Is Free Will a Fairytale?: A Memoir of Sex,Obsession, Multiple Sclerosis and the Subconscious Mind

By Annie McBride

This memoir is about a woman’s search for self as she attempts to make sense of certain events of her childhood.
Annie is widowed in 1984. Tom was an alcoholic, a replica of her father. Shirley, a delightful nymphomaniac, helps Annie search for her soul mate. Annie is only attracted to alcoholics. Her love is obsessive, behaviour compulsive. She can’t choose or decide freely. Annie becomes addicted to sex. Fuck is her favourite word.
In 2004, on the twentieth anniversary of Tom’s death, Annie is diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. Why? She’s been fighting her own psyche for a long time. Is her subconscious mind running her life? Annie is still a vulnerable little girl in an adult body.
If you think you need therapy or just want a good laugh, buy the book. You’ll get both.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Annie McBride
• Release date: Nov 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370060344

Annie McBride

Annie McBride lives in Australia. She is 80 years, memory intact, loves writing. Widowed with four adult children and seven grand children, her life has been a huge learning curve. Annie has auctioned residential real estate and owned her own plant nursery. She established a couple of sandwich shops back in the eighties. Over the years, her search for success caused the loss of a lot of money. Her accountant said she should have stood on the end of St.Kilda pier and ripped up a couple of thousand one hundred dollar notes. Annie was stressed. Her depression escalated. Her behaviour was compulsive. Multiple Sclerosis was a huge wake-up call for Annie. It took a long time but MS was the reason she eventually changed her life. Her sense of humor has been described as fifty shades of black. Annie now has a claim to fame. She teaches meditation.

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Is Free Will a Fairytale?

A memoir of sex, obsession, multiple sclerosis and the subconscious mind

Annie McBride

Copyright 2017 Annie McBride

Published by Annie McBride at Smashwords

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This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Contents

Diagnosis – 2004

PART ONE: BEFORE MS 1984–2003

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

PART TWO: LIVING WITH MS 2004–2016

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter12

Chapter13

Reflections

Diagnosis 2004

The neurologist was in his forties, balding, pleasant face, suit and tie, quite effeminate with a droopy hand shake. His office was spacious. Smart furniture, massage table and the window overlooked a garden. He pointed at the result of the MRI. ‘Those white marks mean you have multiple sclerosis.’ Astonishment sucked the air out of my lungs. ‘That’s impossible. Only young people get MS, not widows over sixty.’ Doctor W. corrected me. ‘Several older clients of mine have MS.’ Without warning, steroids, physiotherapy and the MS Society were all being organised by Doctor W. I couldn’t get a word in. Eventually, he glanced at me. My voice was clipped. ‘How can you be sure it’s MS?’

The doctor stood. His eyes became guarded. He again pointed to the white marks on my MRI then began reciting his well practised, word perfect lecture about multiple sclerosis. This was obviously his standard overture for MS beginners. My immune system wasn’t working properly. Something called the myelin sheath was supposed to protect my nervous system. It was being eroded by my own body. That was what caused the white marks on the MRI. I had remitting-relapsing MS, it comes and goes. The boring, probably useless information was tuned out. I doubted the diagnosis. It was an educated guess at best. This whole scenario had to be some sort of cosmic joke.

Was I in denial?

It was 28th April 2004.

My husband had died on the 28th April 1984.

