Carolyn: A memoir

By Carolyn Fried

Book synopsis:

In this deeply moving and beautifully written memoir the author has created a page turning story. She has blended together a story of a woman, no matter how devastating, rises up from personal setbacks as

• Language: English
• Publisher: Writers Branding LLC
• Release date: May 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9781639456703

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Carolyn: A memoir

Copyright © 2023 by Carolyn Fried

ISBN:

Paperback: 978-1639456697

Hardback: 978-1639456710

e-book: 978-1639456703

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

The views expressed in this book are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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Oh no, not I, I will survive

Oh, as long as I know how to love, I know I’ll stay alive

I’ve got all my life to live

And I’ve got all my love to give and I’ll survive

I will survive…

~I Will Survive by Freddie Perren & Dino Fekaris

Dedicated with much love to my children Colleen, David and Marshall and my granddaughters Grace and Caitlin.

Table of Contents

Prologue

1: A Letter Arrives

2: San Francisco

3: A New Chapter

4: Beverly Hills

5: Missy

6: 1971

7: To See or Not to See

8: Fire!

9: World Travelers

10: The Tumor

11: The Diagnosis

12: Surgery?

13: Dr. Stern

14: The Procedure

15: Recovery

16: A New Lease

17: New Career—New Diagnosis

18: Another Mammogram

19: Decision…

20: More Surgery

21: Reach to Recovery

22: A New Project

23: Voyage of the Damned

24: Alzheimers

25: Mother

26: Room With a View

27: Separation?

28: Grandmother

29: Beverly Hills Theatre Guild

30: Music

31: Another Hotel

32: Alzheimer’s Pt. II

33: End of an Era

34: I Will Survive

Epilogue

Images

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Iawoke. It was dark already. December days are shorter. I was a bit disoriented… was I dreaming all of this?

Dressed in a night gown, I hurried through my sitting room to my bathroom. I dropped the straps on my gown and stared into the mirror. I wasn’t dreaming. I looked in disbelief at what I’d orchestrated. I started to cry uncontrollably. I cried from my toes, from every part of my body, from every pore. All I wanted to do was go back to bed and pull the covers over my head… maybe this would all go away. But the crying, I couldn’t stop.

I don’t know how long I lay there. My son came to tell me dinner was ready. I tried to speak but could only sob.

Mother, what is it? I’ve never seen you like this? What can I do?

Nothing, nothing at all, I replied. No one can do anything.

Let me bring you something to eat. Maybe some tea and raisin toast?

Poor Marshall. He didn’t know what to do, so he seized upon two things he knew I liked. When he returned, he sat down on my bed and held me in his arms just as I did when he was little and upset about something. It felt good to be loved.

I don’t know how long we sat there with Marshall holding me. He was still holding me when Frank, my husband, appeared. Frank had great trouble dealing with emotions. His stock answer to everything was: Get some sleep, you’ll feel better in the morning.

Well, I didn’t. I was still crying when I woke up and tried to speak. I retreated from my family and stayed in my room. I felt safer there, out of the view of everyone. I longed for someone to tell me that everything was going to be alright, but there was no one, not even my husband. Why didn’t he come to the hospital to take me home? How could he not realize how traumatic this was?

I’d always been a positive person, but what I was going through now was different. This surgery had placed me in a situation that I knew nothing about. I couldn’t control how I felt. The emotions just spilled out and I couldn’t get a grip on myself. I wished for a dog, who would accept me non-judgmentally—a warm breathing creature I could hug, love and not have to say anything to.

Each day I’d look in the mirror, fantasizing that perhaps overnight some healing had taken place and a different image would be reflected. At times I almost felt like I was having an out-of-body experience, looking at someone other than myself. And then the crying would start. Was there no way of dealing with this?

What had I done? I’d made the decision. I and I alone. The doctors didn’t want this but I’d insisted. What was I thinking? Could I ever forgive myself? All the research I’d done hadn’t made any allowance for an emotional response to what had largely been a detached decision. It was like 2 and 2 is four—but couldn’t it be 22?

But no, it wasn’t a detached decision. I’d thought about it. I’d been at those medical meetings. I’d made a mental list of the pros and cons. But I’d left out one column: How would I react?

I’d deluded myself into thinking that the doctor would make everything right…

1

A Letter Arrives

Itried to remember how all of this began.

I thought of a dreary November day that had turned into rain. I’d just entered our house in Los Angeles with an armful of groceries. Like radar, my eyes went to an official-looking envelope on the floor near the mail chute. I instantly recognized who it was from and started to tremble. It was a letter from the hospital that did the mammograms and breast examination. Why a letter? Last year it was a postcard.

