#14:|FRIENDSHIP|MEDIUM|ENGAGEMENT|LOVE|LETTERS|
My Parents’ Love Story
Letter #14 Replying to James Edward Young
Where grand gestures are reserved for romantic relationships, one man decided to break the mold and take his friendship to the next level.
On bended knee, Medium author James Edward Young proposed a bond of friendship. To seal this bond, we would write to each other on this platform.
I hope you can stop by and spend some time reading our letters. I am not quite sure if our life stories are your cup of tea; however, I am sure you will bust out a giggle, fall to the floor and laugh out loud, fart, pee on yourself, have a stomach ache from laughing or, like me, often cry with tears of joy.
Who knows?
Maybe, just maybe, the world will witness more friendship proposals on bended knee-and a whole lot of love.
A link will be provided below for all other past letters between James and Love.
We hope you enjoy this unique journey!
December 17, 2023
Dear James,
Way!!! Hell of a surprise! I get to meet your parents? Really? Aren’t we going too fast as friends here?
Here is what you wrote:
Hi
— don’t forget to eat organic black seed oil . If you don’t, Santa will know. Santa sees everything you know. You know what Santa told me? You don’t know ? ? ? ? I thought you knew because I don’t have a clue. Well, what we do now? Wait am I asking for advice from you about how I should write a letter to you. No, seriously, Santa told me to introduce you to Mom and Dad. Mom and Dad would love to meet you for Christmas. Mom, meet my wonderful friend Love. Dad, don’t embarrass me. In a deeper voice than mine, — I’m glad to meet you Love. Why are you scraping the bottom of the barrel hanging out with this reprobate ? ? ? ? Let me explain something to you Love. My Dad was a college professor. He would go round on campus and tell all my teachers to be extra hard on me and do not under any circumstances cut me a break. He was laughing but he was also deadly serious. Dad always had jokes and so did Mom ….. I grew up around a couple of comedians, so I guess I can say I was born this way. What’s that you say Dad?
James, meet Mom and Dad. Gloria and Ron.
My mom and dad had a whirlwind romance. Mom was Miss Hawaii in the 60’s at 18, and her prize was to tour the Philippine islands, while my dad, 28 years old, just got back from Spain, graduating with his Doctorate in Law. Here’s the story of their wonderful love story that happened as a coincidence.
Well, dad, the most eligible bachelor who just graduated with his Master’s from Columbia University and his Doctorate in Law from Madrid, Spain was home while his mother was cooking up a storm to marry him off, as he needed a family photo if he was about to get into politics.
His best friend Rod, called dad one night as he was scheduled to be Miss Hawaii’s escort. Rod told dad that he had a really bad stomach and could not make the event if my dad could stand in for him for just that event, one night, one dance. My dad, did not hesitate to accept. He was at the time truly the eligible bachelor.
A week later…this is what happened.
My dad flew to Hawaii, and asked my mom to marry him. They met for only one night, one dance and that’s all she wrote.
Mind you, I was the eldest, so my parents thought I could do the same, so at 18, the first time they found out I was dating in college, they asked the guy to see them and marry me off. Which was by the way, a disaster marriage. Which I had to prove to my parents, that their love story, doesn't necessarily need to be mine. But, I was the child that couldn’t say “no” to my parents, I did not want their hearts to break.
So there I sat, my hands tied to a physically and mentally abusive marriage for eleven years. If I stayed with my dad’s choices, who believed marriages should be life-long. I would already have been brutally killed and my ex in jail.
Such is life…
Two things I’ve learned. First, I can’t live my parent’s happy ever after.
Second, I can’t be my parents’ happy ever after. I lived my entire life trying to prove one thing! That they would one day be proud of my accomplishments. What a load of bull crap! They both died without a word. That was all I needed. I didn’t need to be them. Different time, different world. Women are to wed off as family partnerships, women were not supposed to be successful with a career but cooking in the kitchen.
For a child born in the 60’s, I needed to understand the time when my parents lived. Once I understood their pressures, their cultures, their upbringing, I was able to move on from their expectations of me. I used to be enraged by their decisions and disciplinary methods. We lived in a different time and I let all the ill feelings for my parents go.
Mom passed away in 2010, and dad in 2005.
Now, to your dad’s hilarious medical story. I don’t think I could match yours…I am not sure if I have a story about a body orifice. Let’s do a funny one instead.