PART ONE: BEFORE MS 1984–2004

Unable to choose or decide freely

Chapter 1: 1984

‘The doctors have told me that I’m going to die soon. It might take a few months, probably a few weeks. That’s what I want to discuss with you. Do you have any questions?’ My husband had called a family meeting. Tom stood at the end of the table. The lounge/dining room was large and comfortable. The kids had a billiard room and a rumpus room but we always ate together here. My husband sounded angry but his voice was not humming with rage. He was saying the words but not feeling them. Our children squirmed in their chairs, shoulders slumped, heads lowered. They had been told that their presence was compulsory. Close to six feet tall, Tom struggled to find a shirt with breathing room. His facial features were handsome but he also had an allure about him that women liked. His dark, wavy hair was combed often. The soft brown eyes were frequently sheltered by lowered eyelids. He was a loner. Jane, the youngest daughter, sixteen years, caught her breath and started crying. Always emotional, she often dropped her lip and let tears flood her face. Alison and Lyn were not much older but they were more grown up. Peter was the eldest. His twenty first birthday had already been celebrated. The silence in the room seemed strange. Tom’s gaze was calculating as he studied his audience. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft and sort of seductive. ‘The doctors want to give me chemotherapy. They say it won’t cure me but I would probably live a bit longer.’ He hesitated, pursed his lips and continued. ‘I didn’t want the treatment so I said No.’ His chest expanded, shoulders moved back in a conscious display of strength. His eyes narrowed as he studied each child thoroughly before moving on to the next. The kids looked intimidated. Abruptly, Tom straightened his body and pulled his shoulders back. His voice was loud and arrogant. ‘I can change my mind.’ The children looked shocked. Their eyes darted round the room. Tom licked his lips. He was in control. ‘However, whether I have chemotherapy or not must be your decision. I am happy to organise it but only if you want me to. Your choice will be final.’ Nobody said a word. The kids began to fidget with discomfort. Their eyes implored me to get them off the hook. I was shaking all over but a sickening rage encouraged me to shift responsibility from the family to where it belonged. ‘That must be your decision, Tom. You keep telling me that you’re the one who’s dying.’ My words shattered the silence. The older children stared at me. Their jaws dropped as they gasped noisily. Jane started sobbing again. Their father glared at me and mouthed his reaction. ‘Bitch.’ The sharp voice was half whispered but I heard it. His gaze devoured each child. The air was thick. Peter’s deep voice took the sting out of my stress. ‘Mum’s right. It’s your decision, dad.’ The older girls gave a single nod. Jane adored Peter. Her head nodded almost enthusiastically. Tom opened his mouth as if to speak. He closed it then opened it again. It was his game face. It was his you’ve pissed me off face. It was his you’re going to pay face. His chair clattered against the wall as he stood. ‘Don’t be late for dinner.’ They wouldn’t dare. Peter put his arm around Jane’s shoulders as they walked out of the room.

Tom’s diagnosis had been delivered the week before. His lung cancer was terminal. Back in February, large lumps had emerged on Tom’s neck. Our local GP sent him for an x-ray then referred him to Dandenong Hospital. I was there when the doctors told him he had lung cancer. Tom shrugged his shoulders. Something like cancer had not occurred to me. Shock and apprehension flooded my mind. Life with Tom had been difficult for a long time but this was different. I was frightened. The doctor seemed abrupt. ‘You will be admitted to the Alfred Hospital tomorrow for more tests.’

Most days Tom would ring in the afternoon. ‘I’m coming home for the night. You’ll have to pick me up soon and bring me back in the morning.’

‘Are you allowed?’

‘They can’t stop me. I’ve signed a form to shut them up.’

About a week later, the oncologist at the Alfred Hospital rang and asked me to visit his office the following day. The man sat behind a huge desk. The office was dark and dingy. Wooden bookcases lined the walls, brown, boring carpet displayed worn patches and a single pot plant was struggling to survive. Certificates had pride of place, no pictures and no photos. He shook my hand. ‘Your husband has lung cancer, direct result of his cigarette smoking. It’s too late for surgery. He’ll die soon.’ Something heavy landed in the bottom of my stomach. I concentrated on my breathing. I should have brought someone with me. Tom had not been home the night before so he was in the hospital somewhere. The oncologist moved his face into a half-smile. ‘We could help him live a bit longer but he refused any treatment.’ My eyes closed for a few seconds. Tom had already been told. Why wasn’t he here? I didn’t ask. He would have been invited. It would have been his choice to refuse. I burst into tears. My tears were not for Tom. I hated Tom. The oncologist pushed a box of tissues across his desk. ‘Perhaps you can have a word with your husband. He might change his mind.’ Tom wouldn’t listen to me. He never listened to me. Nobody knew that, except me. The oncologist droned on. ‘The alternative is palliative care. You won’t be able to manage at home.’ This man did not know my husband. Tom would call the shots. I tuned out, the mind drifted. My imagination was rampant at times. It was just harmless wishful thinking. Tom was always drunk. His driving was always erratic. In my mind, the crash might happen in a variety of ways. It could squash his car, roll his car or spin his car. My dreams about Tom’s driving were always life-threatening. I didn’t have the guts to leave him. I wanted him dead.

