Welcome Home: My Journey Back to Myself

Welcome Home: My Journey Back to Myself

Cover design: Bart Hopkins

Front cover photo: Linda James

Back cover photo: Colette Palumbo

Musical Accompaniment: Ellie Cutler and Roy Douglas

© 2023 by Sara LaRiviere Ed.D.

Print ISBN: 979-8-35090-631-8

eBook ISBN: 979-8-35090-632-5

All rights reserved. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of the publisher.

This is a book about my life’s journey.

Some of the names and places have been changed

Acknowledgments

(for reasons known to them, and to me)

Bobby Bennet

Ellie Cutler

Nan Davis

Roy Douglas

Sharon deWitt

Gail Gardiner

Dolly Gingras

Sara Gould

Linda James

Gail Krentzman

Julie LeBlanc

Jill Miller

Marnie Ross

Judy Siegler

Dedication

To my sister, Anne,

whose love and support helped me

through so many hard times,

and to my wife, Anne,

who unlocked the door for my homecoming.

Contents

Preface

Introduction

Prologue

Chapter 1: LIFE IS A MATTER OF PERSPECTIVE

Chapter 2: HERSTORY

Chapter 3: SOMETIMES CHILDHOOD HURTS

Chapter 4: MUSIC

Chapter 5: ADDICTIONS

Chapter 6: THE COLLEGE YEARS

Chapter 7: U.S.M.C.

Chapter 8: PREGNANCY

Chapter 9: BACK TO CIVILIAN LIFE

Chapter 10: THE BIRTH

Chapter 11: CIVILIAN LIFE

Chapter 12: DISCOVERING GAY LIFE

Chapter 13: BACK TO REAL WORK

Chapter 14: IT’S TIME

Chapter 15: SOBRIETY

Chapter 16: MEMORIES

Chapter 17: NEW BEGINNINGS

Chapter 18: A NEW FAMILY

Chapter 19: GOODBYE BETTY

Chapter 20: TRANSITIONS

Chapter 21: CANCER

Chapter 22: TREATMENT

Chapter 23: BACK TO SCHOOL

Chapter 24: A NEW LIFE BEGINS

Chapter 25: LOVE

Chapter 26: THE NEWS

Chapter 27: CHANGES

Chapter 28: ON THE MOVE

Chapter 29: I BEGIN AGAIN

Chapter 30: ANNE

Chapter 31: SARA O’MEARA

Chapter 32: MARRIAGE

Chapter 33: THE ANSWER

Preface

As I write this, I am a 78-year-old, 46 years sober, woman. My recovery process from alcoholism led me to completing my Doctorate in Education (Ed.D.), with my dissertation focusing on the differences in leadership style between Administrators who grew up in alcoholic homes vs. Administrators who grew up in non-alcoholic homes. In addition to chairing two different academic departments at two separate universities, I had a private addictions counseling practice and owned and operated a Neurofeedback clinic in Boise, Idaho.

Years ago, I read My Stroke of Insight: A Brain Scientist’s Personal Journey by Neuroanatomist Jill Taylor. In her book she not only describes her experiences but also shares neurological information about her process as she was recovering from her stroke. I truly appreciated the scientific descriptions she included. These helped me better understand what she was describing on her healing journey. I therefore decided to do something similar in MY book.

As I take you through my lifetime journey, I will, from time to time, refer to the literature regarding the effects of growing up in a dysfunctional family. I do this to stress that while we are born into this world as carrying the DNA of our ancestors (Nature), we are greatly influenced by the families and circumstances into which we are born (Nurture).

Because I believe there is no more powerful way to evoke feelings/memories than through music, I am making this an audio book, to include the songs I have written at key points in my life. I have left the lyrics as they were written at the time. So you may hear me say, I’m 32-years-old or I’m 47, etc.

My journey may not be your journey. But hopefully, along the way, I have experienced or understood something that might be of help to you. Thanks for reading … and listening.

Introduction

I’m beginning at the end. But, before I say anything more, you need to hear the song I wrote on October 22, 2022 … the day the second biggest miracle in my life happened (you’ll have to wait a little longer to hear about the first one). It’s called Welcome Home .

WELCOME HOME

You came into my life so unexpectedly

said, "look Look at your reflection and see what WE all see.

And listen to your music and hear what WE all hear.

