Rubber Dolls Part IV: An Intimate Embrace

Once Mila appeared to be past the heartbreak of a romance that ended, she set her mind on new prospects. What better place to find a good guy than a church singles group? It took a couple of years of potlucks, but she found her pot of gold at the end of the pew. Seventeen years younger, the man I’ll call Ken was all in for good meals, a vivacious mate, and Mila’s lovely home in the manicured 55-plus development. 

 

We found Ken to be intelligent, gregarious, and conversational. After college, he served as a medic in the Marines, and later earned an LVN to work in emergency rooms and nursing homes. During trips to Texas and the East Coast, Mila met both of his parents, and he accompanied her to a high school reunion in Kentucky where he met more of our family. They appeared to be very devoted, but did see a couple’s therapist after a couple of years to sort out relationship issues. 

 

What had started as a whirlwind of concerts in the park, day trips, parties, and dancing at local clubs began to wind down about a year later. By 2014, Mila had dropped her volunteer work, and cut back on gym and knitting projects to focus on Ken’s and her business ventures. Initially, they were selling legal insurance, soon followed by miracle skincare, and later, by alkaline water, and even a brain supplement. I found it nearly impossible to talk to my sister without her trying to sign me up to her sales team for the product du jour. 

 

She and Ken attended Toastmasters groups, Chambers of Commerce socials, farmers’ markets, church gatherings, and singles events, all with one goal in mind, recruiting people for their multi-level marketing teams. Whenever they went to a restaurant, Ken pitched their waiter before he gave his order. One of Mila’s friends reported that Ken knocked on doors in her senior apartment building for the same purpose. In at least one instance, he stuck his foot in the door so the elderly lady couldn’t close it. 

 

Only later would I discover Mila paid the bills for nearly all of their business expenses and memberships while he drove her car, avoided rent, and occupied her living room with electronic devices with cables winding in every direction. Since Ken’s older model car was in need of paint and repairs and sat idle in the carport, we suspected he had little or no income. Dan and I would later learn Mila’s retirement income, social security checks, credit cards, and loans financed purchases they couldn’t afford, with only minimal sales. We were suspicious of Ken’s motives and lack of financial responsibility, unwilling to even repair his car so he could drive it.  

 

Mila had fared pretty well with her bipolar illness since moving to the San Diego area. But a storm was brewing. She didn’t want us to know, but she stopped taking her anti-psychotic medications in early 2017 because she believed the miracle brain supplement Ken sold and she’d been taking would cure her bipolar. She found a doctor at the “Institute for Longevity” who wrote a prescription to support her decision. Dan and I had already warned against ever stopping her meds. We also encouraged her to assume more ownership of her car and make Ken pay his share of the rent. 

 

On Mother’s Day weekend, I visited Betsy and her partner at their cozy condo in the St. Johns Bridge neighborhood of Portland. Driving me to their home, she pointed out the antique bridge with patina-encrusted arches over the river, and my phone rang. Amy said we needed to talk, and I should call her back once I got settled. It was about Mila. 

Betsy’s living room was decorated in soft hues of blue, with a low shelf of vintage album covers stacked along one wall, and colorful glass pieces perched in a high window sill on the opposite wall. I sat next to her and returned Amy’s call, anxiety pulsing like a distant siren in my head. Amy’s voice was slow and precise as she told us her husband, Dustin, had gone out to a local club with a group of friends the night before. When he gazed around the dark room, Dustin spotted Ken with another woman. Startled and confused, he and his buddy kept an eye on Ken and his companion, who sat close for most of the evening, and eventually held each other in an intimate embrace. Ken never noticed Dustin.  

 

Rubber Dolls Part Four concludes a preview to the memoir I’m writing about my sister and me. I welcome your comments below or via email: vicki.beck@yahoo.com.

Rubber Dolls Part III: A Bicycle and a Breakup

Maintaining a healthy lifestyle was nearly a religion for Mila. Early on, she figured bipolar was challenging enough, so she did everything in her power to minimize the risk of other problems like heart disease and cancer which ran in our family. But there was more, she frequently reminded me. The lithium to control her bipolar illness could take a toll on her kidneys, and doctors in San Francisco warned she had early markers of diabetes and macular degeneration. 

 

I admired the way she tried to protect her health. Mila took her meds regularly, and steered clear of anything like tobacco, alcohol, or pot, to avoid the risks they might pose. She drank cranberry juice to protect her kidneys, switched to a sugar substitute called Stevia to keep diabetes at bay, and always wore sunglasses to avoid blindness in later life. She also drank green tea and cooked vegan, including tasty meals of lentil soup, kale salads, and other veggie delights. Spinach became a staple of her diet. And her knowledge of medical breakthroughs, nutrition, and miracle supplements in the news was impressive, but would later make her more vulnerable to expensive multi-level marketing schemes. 

 

Although she stayed fairly focused on her physical health, one of the downsides to Mila’s bipolar illness was a lack of organizational skills, on full display during the move Dan and I orchestrated from San Francisco. 

