Gary Didn’t Die Righty Away, Part One

I Was a Teenage Existentialist #5

So. I was raised with 4 brothers, an all- guy house (“Your poor mother!”), no sisters, which I did not notice at the time. Girls were an alien subculture to me, which I knew nothing about. Guys were the landscape that I knew, guys were the ones who did things, guys were TV cowboys and army men and news announcers and Presidents, women existed to help guys do the real stuff, Mom was a Mom, that was her job, I never saw her preggers, coming in last, of course, so my ignorance was vast. Guys were expected to be tough, to take a hit, to take a beating in the world, to figure it out on our own, to learn how to take the punishment, to not complain or care about things that might damage the body. Feelings were for girls, so we were emotionally stunted from the get-go. In football practice, there was a thing called “getting your bell rung” which I think might actually be getting a concussion. We were supposed to shake it off. Men were Cannon Fodder, in general, raised to be soldiers for some future war, who were trained to die in combat, and until then, well, quitcher bitchin’. The song “Shapes of Things” by The Yardbirds had the line “Come tomorrow/ will I be older? Come tomorrow/may be a soldier. Come tomorrow/ will I be bolder than today?” So the lurking question of getting drafted was just part of your everyday landscape,, if you were a guy.

I remember reading about a businessman in Chicago who said “I’m supposed to work my tail off, support the family, have a big life insurance policy, and die of a heart attack at 65, so my wife has a good settlement to live on.” He was serious.

Girls always complained, because they had Standards of how things should be; guys never complained, because they did not. There were standard-issue trips for us boys to the ER to get stitches, seven across the bridge of my nose, four across the side of the head, plus a shiner from trying to catch a baseball with my eye (I lost it in the sun), bumps and scrapes and bruises, 24 on each shin at one point, and that’s with no parental corporal punishment- yet. Once David (the oldest) broke his forearm skiing down a hill across the street from our house, with Tom Schaeffer, Bruce’s best pal (Bruce was second oldest). Guy stuff.

But I learned early on not to complain, that crying was discouraged, it was selfish, it was trying to get attention, it was Girly, it was Sissy (I did not know what that meant, I did not know what “Gay” was until I got into college, when two of my friends were gay and everyone knew it but me). I think when Jung talks about our “shadow,” as I barely understand it, he is talking about how something in us is repressed, or neglected, and we need to address that aspect of our personality and try and bring it out of repression. There was a great deal of repression; repression of confidence, of sexuality, of self-expression, of self-worth, of self-confidence. A confident person was arrogant, “he thinks he’s a big deal, he’s so hoity-toity.” Like Dean Martin. Part of that is patriarchy, part of that is the Norwegian/Germanic repression of children; part of that is Lutheran repression via Works Righteousness. You aren’t supposed to do good things because it will look like you are doing it to gain public acclaim, and God’s love, which is given, not earned, so quit showing off “how good you are.” That’s how it comes down. You end up very conflicted.

But in our house, there was the central cause of our repression of self, because we weren’t the ones who needed help. That was Gary, son #3. Put Gary First. And that was not all bad. In fact, it may be the central blessing of my childhood. Scott (fourth) was talking to Mom once, she said she thought of Gary as “the family tragedy.” Scott said “I thought he was the family blessing!” And that’s how I (#5) thought of him. Like we were given Gary to care for.

Back then Gary was the one who needed attention, and Mom was the one we were supposed to not create trouble for, because she had her hands full, dad being fragile and all, when Dad might keel over from a heart attack if he got mad, and your brothers are busy with stuff that is more important than You. So Keep Quiet, don’t make trouble. Do not express needs, do not ask for special treatment, that’s being selfish to ask for something. You are Low Man on the Totem Pole. The inevitable byproduct was Solitude, and it was a given.

The thing about Gary was he was born with a cyst in the back of head, which prevented the growth of his cerebellum. It was called Dandy Walker Syndrome. You haven’t heard of it. He was born in 1951. Dandy Walker Syndrome had been reported 6 times in the Twin Cities, and there were two doctors who had operated on the patients, One was my uncle, Dr. C. Kent Olson, mom’s brother, a neurosurgeon and Marine combat medic in the Pacific in WW2, whom we called Uncle Doc. He was the proverbial Brain Surgeon. He had operated three times on this condition, all successfully; the other doctor, whoever it was, had all three of his patients die. So my Mom, Elaine Olson Seal, insisted that her brother do the operation, in violation of the standard protocol of not operating on relatives. Kent did the operation, Gary lived. Kent made the joke a few times to Gary, “Gary, I don’t know about your brothers, but I know you’ve got brains, because I’ve seen 'em!”

I remember once I was about 3 or 4, and I was trying to get Gary to do something, like tie his shoe. I was trying to show him how the way my brothers had shown me how, and he couldn’t do it, and I got frustrated and mad, and I yelled at him, and Mom grabbed by arm with a firm grip and brought me into the next room, and in controlled anger but a deeper sadness told me “Gary isn’t smart enough to do that. That’s why he goes to a special school. He’s not smart enough to go to your school. ” And when I understood what she was telling me, I cried. I felt bad that I got mad, I felt bad thatGary wasn’t like the rest of us, I felt bad that Mom felt so bad. It registered deeply. It created an awareness that All People are Not Created Equal. People have to deal with conditions they did not create. And the undertow was this: Gary did not deserve to be mentally disabled; therefore I did not deserve to be mentally gifted. (Who do you think you are?)

Doctors told my mom that they did not expect Gary to live a year. Then they told her he won’t make it to 5. Then 10. Then 20. Gary lived a good life to age 64. And his life was the central defining characteristic of my existence.

#30#