It’s time to take your place with us.

Welcome home, sweet dear."

You said that I had style; you said I’d be your wife.

You said I was my own piece of this puzzle we call life.

And YOU said I had a strong voice and my songs showed people how

to walk in all their beauty.

And I can feel that now.

See I spent my life not knowing I was loved, I lived in fear,

that I could never walk with pride with so many of you here.

But because I’ve been surrounded by love and open hearts

I see my value, see my role in life … my chosen part.

Yes you came into my life so unexpectedly,

said, "look Look at your reflection and see what WE all see.

And listen to your music and hear what WE all hear.

It’s time to take your place with us

welcome home, sweet dear."

Until May 22, 2022, I thought the best days of my life were the days I had cancer and was told I had about two years to live. Admittedly the chemotherapy, the hospitalizations from reactions to those drugs, and especially the day I went to the funeral home to choose my casket and design my headstone were not the highlights. But I was clearly aware that I was, for the first time I could remember, at peace with myself.

This isn’t to say that I hadn’t had some wonderful experiences throughout my life. I have, laughed, played, and had an exceptional career. But most of my memories from childhood, through adulthood, and right up to my early rounds of chemotherapy, are of waking up each morning with a sense of dread. Not the stay in bed, I can’t face the day kind of dread, rather more a growing laundry list of possible pitfalls which could readily escalate into full blown anxiety: "Did I pay the Verizon bill? What will the Dean think of my proposal? Did I remember to take tonight’s dinner out of the freezer before going to bed last night? If I don’t get the okay for my proposed courses, how will I be able to build my program to compete with the other Universities? You get the idea.

But, just as people didn’t miss the flush toilet until after they knew such a thing existed, I had no idea I was not at peace until I experienced peace.

I remember, distinctly, the day it happened. I was about a week out from my second chemo treatment. I was getting into my car to drive to my favorite coffee shop for lunch. As I sat in the driver’s seat, closed the door, and turned the ignition key, I became aware something was different; I was different. I sat there for a moment, looking through the window at my wrought iron gate, trying to figure out exactly what I was feeling. Then I realized the difference wasn’t about what I was feeling … it was more about what I WASN’T feeling … what I wasn’t thinking about.

I wasn’t thinking and worrying about the future. I HAD no future. I still had the day-to- day issues of bills, food, my dogs … all the things around which my life revolved, but these were IMMEDIATE issues.

If I couldn’t return to teaching after my chemo was completed, so what? How would I pay the bills? I’d be gone in two years … whatever assets I had when I died would cover my debt … or not. Will the additions I’ve made to my house pay for themselves when it’s time to sell? Who cares? I won’t be around to see what happens.

I had the luxury of being catapulted into that critical state that my years of work in a spiritual group had taught me was the key to self-realization: Living in the moment. I didn’t have a choice.

Actually, up until that day in the car, I thought I WAS living in the moment. All of those questions, I believed, were simply my way of planning. After all, that’s what successful people do don’t they? They plan.

As time went by and I DIDN’T die, I gradually slid back into living, mostly, in the future. But at least now, I knew what I was missing. My question, then, to myself was Does it take a death sentence to achieve inner peace?

My search for that answer, and its outcome, led me to experience coming home to myself, which led me to writing the song Welcome Home, which led me to write this book that I offer to you as a light to take you through any darkness you may be experiencing in your life.

Prologue

Before I begin, I think it’s important I share some of my spiritual beliefs, because they had a huge impact on my journey through cancer.

I am not Catholic, I am not Jewish, I am not born again; I am not even religious. To me there is a definite difference between religions and spiritual. And I count myself among the spiritual. But, as I was writing this book, I shared some of the chapters with friends, one of whom said: Ok, Sara … you claim you’re not religious, then write a song saying, I was held by Jesus Christ many times in my life." What’s THAT about?

By definition, a spiritual person is defined as an individual whose ultimate goal is to love oneself and the world around them, as well as spread that love to others. Japanese poet Matsu Basho defines spirituality as those not seeking to follow in the footsteps of the wise, but rather seek what they sought.

I define Religion as an organized system of faith and worship which involves a church, books of scripture, external rituals, and observances. Religion, to me, does not preclude someone loving the world around them, but it is more object referral, with emphasis placed on an object in one’s experiences, whereas Spirituality is self-referral or an internalization of awareness of your soul. It’s more about an inner understanding than an outer worship.