After her furniture was unloaded in San Diego, she was so despondent from fatigue and the episode with the homeless guy, I had to set up her kitchen, unpack and organize her clothes, and take her shopping for new supplies. My hope was that she’d be able to maintain it once we finished. Despite my repeated attempts through the early years, disorganization won, and a new person would eventually enter the scene to raise that bar.

In the meantime, there was another challenge Mila took on with gusto. Now settled in her new home with the warmer San Diego climate so much to her liking, she felt a void, and was eager to share her life with a man. Besides, "married people live longer," she said, like it was part of her healthy diet. Within weeks, she’d scoured the dating websites to identify someone who might fit the bill. One day she called to report she’d be having coffee that afternoon with someone she met online. Her voice rippled with excitement. My enthusiasm peaked, too, but so did a red flag. I reminded her not to give him her address until she got to know him better, and she assured me she knew the rules of online dating, so no worries.  

 

All night long, she didn’t answer her phone, so I went to bed with wild scenarios in my head. The next day, the phone rang early afternoon and it was Mila. My tight chest could relax now. The new beau surprised her with a bicycle because he knew she didn’t have a car, and delivered it to her house. I held my breath and waited for the rest of the story. Afterwards, he made dinner for her at his house. Within a week, he was staying with her most nights, and within a few months, he revealed he’d met someone new online. Mila was shocked. He told her like it was no big deal, she said, with her pulling the information out of him.

 

Naturally, she was devastated. And I was disappointed, too. After the three-year fiasco with a homeless man Mila somehow thought she could help, she should meet someone responsible and caring. The new beau seemed like a decent guy, and they appeared truly devoted at family events. 

 

The result was disturbing. Mila soon became confused and spiraled downward, calling paramedics daily for a ride to the ER. First, she couldn’t remember if she’d taken her meds or not, then she feared she was having a stroke, and finally, she sent an email to her ex-beau stating she wanted to kill me and take my husband. It would be weeks before she stabilized again. Even months later, as we drove to a doctor’s visit, she confessed she’d also called a suicide line for help after the breakup. I was saddened to recognize she wouldn't call us for help, and was unlikely to confide in us. I wondered if her therapist even knew the details. She presented a cavalier front for us, proclaiming she’d find another candidate online.

 

Even though she lived nearby, we couldn’t save Mila from herself, and she wouldn’t necessarily share her true feelings. Dan reminded me I wasn’t her mother and I couldn’t keep tabs on her. But I’d been looking out for her since I was fourteen years old. It was tough during those high school years. When we both left Kentucky as adults, it became easier to manage by phone with hundreds or thousands of miles between us. I could go on with my life and put her problems aside, at least temporarily. It was much harder now, with her living close by again. 

Rubber Dolls Part II: Life in California

For thirty-three years, Mila lived in the bustling Richmond District of San Francisco, not far from Golden Gate Park. When I traveled north to visit, we’d walk to dinner a few blocks from her apartment on 12th Avenue to revel in Chinese cuisine on Clement Street, a trendy section of the city that’s been coined the New Chinatown in recent years. Afterwards, the brightly lit shops were perfect for browsing everything from paintings of Oriental landscapes to jewel-colored silk pajamas, their cord buttons shaped like flowers. We might take an early morning stroll the next day along the pond on Lake Street, a soft wind inviting us to join the parade of locals jogging, pushing baby strollers, and sprinting to catch a bus, their purses and briefcases swinging. One time we visited the vineyard-drenched hillsides of Napa Valley to sample the region’s riches and purchase a favorite for washing down crusty bread and cheese on the lawn of the winery. Heading home in the hot afternoon, Mila took a page from the hippies’ playbook of the sixties and discarded her t-shirt to ride shotgun in her bra, next to the boyfriend who served as our driver. A tad more conservative, I cringed in the back seat and hoped I didn’t have to play along. Mila had definitely followed her dream after watching stories about the Summer of Love in San Francisco on TV to claim her city by the sea. Other than momentary exceptions, I was more than happy to share it with her. 

Mila (L) and me in Napa Valley in the early '80s.

Meanwhile, I lived in five different neighborhoods that were home in Southern California, four in the San Diego area, and one in a charming beach town near LAX. Mila visited once or twice a year, sometimes by motorcycle when she was married to John. I recall one visit when they never arrived at the designated time. I couldn’t sleep, waiting for a phone call to dispel my worst fears. The next day they pulled into our driveway on the motorcycle late morning. “The freeway was backed up for miles,” Mila said. “We were stuck for hours, and it was past midnight before we could exit and check into a motel room. We wanted to call, but there wasn’t a phone, so we collapsed on the bed and fell asleep.” I didn’t know whether to hug them or kill them for putting us through such torture. I could almost forgive the night before, but why didn’t they phone that morning? 

Years later, during a long and tangled divorce, John was diagnosed with advanced Parkinson’s Disease and admitted to a VA nursing home, a sad ending to their 16-year marriage. And Mila soon lost her job at City Hall. I’d been asking to visit for three years, but she refused, one excuse after another. I’d already determined there was a homeless man living with her, which led to patches of anxiety and sleeplessness for me. She denied it repeatedly, but with the job loss, Dan and I concocted a plan. I called her, my antenna flaring when she went to the bathroom and closed the door to talk. “Hey Mila, I was looking at houses in a mobile home park for a friend, and thought you could probably afford one if you ever wanted to move to warmer weather and be closer to all of us.” There was a brief pause before she replied. “Oh no. I’m staying in San Francisco, Vicki.” Two days later, she called back and expressed interest in the “double-wide.” When she flew to San Diego to check out two manufactured houses I’d previewed, the homeless man had already been arrested for a second or third time, charged with trying to break her arm. I asked why she never came to us for help. Her response was quick.  “I was afraid of him. And I never had a plan to get away until you gave me one.” 

Mila couldn’t stop thanking us for her “witness protection program,” which became our joke. Now we could enjoy her without worrying about a dreaded report that something terrible had happened. After getting settled, and changing all her accounts and passwords (he used her ATM for cash), she signed up to volunteer with NAMI (National Alliance for Mental Illness), joined the KnitWits, her church’s knitting group, and became a regular swimmer at the local gym where we occasionally ran into each other. And she was eventually recruited as social director for her homeowners’ association. At our annual Kentucky Derby parties, the social butterfly greeted guests with her gorgeous smile and a famous Kentuckian name tag. I wanted to cry tears of joy, for Mila and me. She’d blossomed from an abusive cocoon into a sunny garden full of family and new friends. 

Mila (L) and me at 2013 KY Derby Party.

Now we met for lunch, perused farmer’s markets, and cruised beach shops. For the first time in our adult lives, we lived within minutes of each other. Thanks to newer medications lending greater stability, Mila was grateful to be clear-headed and living a full life. It had been far too long with me in the role of a mother looking out for my sister when the stress and disappointments of life brought on bipolar depression, confusion, and delusions. Hospitalizations and new drug regimens over the years had resulted in periods of medication fog, and recoveries took months, even a year or so in some instances. Now we were in a relationship of equals. How thrilling for both of us. I had my sister back. We could help her avoid the stress and poor judgements that led to breakdowns. At least that’s what I hoped.

Rubber Dolls Part I: Early Days

I haven't written a lot about my growing up years in Louisville, other than a piece a few years ago about our family history with the Kentucky Derby. However, my sister and I collaborated on a draft memoir a few years ago that is about her life as a person living with bipolar, and my role as a family member. It's on hold now, but I want to share a preview of our story, which I'll post in four parts. This is the first.

My sister Mila is eleven months older than me, but we were about the same size as young girls growing up in Louisville, so it wasn’t unusual to be asked if we were twins. As preteens, our acrobatic ballet teacher introduced us as The Rubber Dolls when we performed onstage for holiday and hospital shows around town. Adding to the good times of our youth were festive gatherings with extended family at our grandparents’ house, blocks from Churchill Downs. The annual Kentucky Derby party was one of the highlights as we watched racegoers parade on sidewalks and cars crawl along the parkway from our seats on the front porch swing. 

Vicki (left) and Mila

The joyful memories of those early days were disrupted, however, when an unwelcome guest entered our world and never left. Mila was in the tenth grade and I was in the ninth as we sat at the kitchen table for a snack of cookies and milk with our mother, and my sister’s eyes glazed over in panic. She relayed a story about a boy at school who’d chased her with a knife, forcing her to run outside and hide. Then her eyes darted toward the window, and she pointed to a truck rolling down the street, urgently warning us that the men inside were government agents searching for her. The terror etched in her face was that of a mad woman. Chills rippled over my skin. 

The hallucinations and delusions haunting Mila were a preview of coming attractions, a serious illness that led to months of severe depression. I was the bolder of the two of us, but the chain of events unfolding before my eyes rendered me helpless, my emotions swaying between grief, compassion, and fear. My parents’ reactions, heightened anxiety one moment, reassurance the next, added to my feeling of doom and despair.

Schizophrenia was the initial diagnosis, but there were no voices, so manic depression, now known as bipolar illness, was the one that stuck. It was Type I, which means the onset was in youth (like Type I diabetes). Despite lifelong medication and weekly therapy, the illness would cycle into periodic psychotic breakdowns, which meant family support during Mila’s early career in Louisville, and much more support from me and my family when we both moved west. The roller coaster of this brain disorder would offer few thrills and ample sideshows.

But like the Rubber Doll of her youth, Mila always bounced back, time after time, fortunate to achieve a life that’s been both tragic and full. By the time she moved to her “city by the sea,” she’d already secured impressive jobs with Naval Intelligence and Social Security Appeals judges. Additional positions would include work with more Social Security judges, patent attorneys, and the Real Estate Office at City Hall; and producing a Youth Government Day with Mayor Diane Feinstein for the San Francisco Jaycees.

To be continued: Life in California