Facing Myself - A life's journey from tragedy to finding God's love

By Thomas G. Tillson

It a story of my life from being born with a very severe facial deformity to having countless Surgeries to repair (aprox 65) and then getting to the point of suicide until God intervened. From that moment on, my life went on a path to peace, perseverance success and Meeting my wife. The Book was written that no matter what a person goes

• Language: English
• Publisher: Oxford Book Writers
• Release date: Jan 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798869112279

Book preview

zxcv

Thomas_G_Tillson_-_ebookPaul HendricksMuhammad Zohaib31002023-12-18T20:24:00Z2023-12-18T20:24:00Z2023-12-18T22:03:00Z40174719425899Aspose354999949961916.0000

Facing Myself

A life’s journey from tragedy

To finding God’s love

Thomas G Tillson

Copyright © 2023

All Rights Reserved

Thomas G Tillson

Dedication

For my wife, Linda, my confidante, and my love. You have been by my side every step of the way. You have made me complete as we walked every step of this journey in Christ.

To my children John and Chris. You have given me much joy and happiness throughout my adult life and have made me proud to be your father.

Acknowledgment

I would like to thank the following 4 people who have given me the encouragement to write this book.

First and foremost are two of my sisters, Colleen Duncan and Marybeth Hutsell. Both have been with me throughout the good times and bad. The encouragement you have given me throughout the writing of this book is beyond anything I could have ever dreamed of.

Secondly, much gratitude to Teri Crownover. Teri, you were a big inspiration to me when I needed it so I could continue writing.

Finally, my thanks to Dianne Nehring for helping me with corrections and grammar.

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgment

Introduction

Part 1 Spiral to Tragedy

My Beginning

My Early Years

My Brother Timmy

Grandpa and Me

My First Major Surgery

Kindergarten

Doctors, Hospitals, and Surgeries

My Big Homerun

Moving to Glendale Heights

Emergency Room Trip

Fun Times at the Hospital

The Divorce

First Summer Without Mom

St. Matthew School

Ditching School

My Time as an Altar Boy

Dad’s Second Marriage

Fire Department Called

Palisades Park

Water Skiing Incident

Surgery to Build My Right Ear

Eighth Grade and Dad’s Second Divorce

High School Here I Come

Sophomore Year

The McRae Brothers

Winter of ’67

Colours of Time

A New Band Called Presence

Meeting Pat and Orrin

Dad Meets Betty

Dad and Betty Get Married

One Big Happy Family

Running Away From Home Again

Betty and I

Summer of ‘68

My Senior Year

Life After High School

The Final Straw

Life on My Own

My End of the Bargain

Army Enrollment?

Frank’s Place

Moving Back with Mom

A Friend Called Myles

Learning to Snowmobile

Another Trip to the Hospital

New Job at A&P

Life is Good, but Then Again

Wheaton Police Interrogation

My Day of Reckoning

Part 2 God, Was that You?

My Heart to Heart with Dad

A New Beginning

Meeting a Girl Named Linda

First Date

Getting to Know Her Better

House Sitting

Shopping for rings

Hospital Stays are Getting Old

Best Christmas Ever

Making Marriage Plans

Apartment, Furniture, and Planning

Our Wedding Day

Kentucky and St. Louis Bound

We’re Going to Be Parents

Thanksgiving with Dad

Child Number Two

Part 3 God, You showed me a path

Let’s Build a House

Committing to Christ

Me and Music

My Work Career

Reconciliation

Final Thoughts

Thoughts from my Sister Colleen

Thoughts From My Brother-in-law, Pat

Epilogue

Introduction

Four years ago, I was sitting on my patio, reflecting on my life. I began reminiscing about my struggles growing up and how God led me through some very rough times. At the time, I never realized He was with me and guiding me through every part of my life. Even though I grew up in a Catholic family, it never entered my mind in my early years that God existed. I questioned His existence all the time. I wasn’t agnostic or an atheist. I just had questions about whether God existed.

My original plan was to document and write my life story in a journal. I wanted to do that so my sons and family would know the struggles I endured. I also wanted to document how one encounter in the middle of the night at the age of 22 changed my life forever.

