Telling the Truth

connecting the dots of my life

Tag: Self Identity

Broken pieces of memories

Broken pieces of memories
Gone forever
Or never there in the first place
Play hide and seek
Inside her tormented mind

Who am I?
Where am I?
What just happened
Or didn’t happen
And where is my mother?
Did she just try to call me
On the phone and you
Hung up on her?

You stand there
Looking at me as though
I should know you
Or remember something about you
That has disappeared

You say I had an accident
But I don’t remember it
And you don’t have any pictures
So I think you’re lying
Trying to insinuate your way
Into my life if not into
My worldly treasures of which I have
Precious few left

I’m so tired….
When will I wake up and
Or better yet,
Never wake up at all….

Written in light of my youngest sister’s recent health emergency. This isn’t directly about her. It’s about our human fragility and how unexpected events might impact our sense of time, place and self-identity.

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 28 January 2020
Image found at



inauspicious death
haunts her widow soul
her mother heart

children don’t die
before their mothers Read the rest of this entry »

Early Marriage | Part 22


~~~Our son, born in Boston, August 1998

July to August, 1968. I watch and feel my protruding belly take prodding kicks at all hours of the day and night from this unknown-gender life inside me. It’s almost impossible to get comfortable lying down. Or sitting down. Or standing up from sitting down. I have to pee every time I turn around. The Boston heat is sweltering.

I go to the Boston Lying In Hospital Clinic regularly, watch my weight and diet like a hawk, and arrange for a 6-week leave in August and September from my position as organist/choir mistress at the First United Presbyterian Church of Cambridge. I also arrange to work in the dean’s office at the Harvard Law School until two weeks before the due date.

D and I need to move out of Mr. Griswold’s house by Christmas. We know we’ll have an apartment, thanks to friends moving out in the fall. We’re at the top of the waiting list, though they’re not sure when they’ll move out, or how much furniture and baby equipment they’ll take with them.

Even though I’m the oldest of four daughters and have experience taking care of my sisters, I’m anxious! Not so much about giving birth as about the kind of mother I’ll be. Will I know what to do and when to do it? Will D be able to help me, or will I be pretty much on my own?

And then there are D’s fears. He’s been a child of divorce since he was 3 ½ years old. He didn’t see his father often; his single mother raised him the majority of the time. What does it mean for him to be a father?

I’m a worrier from way back. My intuition, experience and observation of friends tell me this could be the end of life as I know it. I fear that once again I’ll lose my identity as Elouise. Instead of being Mrs. D, I’ll become Mom. Generic Mom. The kind people tell bad jokes about or worship as though Moms were at least near-perfect.

Money, time, health (mine and Baby’s), David’s studies, my need for a life of my own. All this and more weighs on me. It feels like getting married without being ready. Maybe a bit like driving without a license, training program or instruction book. We already have Dr. Spock’s latest edition, but I haven’t read it yet.

In the end, these unknowns softened us, even though we were both anxious. It was like getting married. We didn’t have a clue what was coming next, yet we were committed to getting through it together.

I don’t think my experience was strange or unusual. Yet that didn’t make it easier. Just the thought, much less the reality of being responsible for the life and wellbeing of a helpless baby was enough to set me off.

There’s grace in not knowing too much about what’s coming down the road. Or about what you’ve already met up with down that road back there called Childhood. I was clueless about my past—not about what happened, but about how it had shaped me.

Not knowing this may have been a disadvantage. But it may also have been a gift. I didn’t feel pre-programmed to become a certain kind of parent, as though history would inexorably repeat itself.

I’d always thought the process of giving birth would be the most difficult part of all. It wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t the nightmare I expected. Becoming a parent was much scarier and way too real. No going back. We’re it! Coming, ready or not!

At first it was stranger than strange. Yet from the moment our son was born, something began happening in us. It happened when we held him and fed him. Watched him breathe in and out. Counted his tiny fingers and toes and responded to his cries and baby talk.

He was part of the family now, and we were at least ready enough.

To be continued….

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 8 July 2015
Photo credit: DAFraser, August 1968

Early Marriage | Haiku and Poem

Last December I published a longer version of this post. The portion below covers the period of time I’m writing about, our first year of marriage. Directly across the street from our apartment was an auto body shop open 24 hours a day. That’s because wrecks happen 24/7. Read the rest of this entry »

Early Marriage | Part 3


Park Street Church Sanctuary, Summer 2003

It’s Fall 1965. I’m 22 years old, just barely married. Whatever ‘women’s rights’ means, it hasn’t reached me yet. The word ‘feminism’ is unknown in my small circles. As far as I know, the term ‘sexism’ has yet to be invented. Read the rest of this entry »

White and Female

I used to think I only had to deal with being born female; being white was just an accident. I wrote this piece in the mid 1990s. I’ve grown since then, yet the issues named here are alive and well where I live. I’ve reformatted and edited it lightly so it’s easy to read.

* * * * *

My family is white. Read the rest of this entry »

What’s on my mind? | Dear Diane

I just found this short piece plus two others Diane sent me via email. I’m adding them to my Dear Diane collection. For those who are new: Diane, my Sister #3, died of ALS in 2006. She wrote a number of pieces like this. Enjoy! Read the rest of this entry »

I Don’t Do Dreams | Part 2 of 2

This blog is about connecting the dots in my life. Part 1 reminds me of something I share with thousands of young children.  Here’s my attempt to show and tell what I mean. Read the rest of this entry »

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