I had a blueberry scone and a hot cup of coffee when I started reading your story yesterday. I think I did not finish the scone and the coffee that ruined my momentum the whole day as I was cracking up every time I started to write back to you. What a curve ball.
Strike out! For me!
You wrote:
MY HEMORRHOID OPERATION
I am out of the hospital at last and feeling pretty fair except that my taillight is still flickering. However, I am ready to tell you about my operation. First I want to pay homage to that abused and infinitely misinterpreted part of the human body; place the rectum well up on the list of essential and very delicate organs. Just because of its location, out of sight (and out of mind) don’t let anyone kid you about its importance. Because it is the common receptacle in a place appointed to receive all items directed to it, both literally and conversationally, and because it is often the target of a well placed kick, let’s be philosophical about this unworthy treatment of such a delicate rosette. Let’s view the subject with a fair mind even if it is below the belt. Have you ever had hemorrhoids ? Well, brother, if you have, keep them. Don’t let anyone get their fingers on them. I offered mind to science. That was my first mistake. The night before surgery, several deceptive processes took place. First as a toughening up process, the rear end and half of the torso was shaven dry and with a dull blade. (Now I know where discarded razor blades go) Try one on a days growth of beard and then imagine it is being used on a body that’s been growing hair south of the border for over 40 years.. Brother, that’s rough as soon the orderly had finished sandpapering your bottom, he looks at you with great anticipation and says, “I’ll be back in a few minutes to give you your first enema.” You scarcely have time to consider what the effects of this treatment will be before he returns to usher you down the hall to the “john”. He asks you to bend over and very quickly inserts a little greased black rubber tube, about 6 “ long up that sensitive organ which is very sore — otherwise you wouldn’t be there for the operation. Then he releases the clamp on the container of water which you think will never empty. When the orderly says you have about half of it, you warn him that he had better get in the clear because if you have to take more there is apt to be an explosion that will make an atomic bomb burst sound like a popgun. Well after what seems like hours, he removes the tube, you dash for the commode and let go with a blast that should have removed any hemorrhoids you might have had. Having had these piles for only six or seven years, after going through this ordeal you decide they really don’t hurt so much — maybe you should call the whole thing off. Brother, it’s too late. That night, after becoming exhausted from the shave and the too frequent enemas, you go to sleep early — just before the nurse comes in and awakens you to give you a sleeping capsule. This they insist upon, no doubt to prevent you going AWOL during the night. First thing in the morning when you open your mouth to tell the nurse you have decided against the operation, she pops another capsule into it. To make doubly sure you won’t get away a short shot of morphine is then given. Morphine — that deceiver of deceivers — that seducer of willpower — that false hypocritical inducer of hollow friendships. Rolling into surgery even the gleam in the surgeon’s eyes is mistaken for the tender beam of sympathy. Your heavy eyes vaguely take in the assorted knives, hemostats, hoods, bandages and hungry looking assistants. Things are brighter now, however all is right with the world and at this instant you are glad you came. Even the 4 inch needle full of the anesthetic holds no terror for you. In fact you don’t even feel the first needle go in — you don’t even care — your toes tingle and so you just hook them around the lamps on the ceiling and give in completely. That, brother is the big moment — they’ve got you where they want you. With two doctors and four nurses all trying at once to be the first to get their hands on your hemorrhoids, there is a bit of doing down there at what was once your rectum. Then it finally dawns on you why they’re all wearing masks, and your mind goes back to that orderly who gave you the enema — he was totally unprotected — he should’ve worn a chest protector at least. On arriving back in my room I found a couple of nurses to whom I bragged a bit. Being a pretty tough and brave fellow I greeted them with: there’s really nothing to it, it was just a breeze. I realize now they were preparing me for what was yet to come when one of them said “you are still in a jag. “ A little later, the jag started to wear off — you can wiggle your toes again, but you don’t care if you don’t and you wish you hadn’t. For then it hits you so hard, you cannot breathe, and again you don’t care if you don’t. Now searing pains in solid waves penetrate your rear and hit every nerve in your body. For heaven’s sake, you say, they must’ve left a red-hot iron in you or at least a pound of molten lead or both. Every odd second one of those muscles you trusted all of your life pulls your sphincter into contracting spasmodic grasps. It seems that every breath you take must be exhaled through it. Even a couple of morphine shots only dulls it enough to make you realize that you will never eat again even if you live. Following surgery you spend most of your time soaking your supersensitive South Pole in sitz bath. In this bath the water is tempered by an attendant to such a degree that if he can jerk his hand out before his hand is boiled, it isn’t hot enough. If you had any food at this time (which you haven’t) you could feel that all this was for the purpose of cooking it to a pulp. After going through the sitz bath several times, you decide no doubt this is only for the purpose of getting your privates evenly boiled.