Yes, even though all my siblings grew up with me and were a part of my life, they only saw a small portion of what I endured. They were all unaware of the backstory going on in my life. They never saw the pain or humiliation I endured growing up. It was a world I felt at the time that refused to accept a child born with a severe facial deformity. Because of that severe deformity, people labeled me with mental retardation. I have always kept that part of my life private until now.

As I continued to jot down all my life experiences, people who knew me told me this story should not be just for my family to read. It should be a story for other people to read as well.

My story has been 72 years in the making and is about tragedy, perseverance, determination, hope, and finding God’s love.

Since the dawn of time, scholars, scientists, and Christians have long debated the question of God’s existence. I know there is no doubt that the debate will continue until God calls us home. If you struggle to answer whether God exists, read my story, then you can decide.

Part 1

Spiral

to

Tragedy

My Beginning

I was born June 19, 1951, in Chicago, Illinois, and from that day forward, I would face tremendous challenges with every emotion imaginable. On that day, my life, the lives of my parents, and every person who would eventually come to know me would be changed forever. My name is Thomas George Tillson.

My father, John, whom everybody called Jack, was the first person in my ancestry to be born in America since my great, great grandfather, George Barker Tillson. Both grandparents, Ivan and Anne, immigrated to the United States from Canada and eventually settled in Chicago after a brief stopover in Detroit. Their time spent in Detroit was long enough for my dad to be born.

On the other hand, my mother, Carol Stricker, came from a lineage that lived here in the United States for years. Jack was 21, and Carol was 18 when they were married in 1950, five years after World War II. America was back and on the rise to prosperity once again.

During the early fifties, people went about their lives without any care in the world. Moms were able to stay home once again, raising their children. The war to end all wars was finally over, and women no longer needed to work while their husbands served in the military. They could now stay at home and care for their families while all the dads went to work. This was pretty much the typical lifestyle back in that era. Life was good.

Jack and Carol settled into their new apartment after they were married and did what all newlyweds did back then: party, party, party. Carol’s three sisters, Joanne, Patricia, and Mary, along with their older brother Richard, were a very close-knit family; with that said, they all lived near one another. On the other hand, Jack had one sibling, Marilyn. She was married the year before and moved to the state of Michigan, leaving Jack without any siblings living close by.

Every Saturday, there would always be a party at someone’s apartment. The men would all sit around the dining room table, smoking cigars, drinking beer, and playing poker. The women would gather in the living room and dance to the latest Patti Page or Pat Boone record. Times were simple, and no one ever thought about anything except where the next party would be.

A few months later, Carol became pregnant, and the word spread quickly throughout the Tillson/Stricker households. As the months breezed on, excitement filled the air in the Tillson home while they waited patiently for my arrival. Jack and Carol were young and madly in love with one another, but the thought of bringing a child into the world raised some serious questions. Could they afford to raise this child? Would they be able to teach this child right from wrong? Would they know how to nurture him/her? These were questions my future parents pondered. Little did they know that this was the beginning of many problems their future would bring.

Medical science being what it was back in the ’50s, there was no ultrasound, no blood test, and no checking on what sex the baby was. It was a time when you didn’t find out about the sex of the baby until after they were born. I can see Dad saying, Oh my God, what do you mean there’s no how-to manual on raising a child? But as all couples eventually come to grips with having a child, they would somehow manage and learn through trial and error.

Now, when the time came, my soon-to-be mom went into labor. Dad loaded the car with the prepacked suitcase that Mom had packed three months earlier. There’s no sense in waiting till the last minute.

Off they went. I’m sure my dad tried to break all land speed records to get to the hospital. Of course, living in Chicago, he would have to deal with all the traffic it’s famous for. Speed records would not be broken today. I imagine my dad was yelling at the cars ahead of him. Get out of the way! Can’t you see we have a medical emergency! Oh my God! We’re going to have a baby! Hang on tight, Carol. I’ll get you there. Just don’t spit that baby out here in the car. I just washed it! I’m sorry, bad joke, but I couldn’t resist.

With that said, you had to know my parents. My father was very much laid-back, and nothing seemed to bother him except when he saw harm being done to people or animals. So, understanding what my mom was dealing with regarding the labor pains, the whole scenario must have driven him crazy. I can pretty much guess that Dad was panicking on the drive to the hospital.

My mom, on the other hand, was a quiet person. She was the emotional one in the family but took things in stride. You might say she had the Everything will be okay attitude outlook. With that said, you can bet that the trip to the hospital would be one of the best stories ever. While I was not around yet, knowing them as I do, I can guess what happened.