I define God as the totality of Loving Energy that makes up the Universe. Everything is part of that Loving Energy. That energy may manifest more vividly through some individuals (Jesus, Buddha, Jehovah, etc.) and, I believe, can be experienced by anyone. The experience of, and belief in, that loving energy is what I define as spirituality.

I have had several experiences which I attribute to what I call Spiritual Experiences or the Loving Energy/God. Let me offer two examples: I was raised Catholic. At the time when I would have been studying to make my First Communion (about age 6), I was in bed with rheumatic fever. By the time my mother enrolled me in a First Communion Catechism class, I was about nine years old. Always tall for my age, I knew I would tower above the other kids. The Saturday morning of my first class. I knew I was right.

First Communion students sit in the front of the church, the nun directed. I looked down the aisle and saw all the little children kneeling in the pews, hands folded in front of them. I felt sick to my stomach. Not only was I going to have to go through the embarrassment of being the oldest kid in the class, but also the tallest.

As I walked down the aisle, I felt everyone staring at me. I imagined the other kids whispering to each other … wondering why I was so stupid I had to wait until now to be in the class. She probably flunked before, I was sure they were thinking.

I genuflected and knelt at the end of the pew. I buried my face in my hands and prayed like I had never prayed before. PLEASE, I begged. I don’t care if I’m the oldest. I don’t care if everyone is WAY younger than me. But PLEASE don’t let me be the tallest.

As I knelt there, afraid to sit back and see the faces of the other kids, I felt someone entering the pew. I had to scoot over a little to make room for them and, as he or she knelt, I could tell by the pressure on my arm that he or she was taller than me. Their shoulder felt well above mine.

Thank you! I prayed. I was so relieved. I knew I could make it through the rest of the class.

I sat back and opened my eyes to see who was kneeling to my right. No one was there. Not a soul. Yet I had felt something! I felt the kneeler depress as the person knelt. I felt the arm pressing against mine. I had even felt the warmth of the body. But … there was no one in the pew except me.

The second example is an event that occurred when I was about 45 days sober. My partner had moved out and there was little furniture in the house. I had attended a 12-step meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous and had driven home in the pouring rain in a car I had purchased from my sister for $300. I was alone and feeling sorry for myself. I tried to cry myself to sleep but it wasn’t working.

At about 2 a.m. I got up and walked into the living room. Our house sat on a hill. The rain had stopped, and I looked out the floor to ceiling windows at the scattered moonlight. I could hardly see the homes that sat across the valley.

I can’t do this anymore, I sobbed. I am just not strong enough. If I’m in this much pain sober, I’d rather be drunk. At least there would be something to dull this horrible ache. If there’s anyone … anything out there that can help me … I need help … now.

Of course, I wasn’t really expecting anything. But as I stood there crying, it was as if someone turned up the moon light. Everything became very bright.

I turned and looked back across my living room. The light was so bright I couldn’t see my front door, I couldn’t see my chair, I could hardly see my hand in front of my face.

At the same time, I began to feel … well … calm. Extremely calm. I felt … no … I KNEW everything was alright. I knew I was alright. I knew I didn’t need to drink … now or ever. And, as I melted into that knowingness, the light began to dim. I saw my chair, I saw my door and, when I turned back to the windows, I saw the houses across from mine.

I have heard the term White Light Experience discussed in 12-step meetings. For want of a better word, that is what I had that night.

Those two experiences I count among the many more, which you will read about in my book, as finding myself in the presence of Loving Energy … God.

Chapter 1

LIFE IS A MATTER OF PERSPECTIVE

Life provides us the opportunity to learn about ourselves. One day we might see life as a gift, and other days, a punishment. We might see ourselves as successful or as failures. I believe we are the sum of our experiences and how we choose to interpret those experiences is strictly up to us.

As a young woman I set goals, strove to achieve, believed that someday I would arrive (as I look back, I’m not sure I knew exactly what that meant, but it seemed right at the time). And, as I turned 78, I came to understand that no matter what our goals, no matter what we do, no matter what happens to us, it’s what we THINK about our experiences and how we judge the outcomes that determine our sense of self. Our internal dialogue dictates our experience.