My mind raced to an earlier time when I was five-years old and my best friend was Shirley Davis. She was six and an only child. I was a year younger so I wore all her hand me downs. We both took tap dancing lessons at the Meglin Studio and were referred to as the Meglin Kitties. We had a routine we did together which required us to wear sailor suits and we performed all over Los Angeles. I still have a photo of the two of us in our costumes which I cherish. Our mothers were best friends as were our grandmothers. Three generations of history. We weren’t affluent. As a matter of fact, there were times when money was very scarce but we still did things together at a time when Los Angeles had many venues available that were largely free; Sunday picnics in the park, trips to the beach where we built sand castles and jumped in and out of the water chasing the little waves that came ashore. And backyard parties where we hung blankets on the clotheslines to create rooms for our make-believe house.

Shirley Temple was also in our class. Five children were selected out of the class by one of the film studios. I was one of them, along with Shirley Temple. Two or three times a week my mother took me to a Culver City studio for training. After six months, my mother got tired of taking me and stopped, shortly after Shirley Temple’s first film was made with all the children.

Years later, I recall telling my mother what she’d deprived me of: a career that might’ve made me an alcoholic, a drug addict, a nymphomaniac—maybe all three.

We had a good laugh.

Shirley Davis and her family moved to a different neighborhood so we didn’t see each other as often. We went to different schools.

Upon graduation from high school, Shirley went to business school. It was 1945. One year later, I graduated and went to the University of California at Berkeley. We were both busy but there was an occasional letter. When I came home the first summer, we got together but by this time there was a man in Shirley’s life and they were in love. Hers was the first wedding of a contemporary. It was 1947 and it was a lovely wedding and I was so happy to be her maid-of-honor.

By the time I was 27, had one child and Shirley had four. Then her world (and mine) came crashing down. Shirley was diagnosed with breast cancer and had a mastectomy, but there wasn’t any follow-up treatment planned. The surgeon had done his job and he was no longer involved. The physicians who should’ve been following her weren’t. The case was closed.

I wanted to be certain that they’d gotten all of the cancer out. UCLA had the most powerful radiation equipment in the city, so I talked my way in and pleaded with them to look at her case. They did and prescribed radiation treatment. After one series of treatments they did some follow up tests and determined that she needed more. The cancer had returned and had metastasized.

While I was focusing on getting help for Shirley, I never took into account what she must have been going through emotionally… a mastectomy at age 28. I lived each phase of her treatment as if it were my own. I agonized over her rapid decline as the cancer spread.

Eventually, she had to be in a wheelchair.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. The original doctors, now back on the case, had decided to do a hysterectomy to slow the production of hormones which they felt were feeding the cancer. Why now? Why wasn’t this done immediately after the mastectomy? Instead, they did this ten days before she passed. At age 29, Shirley died. It’d been almost one year to the day since her first surgery. The loss was unimaginable. I took it very hard. I’d never lost a contemporary before, especially one I was so close to and identified with over a long relationship. We’d shared so much.

I went to her funeral and all I could do was gaze at the four little children who’d just lost their mother. They looked so helpless and bewildered, not fully understanding what was happening. Then there were Shirley’s parents, their only child about to be buried. I could hardly listen to the Rabbi as my tears drowned out his service.

Fortunately, I hadn’t been to the cemetery very often. The atmosphere was of course very quiet. There was an entrance gatehouse where one gave the name of the deceased and then was were directed to their final resting place. Close to the entry was a beautiful waterfall bordered by flowers in tribute to Al Jolson.

Shirley was laid to rest in a garden off to the side of the cemetery entrance.

As was the custom, we went to their house after the service. I tried playing with the children as they were unaccustomed to so many people being in their house. I found some books and I sat them down in a place away from the guests. As expected, they had a short attention span so to keep them occupied, I acted out parts of the story. Soon the crowd diminished and they joined their father. What was there to say? Keep in touch, call me if you need anything—all sounding hollow compared to what this man must have been going through. How was he to work and care for four children under the age of six?

It was 1956 and there’s been very little research into breast cancer, or early detection. There was a shortage of surgeons who specialized. I vowed that as soon as I could, I’d do something to help raise money to further research and awareness of this life-threatening disease.

I did keep my vow. I got so involved that I wound up on the County Board of Directors of The Cancer Society and learned, painfully, that not much had changed. No specialists, very little research if any was occurring.

Now it was 1975. I was holding a letter in my hand. Little did I know the contents would change me and my life forever.

