When my husband had visitations rights, I was a whirlwind of emotions. What to say to his kids, what to do with them, how to hide this unfortunate disease. I was just released from a mental hospital, and I felt the sensations in my head like spinning and twirling about, as if I were riding a wild Octopus ride at an amusement park. I felt like jumping and down, not on purpose, wondering how I was suppose to react and talk. I, no sooner than later, would need to face the self I had lost in the institution and gather strength to resonate a healthy routine. Figure out activities for the kids for the day. The children were three, seven, and eleven. David, youngest, then Becky, and Cathy was the oldest. We went roller skating together, hiked, explored, picnicked, took a journey from Oregon. Cathy kept the kids in line, most of the time, like a precious little mother. She had bobbed hair and was a blue-eyed blonde- nurturing and kind. During the kids’ visits, I was lethargic, so I was happy to leave my time with the kids to my husband, as he so enjoyed playing his role of being dad and making a difference in each one of their lives. Sometimes I would feel secluded and hung out in Joe’s office shutting out the world behind me, typing letters on his old Underwood type writer. I felt bad that there wasn’t anything more I could do, but I struggled just to survive those days. I don’t know what I would have done without the kids visiting us. They were a bright spot in our lives. The photo is of Cathy, 40 years later,
and her husband, Mike, who is a Fireman. I am so proud of her.