I remember, as a little girl, being asked, What do you want to be when you grow up? Funny question. First it implies that a two- or three-year-old has some idea of their ultimate goals and aspirations. But the implied message is much more troubling. It implies that at some point in our existence, we will be SOMETHING … something other than just ourselves. Somehow, we begin to learn, at a very early age, that who we are is something we will someday grow into.

Years ago, a friend of mine was giving a talk at a local church. She asked people to come up and introduce themselves to the congregation. The first volunteer walked up, gave her name, and then said a word or two to identify herself:

My name is Mary and I’m an engineer.

My friend then posed the question Who are you if you are not an engineer? Who are you really? Who are YOU?

Mary didn’t have an answer.

That exercise took place over 40 years ago. Then, about 20 years ago I was watching a drama on TV. A young man had been in a terrible car accident and was in an induced coma. The doctor was talking with his wife.

Your husband will live, he told the wife. But he will be completely paralyzed. He won’t be able to speak. His only way of communicating will be moving his eyes. Do you want us to continue or take him off life support and let him go?

The wife was, understandably, distraught. We’ve never talked about this, she said. I mean, we’re not that old! I don’t want to make that decision.

Okay, continued the doctor, here’s what we can do. We can bring him out of the coma. We’ll make sure he can blink his eyes to respond, and we’ll ask him three questions: Do you know who you are? Do you understand what happened? Do you want to live your life this way? He can make the decision.

I’m not sure such a dialogue would take place in real life, but it certainly spoke to me!

I immediately wrote them down. A few months later, keeping those three questions and my friend’s experience in church in mind, I wrote this song.

DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE?

Do you know who you are? Do you understand what happened?

Do you want to live your life this way?

Do you know who you are or are you simply guessing,

or maybe you’re just sitting there afraid

shutting down

heart all bound.

When did you stop thinking that your dreams were more than dreaming?

Who was telling you to Grow up and get REAL?

And when did you stop knowing that you couldn’t be more perfect?

Well maybe now’s the time for you to heal.

Now don’t be scared

you’re all there.

But perhaps I’m not the person who can help you on your journey

see I’m not sure I can live all I know.

But these songs keep coming through me

wish to hell sometimes they wouldn’t

‘’cuz they don’t leave me a place where I can go

to try to hide

from what’s inside.

Do I know who I am? Sometimes I’m almost certain

then I tell myself "that’s crazy that can’t be true.

‘’Cuz I’ve been taught to believe that I’m the sum of all my actions

and I’ve made some big mistakes ‘tween me and you.

Oh I’ve been bad … But I’m glad

that my life still isn’t over, means there’s more days to discover

what I’m searching for so hard’s already here.

And the dreams I dream aren’t dreaming,

they’re unfinished future lifetimes,

will be true in maybe 700 years.

Now that’s not long

we won’t be gone.

Do you know who you are? Do you understand what happened?

Do you want to live your life this way?

Do you know who you are? Do you understand what happened?

Do you want to live your life this way?

Do you know who you ARE?

But today (as I was watching a football game) with that question once again rolling around in my mind, I finally settled on my answer. I’d give you the answer right now, but then my book would be only a few pages long. And, I think for you to really understand what I’m saying, you need to know a little bit more about me.

In 2003 I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer and told I had, at best, two years to live. The marker for ovarian cancer is called the CA125. It’s a blood test, and a number of 35 or less is a pretty strong indicator that you probably don’t have ovarian cancer. Anything over 35 is a strong indicator that you probably do. By the time I was diagnosed, my CA125 was 6,000.

My oncologist said he had never seen anyone alive with a number that high. But he said, we’ll give it our best shot.

Obviously, I beat the odds. Some people believe I survived because of the incredibly aggressive chemotherapy and surgery I underwent. Others believe I am alive because of all the prayer circles being held for me. Today I know for sure that I survived because of the medical treatment I received AND because of the prayers, especially the prayers from a woman named Sara O’Meara. (More about her later.) I also know it’s how I thought about those experiences that led me to my understanding of who I am today.

My father, an artist, taught me that perspective is a way to make something look believable. He said, How big you make the tree in your drawing will tell the viewer how close the tree is. The smaller the tree, the further away it will seem to be. By the same token, how we look at something, our internal dialogue about it, becomes our reality (like seeing a glass half half-full or half half-empty). So, this is not going to be a book about surviving cancer, or child abuse, or about surviving rape or even addiction. It’s a book about experiencing amazing highs or life-crushing lows because we BELIEVE we have. Our internal dialogue becomes our perspective on life.