They finally arrived at the hospital. The labor pains grew closer together, and when it was time for me to be born, Mom was whisked away to the delivery room. Dad, however, had to stay behind and wait in the expecting father’s room, which was a glorified name, for dare I say it, THE WAITING ROOM. He wasn’t qualified to be in the delivery room. I’m sure Dad paced back and forth in the waiting room, trying to remain calm while wondering what was happening in the other room. I could just hear him asking, Why is it taking so long? Even though Dad was a patient man most of the time, today, patience would be tossed out the window.

Moments later, which must have seemed like an eternity to Mom and Dad, I popped out. As Paul Harvey would say, Here is the rest of the story. From this point forward, my birth story would be one my dad shared with me many years later, long after I became an adult.

Once I was born, the doctors and hospital staff in the delivery room panicked. They couldn’t decide whether to give me to my mom to hold or take me into another room. They elected to do the latter. They whisked me away to another place while the doctor in charge of the delivery stayed behind and waited until one of the attendants went to get my dad. As my dad entered the room, he immediately knew something was wrong.

The doctor was at a loss for words when he tried to tell my parents about my severe abnormality. Upon telling my parents about the deformity I was born with, he also said there was a reasonable probability I wouldn’t live more than a few days. It would be best if they made me comfortable and let me die peacefully. If I did survive, I would most likely need a lifetime of surgeries to have the abnormalities repaired. My father didn’t want to hear that I could die and blurted out, That’s my son. Bring him here. Let me see my son!

As they brought me to my parents, my father looked at me, held his breath, and told the hospital staff, Do everything you can to keep my son alive. You can’t let my son die. That is not an option. It would be another week before my parents would see me.

Here’s where I get technical, so please stay with me on this. The abnormality I was born with used to be called 1st and 2nd Branchial Arch Syndrome. In simple layperson’s terms, I was born with a severe cleft lip and cleft palate. You can also add to that a severe lateral cleft. Today, however, it is better known as Goldenhar Syndrome. As a side note, have you ever wondered why everything has to be a syndrome? I have. Just saying.

So, here I was, born with a very severe cleft lip, cleft palate, and lateral cleft. I also had a deformed eye, a bump for a nose, and an open cavity where my mouth was supposed to be. Because of the lateral cleft, the right corner of my mouth was open to where my right ear was supposed to be. The keywords here are ‘was supposed to be.’ You see, my right ear was also missing. Oh, there was something there, but it was just a mangled bunch of flesh that had no resemblance to an ear.

My father told me that babies born with a lateral cleft, cleft lip, and cleft palate were extremely uncommon. The lateral cleft of the lip is also known as Tessier cleft type 7 and is one of the rarest facial anomalies. Reported incidences of a cleft lip are about 1 in 3000-5000, whereas the occurrence of a lateral cleft lip is about 1 in 100,000-300,000. This constitutes about 0.3-1% of all facial clefts.

The severe cleft palate I was born with left a hole in the roof of my mouth so big that one could drive a Mack truck through it. The hole in the roof of my mouth led up to my nasal passages. Because of that, feeding me would be one of the biggest challenges I would endure in my early life. The hospital ended up feeding me through a tube to keep me alive.

Additionally, the right part of my nose was also missing. The bone structure around my right eye and cheek was abnormal, making my eye somewhat slanted and half-closed. The eye itself was also smaller in size compared to my other eye. That also led to being diagnosed with blindness in the eye. To this day, the vision in my right eye is exceedingly blurry, very dark, and extremely sensitive to any kind of sunlight. The eye deformity is still a part of who I am today, and even though it could not be corrected, the vision in my other eye more than made up for it.

The right side of my jawbone and abnormal bronchial passages were also non-existent. In other words, all said and done, my face, or lack thereof, was pretty screwed up. So basically, yours truly was born with just half of a face. Dad told me that my form of Goldenhar syndrome was one of the worst cases the hospital had ever seen.

Today, due to the advances in medical technology, babies born with Goldenhar Syndrome have a very high rate of success in having their deformity fixed so they can lead a normal, healthy life. Back in the ’50s, however, babies born with Goldenhar would have to endure countless surgeries, and I do mean countless. The number of operations varies depending on who you talk to. My estimate is around fifty. My sister, however, said that Dad told her I had eighty-seven. Regardless, let’s just say I had a lot of them.