Tom was discharged the following day. I drove in and picked him up. We came home to the outer suburbs. Our house was a triple fronted, boring brick creation. All my love went into that house. I lugged rocks one at a time in the wheelbarrow while Tom drank his beer and watched the footy. When friends called in, he would take them on a guided tour of his garden. Tom walked into the lounge room and closed the curtains. The glare of the sun annoyed him and he didn’t trust the neighbors. I was mopping my face with a tissue. He sneered at me. ‘I told you I wouldn’t make old bones. What are you crying for? I’m the one who’s dying. Get some decent videos. That’ll help fill in the time.’

‘What sort of videos do you want?’

‘God, you ask dumb questions. I want action. None of that crap stuff you women watch. Just hurry up. I’ll ring work while you’re gone. I want it done right so I’d better do it myself.’

Videos became Tom’s drug of choice. Alcohol was no longer leader of the pack, just video after video. Any of my stupid questions inspired him to remind me that he was the one who was dying. The day after he told the children his news, Tom made another ridiculous declaration. He was in the kitchen with newspapers spread all over the table. His voice was firm. He had made up his mind. There was no discussion, no warning. ‘I won’t be here for my birthday. I’ve decided to have a party, now.’

My voice was pleading. ‘That’s not a good idea. You’re not well enough.’

‘Who said?’

‘You’re dying. Nobody has a party if they’re dying.’

‘I’m the one who’s dying and if I want a party, I’ll have a party.’

My elbows went on the table so my hands could hold my throbbing head up. ‘Where will you have it?’

‘Here, of course.’

‘You want me to cater for a party?’

He banged his fists on the table. ‘Hire somebody if you can’t cope. Just do it. I only want very close friends. Here’s the list of guests and the date. And tell Marty he can’t bring that idiot girl friend of his.’

I blinked rapidly. ‘But Marty’s a good friend.’

‘That’s more reason why he should come on his own. I hardly know the stupid bitch. Don’t just sit there. Make some phone calls. I’ll hire a video camera to record my farewell. Ring someone on the list now, while I’m here. I want to make sure you do it right. Tell them it’s a going away party. Hurry up, ring Marty first.’

My face twisted into a smile as I picked up the phone. Marty had been widowed for twelve months. ‘Marty? It’s Annie. Tom asked me to call.’

‘Is he okay?’

I felt sorry for Marty. He had always been good to Tom. ‘He’s managing. He doesn’t think he’ll be here for the big 50 so he wants to have a party.’

Marty swore. I kept talking.

‘He’s calling it his going away party, still got a sense of humour.’

Marty questioned Tom’s sobriety. I answered.

‘No. He’s not drinking today.’

Silence. I kept talking.

‘He wants you to come on your own.’

Silence. I kept talking.

‘Call in and see him. Phone first.’

Marty agreed.

‘He won’t change his mind, Marty. Bye now.’

Tom’s laugh was loud.

‘What did he say?’

‘He’d like to bring his partner. He’ll be in touch.’

Tom’s curt nod of approval made me want to throw up. ‘Good. I’m going to have a rest. Get the phone calls over and done with then organise the catering. I’ll arrange the video camera. I know what I want.’

It was a relief when he left the room. His smart-arse attitude made me feel weak at the knees. Everybody thought Tom was a wonderful husband. They didn’t really know him. I was living with a pathetic old bully.

All the invitations were accepted. Reactions varied from embarrassment to admiration. Only one person was hesitant. Pauline was not your normal suburban housewife. When she called in to see me, we sat outside. Although she was married with two kids, weekly visits to the hairdresser and beautician were her top priority. She had never liked Tom. I occasionally confided in her. My voice pleaded. ‘You can’t say no. He’s the one who’s dying. You know what he’s like. Please come.’

Her sigh was huge. Blond curls bobbed and blue eyes rolled. ‘Okay. I’ll appear, but not for long.’