2

San Francisco

Up to this point my life had been devoid of any challenging illnesses. While Shirley had been busy having babies, I was attending UC Berkeley preparing to become a teacher, grades K—8.

Later, I switched from UC Berkeley to San Francisco State University as their teacher training program was more hands on and practical than UC. I liked living in San Francisco and soon it became time for me to do my practice teaching. This was going to be a most interesting time. My first assignment was teaching kindergarten. The children were just delicious. They were so innocent and trusting. I particularly loved the sharing period each day. Nothing was sacred. Anything that happened at home was fair game to be shared.

One day, I was asked why I was Miss and the other teacher was Mrs. I explained that she had a daddy at home and children, I didn’t.

Why don’t you have children?

Only married people have children, was my reply and we went on to another subject as everyone was satisfied with my response, or so I thought. About five minutes later, Tommy’s hand went up and I acknowledged him.

How does a body know if it’s married or not?

The master teacher looked at me as if to say, Get yourself out of this one. I remembered that Tommy’s father was a doctor.

Tommy, your daddy is a doctor and I think that he can do a better job of explaining than I can. This child would be the source of humor and challenge as there was more to come.

On another sharing time, Susie reported on watching television (which was relatively new at the time). It seems that some man was arrested for hitting his wife. Tommy was next to share.

I get up during the night and I walk around the house. I don’t wake anyone I just look around. Sometimes I don’t think that my daddy likes my mommy as sometimes he’s on top of her trying to push her off the bed.

I couldn’t take it, I had to leave the room before I started howling with laughter.

Fortunately, that ended the discussion-sharing period for the day. When I was teaching a higher grade, I gave a test on Columbus and his voyage to the New World which we were studying. The classic answer on the quiz was to the question: Tell the hardships that Columbus went through to reach America.

The answer I’ll never forget was: The Nina, the Pinta and the Santa Maria.

It was during the time I lived in the city as San Francisco is referred to, that I met Ed.

Ed was tall, about six feet. He had a mutation of sorts: one eye was blue and one was half blue and half brown. Ed had red hair and freckles. He had a full chest and was well proportioned. He dressed casually, which by today’s standard would be considered more formal. Ed seemed to prefer plaid shirts which really blended with his red hair. He was generally soft-spoken except when he got excited about something.

San Francisco was a fun place to be single, a myriad of things to do on a small budget. We were doing just that. We walked the city center which included a walk up Grant Avenue, the heart of Chinatown. I enjoyed going in and out of the shops as they had lots of merchandise from the orient. Some specialized in cooking items the likes of which I’d never seen before. Then there was North Beach, the Italian section and of course Fisherman’s Wharf.

While Ed was an amazing artist, it was not how he earned his living. Before doing his military service in the army, he attended an outstanding art school on a full scholarship, but didn’t take certain requisite courses in order to be able to earn a living while waiting to be discovered. I would learn much later that this was symptomatic of other problems, serious flaws in very important areas.

I also found the UC Dental School was a great place to have work done as it was very inexpensive, as long as you had time. I had to have wisdom teeth removed and Ed took care of me when I got back to the boarding house where I was living. He showed up with a suitcase. Inside was an electric heating burner, a pan and a couple of different canned soups. I read into all of this much more than it was and, in a few months, Ed convinced me that we were in love and should get married. I was in love all right—in love with the idea of having my own place to live. In those days, when you finished school you went back to your parents’ home, not an apartment of your own. I was totally inexperienced with respect to life, who I was as a person and what I needed in a mate.

Upon graduation, I returned to Los Angeles as I had a teaching job with the LA Unified School District waiting for me. It was 1952. I was 24. I’d finished college and had a few graduate courses to my credit. I was now fully accredited and had my own class.

Despite my mother’s very strong objections, which only pushed me closer to Ed, we were married and settled into an apartment. I had a summer teaching job so I went to work and Ed looked for work.

I somehow managed to save a little money and a year and one half after we were married had a sufficient amount for a down payment on a house in a new development. Fortunately, the amount required was within our budget and with the G I Bill in California, the interest rates on mortgages was very low. So, after being married for a little over a year, we became homeowners. We moved in and began to furnish and decorate.

Soon, a pattern began to develop. I didn’t recognize it at first as such. He never stayed with a job for any length of time. As soon as he settled in, he’d become restless and find fault with his work. In no time he’d be out looking for a new position.

By now I’d been teaching for two years. School began after summer vacation. Suddenly, I became ill—so ill I had to be hospitalized. While there, I was diagnosed as being dehydrated due to nausea and its complications. They also