I had undergone my first surgery when I was about six weeks old. The operation would correct the gaping hole in the center of what was supposed to be my face and close up the corner of my mouth. These were difficult but the easiest of the many surgeries yet to come. The operation to repair my severe cleft palate would be a little more complicated and wouldn’t be until I was about nine months to a year old. Dad told me that it was common to wait until the child was at least six to nine months old to have the palate repaired.

There were also surgeries to correct the nasal passages on the right side of what was supposed to be my nose. That surgery made it easier for me to breathe through my nose. At least, that’s what the doctors thought. I still have trouble breathing out the right side of my nose to this day. The surgery to build a jaw bone using one of my ribs would happen later, about when I was five. They elected to do these surgeries in steps because I was little. I had countless operations by the time I was two years old, thus starting the common practice of corrective surgeries until I was in my early 30s. Now, here is the rest of my story.

My Early Years

I have very few memories of my early years until age five. From what my dad told me and some random memories stored in my brain, I was often in and out of the hospitals. All my hospital stays dealt with surgeries to correct a substantial part of my deformities. God, how I hate the word deformities. It sounds so horrible and detestable. With that said, I always thought, Why do I have to go to the hospital? Why do I have to have these surgeries all the time? I was always in extreme pain when they were done, and I always got sick to the point of throwing up.

As a young kid, I didn’t know anything was wrong with me. How could I? Oh, I had a hunch there was something different about me because of all the surgeries. My parents always babied me and kept me from the outside world. Because my parents never allowed me to go outside a whole lot, I never had a chance to make friends or hang around with other kids. They were so afraid that I would fall and damage my face. Of course, that could happen even if I was inside as well, so I never saw any logic there. Because of that, I had no friends to speak of, so I relegated myself to finding ways to entertain myself as best I could. Which, in my case, often led to trouble.

As I said earlier, the culture in the ’50s was that the moms stayed home while the dads went to work. Moms watched the kids, cleaned the house, washed the clothes, and cooked dinner. Dads just went to work. There was no preschool, no daycare. Kids just stayed home until it was time to go to kindergarten. When kids played outside, at least one of the parents was always outside with them. They were just friends with the rest of the neighbors, and it was their way of socializing. The grownups were always joking around with each other while keeping one eye on their kids.

As I said, I was not allowed to play outside much and had to find a way to keep myself entertained. Oh, I had plenty of toys and stuff to throw around, which always left a mess. Because of that, Mom was always picking up after me. She never made me clean up my toys. She would do it. Now, some people would say in today’s world that I was spoiled. I don’t think so.

My play area was my bedroom, with my Lincoln Logs or Tinker Toys spread all over the floor. (For those younger than 40, both are archaic versions of Legos today.)

I would build little forts and pretend to be Davey Crocket hunting for grizzly bears. I don’t remember feeling lonely during this period of my life because what I did was normal to me.

Growing up in the city of Chicago back in the ’50s was a different mindset than today. We lived in what you would call a three-flat. It was a two-story apartment. In our case, the landlord lived upstairs on the second floor, we lived downstairs on the first floor, and another tenant lived in the basement area of the building. All three apartments were in one building. Our tiny apartment had two bedrooms, a dining room, a living room, and a kitchen. Mom stored our washing machine on the back porch, and she would wheel it into the kitchen when clothes needed washing.

We also didn’t have a dryer back then because of the expense. If you asked folks back then if they had a clothes dryer, they would look at you kind of weird and strange. It just wasn’t a typical machine to own if you lived in an apartment. They might even question you as to what the heck a dryer was. As far as our home, a dryer was the outside air. We usually hung the clothes on a clothesline with clothespins.

During one summer, I remember Mom and Dad started spending much more of their leisure time outside, sitting on the front steps of our three-flat. They became slightly more relaxed and less cautious about my playing outside. They would drink beer, watch the world go by, or talk about whatever was in the news that day. Neighbors would occasionally walk by, stop, and talk about the weather. Why is it always about the weather? Couldn’t it be about maybe Aunt Matilda smacking Uncle Earl in the arm because he burped or farted in front of the kids?