On the day of Tom’s farewell party, the sky was clear. Everyone wore casual gear. On arrival, the guys shook hands and the women gave Tom a hug. He was a football fanatic so of course he wore his team jumper. People looked uncomfortable. A couple of drinks helped them relax. Tom told one of the heavy drinkers to be the barman. Peter and Jane were waiters. The party started to liven up. Lyn and her brother loved a drink. They’d been running to the fridge for their father for years. Alison always refused. Pauline stood in the background, dressed down, avoiding Tom, checking her watch, anxious to leave. Tom’s old drinking mates also had their footy jumpers on. Throughout the afternoon, the various AFL club songs were belted out. Everybody had a go with the video camera. The party became rowdy. Tom was pacing himself but encouraging everyone else. He reveled in his friends’ attention. ‘Have another beer, mate. It’s on me. Be your last chance.’

Marty’s partner waited in their car. She had insisted on coming. Marty was a little guy. His girlfriend dwarfed him, bossed him around and belittled him. Marty would have been given his orders. He approached Tom. ‘Sylvia’s in the car. Okay if she comes in?’ Tom was giving video instructions to his children so he could be immortal in their eyes. He didn’t even glance at his friend. ‘No. Don’t ask me again.’ Marty didn’t move. Tom glared at him. ‘Can’t you see I’m busy?’ Marty’s eyes were close to overflowing. One of the other guys slapped him on the back, shoved a beer in his hand and led him away.

The food was to die for and everybody loved it. The beautiful cake with 50 on the top threw me. Susan, the catering lady, was plump and friendly. She apparently thought it really was Tom’s birthday. Maybe I forgot to tell her the real reason. She shook Tom’s hand and smiled. ‘Happy birthday, Tom.’

Tom laughed at her. ‘It’s not until November. This is actually my going away party.’

Susan frowned. ‘Oh. Where are you going?’

‘Good question. The doctors say I’ll die soon. I won’t be here for the big 50.’ Tom pointed a finger at me. ‘She should have told you.’

Susan’s eyes met mine. ‘Don’t worry. I’m fine.’

I mumbled my apologies and moved away. My friend, Pauline, had gone. Her hour was up.

Peter and Lyn were encouraging Jane, who was tipsy. Her breath reeked, she couldn’t stop giggling. Tom had given her a small glass of wine every Saturday night since she turned thirteen. My son and my youngest daughter decided to entertain the crowd. Everybody played Simon Says then made a circle and did the Hokey Pokey. It seemed bizarre to me but everyone went along with it.

Tom presented each of our three daughters with a silver locket to hold his photo. Our son received his father’s beloved gold watch with a lecture about taking care of it. They were all given money. ‘This is to buy something decent to wear to my funeral. Do not wear jeans. I will not put up with it.’ All and sundry applauded. They were obviously impressed, or drunk. Tom called me over and said he wanted to make sure I understood his next announcement. My heart fluttered as I wondered if he was going to thank me. I had been a loyal and dutiful wife for nearly twenty-five years. Suddenly dizzy, I wondered if a ghost of old love was nearby. Tom’s voice sounded bossy. ‘I want to thank everybody for coming today. You all need to know what will happen after my funeral. I do not want a wake. Nobody will be allowed to come back here, or anywhere else. The party is over.’ I can’t believe I didn’t argue. The arrogant bastard wanted to control me from his coffin. Nothing seemed real. Friends looked stunned. Tom started shaking hands with people. My farewells were brief.

Another month went by. Tom had stayed indoors since the party. His pot belly disappeared, he looked gaunt. The industrial chaplain from work paid a visit. Paul was young, casual clothes, back to front collar and clogs. Tea and biscuits were served. Tom blustered confusedly. ‘It’s like this, mate. I don’t go to church but I believe in God. Always have. The kids wanted to go to Sunday school but the wife wouldn’t take them.’ In those days, I believed God was just another version of the tooth fairy. I wanted to spew up my skepticism all over Tom. Smiling at the chaplain, I tried to look demure, like a good mother.

A few days later, Tom stayed in bed all day. He was having trouble breathing. It was gloomy with the curtains closed. He didn’t want the light on. He didn’t want company. He didn’t want anything. ‘Will I ring an ambulance?’ He glared at me.