(Privates, as you know, consist of that part of your anatomy the law requires that be kept covered in public but which are exposed to every Tom Dina and Helen in the hospital. Just to save yourself from rolling around in the bed every five minutes to get into position so that someone can examine your rectum, you take the easy way out and permanently point your exposed rear end toward the door. This allows the surgeon to send them all of the help in the hospital to gaze upon his excellent job of slicing up the rectum without unduly disturbing you. Who can distinguish the examiner by the touch of his hand when raising up for a check? If for no other reason, the hot water bath treatment must be a toughening up course for what is to follow. We will skip the numerous times you try to avoid water, and finally exhausted, have to be catheterized. Those boys in the Air Force have had the experience of relieving themselves into and through a rubber hose, but if they missed having the hose pushed up into the bladder, they have missed one of the greatest unpleasant rites in life, fortunately. We will also skip your numerous efforts to pass air around the wad of gauze with which you are plugged. Eventually however you will get relief — then you call for a nurse to get the plug off of the chandelier. You wouldn’t touch the unsightly thing. Let’s pass over the sleepless nights and the thirsty days and go on to the moment you have dreaded most. Now brother, that awful part of your sojourn begins. Despite the holding back for the several days and despite the so called soft diet in which you have no confidence at all, you must finally answer Mother Nature’s most vicious call. I should mention here that previously that morning a nurse gives you a drink of what might look appealing but it turns out to be mineral oil, so I was unprepared for what was to happen a little while later that day. About 3:30 after visitors had gone, I felt the urge to urinate and by this time I was able to do it nature’s way. I gingerly got out of bed picked up the urinal and released the muscles that I thought controlled of the bladder. When I did this I suddenly discovered that the mineral oil had reached its goal, and frantically I pushed the bill for help. Who should arrive but my favorite nurse a beautiful thing, to see me standing there up to my ankles in ???? Brother, you guessed it I don’t seem to remember when I did get around to urinating. But this was the result of that soft diet. After rushing down the hall 200 feet to the “john” I discovered that I must have been taken off the soft diet unknowingly. So far the worst of this episode has been only humiliation and embarrassment, but now I immediately forgot those trivial things as I sat down on the “can”.. Hanging on to all available support, I let go with the more solid stuff. At this moment and numerous times to follow I was much chagrined with the constant passing of broken bottles old razor blades molten lead and sulfuric acid garnished with barbed wire porcupine quills and beaten up tin cans, a short section of firehose is applied. Next day, you are served with the best looking and most appetizing tray you have yet seen. You take one look at it, and then recall what goes in must come out and you cannot bring yourself to swallow even a mouthful. The nurse assures you the worst is over and you can start taking on a little nourishment at the next meal.
The summer was always memorable. I could meet up with friends and cousins, and we would hang out at the beach. Well, we had a long weekend this summer, one of those holidays and my parents insisted we go with the Borrows family up in the mountains but I wanted to be with my cousins at the beach. I was headstrong, but my mom always trumped any decisions I made, so anything opposite from what I wanted was what mom picked to do. So we did go to the mountains with the Borrows family.
I was going to be a rebel this whole weekend just because my mom decided to do this for spite. So little me at thirteen says, I am going off on my own on Black Saturday and go do some mountain hiking. As soon as my parents left, I ventured out by myself. Thirty minutes in, I fell in a a ditch!
Fell in a freakin ditch. I could not get up because I fractured my knee. As I was trying to think how I would get out of this pickle before my parents got back and I ould get an ass whopping for leaving the house by myself and now getting hurt. My left knee started to swell and turn blue as the evening sky. I on the other hand, started praying. I knew someone would see me and help so I could get back home before my parents got home.
So this is what happened…
A farmer, carried me in a cabbage basket, then joined in the Cinco de Mayo parade and as the parade started heading to the vacation house where we stayed, I started to see my parents walk in the house, watching my stupid ass in a parade in a cabbage basket.
I knew I was getting an ass whooping.
That’s all she wrote…
This is letter #13 from James to Love:
All our recent letters between James Edward Young and Love are here if you’d like to read them:
Join this publication. A special mention goes to the only publication that has given me full, unequivocal support,Francisco Iglesias, publication, Inside the Mind of a Writer.