I guess it’s time to go back to the beginning.

Chapter 2

HERSTORY

My father, his sisters (twins), and his mother (my grandmother) came to the United States from Canada when my dad was in his early teens. His father was killed in a dock accident. My grandmother, an accomplished pianist, supported her family by playing the piano in silent movie theatres and as an organist at local churches. She went on to establish the Institute of Arts in Flint, Michigan, where she taught sculpting and weaving.

My aunts were also accomplished artists in their own rights. My Aunt Betty was developing her talents as a watercolor artist when she died of a brain hemorrhage when I was three. My Aunt Leonore was a gifted singer, performing operatic solos in churches and in concerts throughout Michigan.

My mother’s family was quite different. Her parents immigrated to the United States from Lithuania. My mother would tell me stories of being terribly embarrassed as a young girl when, because her family was so poor, her stepfather would take her shopping at used clothing stores and buy her shoes which were two sizes too large so she could grow into them to save money. She would hide other shoes in the bushes on the way to school, so she could change into them. Those shoes, which were given to her by a girlfriend, were too small, which caused her to have terrible foot problems later in life.

My mother was molested by her stepfather when she was young. He died before I was born. She described him as a handsome and very mean drunk. She left home when she was 16 to get away from him. Although she was successful in escaping him geographically, the horrific memories haunted her throughout her life.

Her sister, my Aunt Mary, seemed to fit the cliché of the always happy, overweight person. She was married to my Uncle John who had a wooden leg, the result of a missed freight train jump when he was a young boy. I remember, as a little girl, sitting with him outside our Michigan home, laughing as we watched mosquitoes land on that leg, then fly away (in my mind anyway) disappointed.

My mother’s brother, Uncle Otto was, to me, a truly gentle soul. He had a terrible stutter that, I was told, was a result of fighting in France during World War II. He and his wife, my Aunt Laura, were unable to have children, so they lavished all their love on me. They gave me weekends away from home and provided me with the attention I so desperately needed.

Because of the extreme differences between my two sets of relatives, we never had, what I would call, true family gatherings. We would either visit my mom’s family or my dad’s family. But we were never together with both sets of grandparents at the same time. My father and his mother thought my mother’s family was not nearly cultured enough. My uncle John would drink coffee from his saucer and eat peas balanced on his knife. He and his sons worked in the coal mines. My uncle Otto, a staunch union man, worked on the line at an automotive plant in Flint, Michigan

The few times that my parents and I went to Illinois to visit my mom’s family I was always uncomfortable. Neither my grandmother, who had remarried at least three times, nor her husband spoke English. While my mother could understand Lithuanian, she couldn’t speak it fluently, so there were no family discussions. My mom continually told me that her mother was the meanest woman on the face of the earth and that my father was constantly making disparaging comments about the damn coal miners. I was always happy and relieved to have those family visits come to an end.

My mother would tell me how she had been quite taken with my dad when they were dating. In an early photo of them my mother is wearing a rather plain dress, her hair had been pulled back, with just a hint of a smile on her face. My father, who was involved in local small theatre productions, has a goatee, is wearing a cape, and a large black fedora tipped rakishly to one side. I could see how my mother would be impressed.

My parents were married in 1937 and my sister (Anne) was conceived four years after that. I came along four years after her. My mother was a devout Catholic. My father thought all religion was ridiculous. Although my parents were quite poor, mom thought that as a good Catholic, she should have as many children as possible. There were two miscarriages after me and a resulting hysterectomy, which kept our family to four.

In retrospect, I can clearly see that my mother did not like children. She didn’t like babies, she didn’t like toddlers, she didn’t like … well … anything or anyone but herself.

Later, in my adult life, as I studied, completed my doctorate, and established a private counseling practice, it became clear that my mother was a classic narcissist, sociopath, and pedophile. All the markers fit. We were not the Waltons.

Our first family home was a drafty two-story house in Flint, Michigan. By the time I was born, my father had begun a commercial art/photography studio in Saginaw, Michigan, with two other partners. He was working long hours, and my mother