the garden hose on hot days in the summer, building forts in the snow in the bitter cold winter, raking leaves and jumping in the tidy piles during the fall, and picnics in the local park every spring.  When we were little and Maggie was having a good day, we could get away with anything: finger painting the walls of the living room, eating s'mores for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, or skipping school to go to the zoo. 

            Her bad days were worse, but we learned to live with those too. As Eric and I got older, we took care of Maggie.  I progressed from elementary to middle school, getting fairly good grades.  I was a quiet, high achiever, with few friends and a very inactive social life. I came home right after school every day to attend to Eric and sometimes Maggie, which left me no time to join extracurricular activities.  The inactivity of my life outside the house came as a hard blow to Maggie's ego.  I was the exact opposite of her in high school.  Where she'd been outgoing and popular, I was shy and dull.  Where she'd been involved in many activities, I confined myself to the house and concentrated on my studies. 

            From an early age, I swore that I would make something of my life.  I made sure that I did well in school to get a good start so that my adult life would better.  I struggled to stay ahead, to stay afloat in the pool of sorrows.  I couldn't drown.

            And life continued much as it had before.  Good times, bad times, times in between.  Before I knew it, I was off to college.  Off to begin a new chapter of my life, a chapter I hoped would be shrouded with luck and pleasure, love and happiness.

            Reminiscing about my early life isn't something that has always been easy.  Despite how long ago it was, I just can't help the feelings of unresolved anger and resentment that arise.  It's like suddenly, I'm four years old again and all of the tender wounds are opened and gushing with emotions that I never dealt with.  I'm angry and hurting; and once again the pain I feel brings me back to a time when these events weren't 30 years old.  Unexpectedly, my veins are throbbing with sentiments that can't be cured. 

It used to be that I would lose myself all over again.  All it took was a short while with my thoughts and questions about the past and it would send me into a bout of depression.  An instantaneous spiraling downwards into the depths of my unrequited soul as all progress with overcoming things I'd made flew out the window.  Years of therapy and healing would be washed down the drain in seconds. 

But things are different now that I'm happy.  Even if I've never forgiven or forgotten the past, I can deal with things so much better now.  It's just one of the amazing things motherhood has done for me.  Every time I'm angry with my parents, all it takes is a look into the cherub-like faces of one of my daughters.   The overwhelming pride and love I feel just by seeing them is enough to overpower any bitterness that still exists within me.  And the ability to cope with my feelings allows me the opportunity to reflect upon my life.  Lately, reflection has been giving way to forgiveness. 

I sigh again. The basic shape of their castle has been constructed.  The girls are beginning to shape the wet sand from an amorphous mass into a series of finer details … towers, columns, and designs on the walls as the beginnings of the moat are starting to take shape.  Darkness is fast approaching, but for now, the fleeting light from the setting sun envelops me like a downy comforter against the breeze.  Seeing my daughters, products of the love between my husband and me, fills my heart with a bursting joy.  For once, I'm completely satiated in life. 

For once, I'm truly happy.    

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Authors note: I really appreciate all the kind reviews.  While I feel it's important not to write just to get feedback, it does help fuel inspiration for continuance on my part.  For that reason, as usual, I'd love to hear thoughts, comments, and suggestions.  Helpful criticism is welcome too, should you have something of that nature to share.  I have another couple of parts planned if this first chapter following the prologue is well received, so let me know.  Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed.