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