Either way, conversations and laughter would always be in the air until I walked by. The silence would sometimes be overwhelming. I knew the reason for the secrecy was me. It had to be me because people would always stop talking when I came near. I never understood it. I always had the same question in my mind. Did I do something wrong? Is my zipper open? Not comprehending why, I would walk away like I had something important to do at the time. I would glance at my dad as I walked by, and he would smile at me and ruffle my hair. I didn’t know if Dad was blind to the fact that people stared at me and whispered or if I was just over-sensitive. Either way, they stopped talking as I walked by.

Another thing I was always observant of was the fact that people stared. Why did they have to look? I imagined they were praising the Lord; they didn’t have one of their sons or daughters born with my affliction.

As I said earlier, my parents were very overprotective when it came to playing outside. One of them always had to be with me. I never understood that line of reasoning, either. Another prevalent thing back then was that people thought my disfigurement indicated I was mentally retarded or, to put it nicely, slow. That was always one of the main reasons they wouldn’t let their kids play with me.

Sometimes, people would think that what I had was contagious. How naïve is that? I mean, after all, these people were adults. They should have known better, but of course, they were also the same people who believed in UFOs. Go figure.

One day, a family moved in next door to us, and they had a son named Jerry. Within a short time, his parents became good friends with my parents, and Jerry and I became friends, too. His parents were decent people and had no problem letting their son play alongside me. Soon after, another kid moved in across the street from us and started to join us. His name was George. George was a much bigger kid than Jerry and me and maybe a year or two older, but he still came over to play. These two kids were the only friends I had to play with. I do not include my cousins here because they’re relatives, and they all had to play with me.

Our landlord upstairs had a son named Oschal. He was a teenager about ten years older than Jerry, George, and me. Even though there was a significant age difference, he still played with us occasionally. He was also instrumental in teaching Jerry and me how to ride a bike. Dad didn’t want me to learn to ride a bike, so he never bought me one. Maybe it was because he was scared I would fall off the bike and hurt my face. That was okay because Oschal had a bike, and it was his bike that we used to learn how to ride. Dad would have freaked out if he knew Oschal was teaching me how to ride.

Oschal was a pretty funny guy and was always one to play practical jokes on the three of us. Every Saturday, Oschal had to take the family car into the alley behind the apartment and wash it. Jerry and George would sometimes join me to help Oschal out. We would always get more water on us than on the car. We thought nothing of taking the bucket and sneaking up behind Oschal to douse him. Of course, it never occurred to us that we only had one shot with the bucket of water and that if we missed him, we had an empty bucket and no chance to reload it. Why we never thought about the fact that he was in charge of the hose, which had an endless water supply, was beyond me. What the heck did we know? We were only four years old and didn’t even think about stuff like that. We sure had fun with him for a few years anyway, until he started noticing girls. We never saw him much after that.

My Brother Timmy

January 1955 was a weird month for me. Over the past six months, I noticed how big and heavy Mom was getting. Yes, I know, you should never say anything about a woman getting heavy, and I get it, but she was. She never told me why until one day, my curiosity got the better of me, and I blurted out, Why is your belly getting so big? She laughed and told me that we were going to have another baby. I thought at the time, What do you mean WE? You’re the one who’s getting big, not me. My mind was very analytical and logical, so to that end, I always took things literally. But she continued and said, And when this baby is born, we (again with the ‘WE’ stuff) will bring our little bundle of joy home, and he or she will be your little brother or sister. So right now, I’m thinking, That’s what you think, mommy. Nope, you’re going to take it right back to wherever you’re getting it. We don’t need to have one of those here. We’re doing just fine without it.

So now, January 12th arrived, and my Grandparents showed up for a visit. At least, that’s what I thought at first. But right after Grandma and Grandpa walked through the front door, Mom and Dad left, and I might add, in a big hurry. They went to places unknown without even saying goodbye. There was no explanation for what was happening or what they were doing. Nothing!

A few days passed, and my parents finally returned home with mom holding a bunch of blankets. You can also add that she had no more belly. Hmm, something is fishy here.

They carried on and on about this pile of blankets for what seemed like forever. Grandma was saying, Aw, look at how precious he is. He’s so beautiful. She then leaned over to whisper, You two must be so relieved. I heard it, and I thought and wondered at the time, Why did she say that?

As a side note, Grandma always had a way with