Who I am, how I got here, and the people and places that formed me.
I’d bet everyone has heard, “Sticks and stones can break my bones, but names can never hurt me!” Does the memory of a certain face in the schoolyard appear? Hopefully, that taunt isn’t being thrown at you.
Often names are defining tags, such as showing your place in the family hierarchy, like Freddie Junior. Something to consider, as those often morph into “Big” vs “Little” Freddie, or “old” vs “young” Barbara. Not always desirable to the designee!
I gave no thought to naming a child until I listened to a pregnant coworker lament her husband‘s suggestion for their baby. She mentioned how easily a name could turn into a taunt, think “Fatty Patty” or “Piggy Peggy”.
Names can hurt. Perhaps they can’t break bones, but they can inflict a psychological wallop. Maybe the red-faced shame of that taunt gets a desired rise out of the antagonist, and the name sticks for years. A silly, innocent question can turn eight-year-old “Douglas” into “Dum Dum Dougie”. Perhaps Douglas will carry a fear of asking questions into his working career. Maybe he gets overlooked for promotions because of a perceived lack of drive. And let’s remember that “ignorant” and “stupid” aren’t the same thing. Education and experience rectify ignorance, but as the saying goes, “ain’t no fixin’ stupid”.
Consider the name my parents chose for me: Ellen. Not an especially common name, but not unique enough to cause comment. Many names easily lend themselves to shorter versions used with affection. Cynthia becomes “Cindy”. Other names are short enough that they don’t seem to work that way; what is a shorter version of “Karen”? “Kare”?
The television series Dallas was popular in the early years of my hospital laboratory career. “Miss Ellie” was the matriarch of the show, and my coworkers started calling me by that name. My friend, Gwen, shortened it to “Miss Elle”.
When I first met Gwen, she scared the (bad word!)* out of me! She was about 5’10”, slim, with beautiful porcelain skin, blue eyes, and (ahem) a “frank” manner of speaking which included a very potty mouth! She didn’t hold back on her remarks regarding our newly hired manager.
The toxic changes this manager inflicted drew my coworkers into a tight-knit group, which seemed to infuriate him. I could (and may) write essays about working in that environment another time, and if you’ve ever worked under those conditions, you need no examples, but I’ll mention one: personal conversation was strictly forbidden. Even asking “how was your weekend?” could land you in the office for a “conversation.” (Raises hand.)
Gwen found ways around him by carrying a sheaf of paperwork or a maintenance log as a prop. If the manager was verbally berating a coworker (loudly, which happened at least weekly) mere feet from me, the phone at my bench would ring. I’d pick it up and hear her mock him, and I’d have to bite my lip to keep from laughing. When I was on the receiving end, he’d barely step away and my phone would ring. Just to hear “that (bad word!) can go (bad word!) himself!!” was a lifesaver.
If one of us was off, we’d call each other to discuss the latest transgression the manager had committed. Dallas left the air, but Gwen still referred to me as “Miss Elle” which morphed as she drew out the syllables into “MiissssssEllleeeee?” One word.
When I created accounts on the internet, I didn’t realize that people could use their real names. (Ignorance, not stupidity!) I saw “anonymous” or monikers like “CaliCutie” or “Bears4ever”. I chose “Miselle” for my handle.
Everyone faces difficulties in life—health scares, illnesses, deaths, and problems not easily defined. How people react to those situations in others reveals their character. Will they avoid a subject or acknowledge it? Do they sense which is the correct response? Is other’s good fortune celebrated, or are they consumed with jealousy? There is a saying about friendship being the doubling of joy and the dividing of grief. For me, Gwen did both.
Reading this, you’d probably assume that Gwen was my “BFF” and, actually, although very dear, she wasn’t. One tremendous difference between us: I had kids, while she was childless by choice. She had no children to bring to a playdate where we might bond while the kids tumbled in a ball pit, or sit together at a school performance. Children consume a huge amount of your time and energy, so our outside-of-work friendship was mostly phone calls.
Gwen was never idle, constantly improving herself and her finances, while I was overwhelmed by the situations that life flung at me, I lacked the initiative to pull myself out of the place she labeled “the hell hole”. With her encouragement—more of a push—eventually, I quit. Gwen never did. She never got the chance.
I’ve heard, “People make plans, and God laughs.” Early in our friendship, she and her husband planned to retire at 50 and move to Hawaii. Retiring from the “hell hole” at 65 while still working a registry job replaced that goal. Gwen’s “get out of the hell hole card” was a cancer diagnosis. They had been monitoring a small spot in her breast, biopsied it and the adjacent lymph nodes. One of the superb pathologists (underrated heroes of medical care!) who evaluated her lymph nodes noticed a problem that wasn’t the breast cancer. It was lymphoma. She had not one cancer, but two. I can still hear the shock in her voice as she told me.
And so, Gwen began treatments, which could not dampen her positive attitude. She was envious of my thick head of hair, as she bemoaned her thin hair that frizzed. As she lost her hair, she proclaimed her wig “the head of hair she always wanted.” Using a cancer wellness center and the many programs they offered, she put the same energy into her treatment which she put into every aspect of her life.
In the future, targeted treatment will replace the “slash and burn” of cancer treatment. I pray someday cancer will be a minor inconvenience, easily eliminated with one injection or one pill. Over my career, I’ve seen advancements in medicine that seem miraculous.
Gwen came this/close to death. Intubated for an extended period, I’d visit her in the ICU and talk to her, unsure if she heard me. When she regained consciousness and moved to a long-term sub-acute facility, she’d lost the ability to speak. I could lip read her salty opinions of stories I’d tell her. The breast cancer, which was so, so tiny, had been removed, and I thought she was cured, but the lymphoma said otherwise.
Statistics show cancer will touch all of us in our lifetimes; if not ourselves, those we love. My family has not been spared. While we all will pass, cancer is…let’s say, for both the patients and those who love them, you pass through a door into another dimension from which there is no return. Some are cured, others are not, all are changed.
Sometimes, as it draws near, there is an acceptance of death. It’s painful for me to say it—I don’t think Gwen achieved it. She was in and out of consciousness at my last visit. At one point I asked, “Do you know who I am?” and in typical fashion, she rolled her eyes and mouthed something. It might have been, “Of course, you (bad word)!” That would have been Gwen.
I told her she was a fighter; she had fought back before and would do it again. Her eyes welled—which was astounding. In decades of knowing her, I’d only seen her cry once. Once. She rarely let anyone see her tender heart, no matter what. Her fortitude was incredible.
She passed a few months before she turned 65. You could say “God laughed” or question why she couldn’t have that reward of retirement. I’ve thought both.
As we go through life, I believe people leave their fingerprints all over our souls. When my head says “no, you can’t”, there are some who insist “yes, you can” and they sustain me. Incredibly, I have several of those. Even better, I’m married to one. They don’t let me give up when I sure as heck want to. I hope you are as fortunate as me.
One of those was Gwen.
Every time I type the name “miselle” I remember a friend whose imprints shall never be erased.
*My late father never swore. That’s a topic for another time.