Hold My Hand, Be a Good Girl and Do Not Cry. Why I Love My Cousin Charles

My students and supervisees have a lot of questions about my road to becoming a rescue worker and first responder. I never have answers for their questions because I am forever focused on the work of it and not the me of who does the work of it.

Just after the horrific earthquake in Haiti I became reacquainted with my dear second cousins Marie and Charles. I have not seen either of them in over forty years and its been great fun not only sharing emails with them, but also remembering the time in my life they were so present for me.

My parents divorced in the 1960's which was not a great time for a child's' parents to divorce. There was still such tremendous stigma and embarrassment. I lied to my teachers and classmates and told them that my father had died. My best friend, Elaine, her father had died so I thought I could just squeeze in under her sympathy radar and get by with my dishonesty. I couldn't of course, fool anyone. As soon as my teachers heard my lame little lie they called in my mother who set them straight. She was not a widow but a divorcee. I was punished for weeks for that little lie, although to this day I am not sure why.

I missed my Dad with a huge and horrible pain that took years to resolve. My Dad's name was Charles and he was big and strong and he took me just about everywhere with him when I was a toddler. My Mom worked while my Dad was a college student. He took care of me until the day he was gone and then he was just gone. I was three and there were no explanations. I would not see my Dad again until I was 28 years old. My younger sister would not even meet him for the first time until the night before I married.

My father had an aunt, Aunt Louise, who clearly never got the memo that when you are related to someone in the midst of an acrimonious divorce, you must pick a side and that should preferably be the side of your blood relative. Now this was not because my Aunt Louise was not a great reader because she read to me quite often and quite well. It was, more than likely, because she was a loving and caring human who basically couldn't care less what anyone thought of her.

Visiting Aunt Louise was always a joy. For one thing she had a living room where you could actually sit and watch television. It was not like my house where the living room was set aside for holidays and business visits. I liked going to see Aunt Louise because you actually sat in her living room and she would play "Wonderful World Of Disney" on Sunday nights on her television. Aunt Louise would also sit in her chair and watch the show with you. She made it seem as if she were happy to be there with you. She knew a great deal about grilled cheese sandwiches and peanut butter and jelly treats. I loved my Aunt Louise for many many reasons but mostly because if you were having an especially bad day, she didn't mind at all if you crawled up into her lap and babbled your six year old nonsense. Of course when my parents divorced I was three so at around six years old I had a lot of bad days. She would pet my head and hold me. Later there would be a cookie of some sort and I would still be hiccuping my tears away and not able to actually eat the cookie. Aunt Louise would press the cookie into my pocket and tell me it was for later when I wanted to feel better. I never wanted to leave her house that for me was a safe place.

My cousin Marie was almost a teenager when my parents divorced. She was beautiful and she wore pretty dresses and she wore headbands a lot. She was smart and gentle and our best babysitter. My sister, Maureen, and I would learn that Marie was coming to "sit" and we were delirious with joy. We knew that she would play our insane games with us, let us play "brush hair" and stay with us while we brushed our teeth.

If you did something bad Marie would not necessarily tell your mother about what you had done. She would instead say something like, "Cathy, you know better than to bite your sister"! or "Maureen, stop tearing your sister's hair out". We would stop brutalizing each other for the duration and listen and behave. You really didn't want Marie to get upset with you or she might stop coming to babysit and my sister and I didn't like that idea one single little bit. We were hurting children who didn't have a lot of grace or kindness in our lives and we certainly didn't want to jeopardize our good fortune.

We were good girls, if only because we didn't want to lose our Marie.

As things go though, Marie grew up. She had social engagements and all the other commitments that go with adolescence. She could not babysit Maureen and I any longer. One day the announcement came down that Charles would babysit us.

Horror does not adequately describe our reaction to the news. We never talked back to our Mom, but this news was far too serious to stay silent. "Well? What about Marie"? we asked. "Where is Marie?" It was not a pretty morning as we dressed for school that day and learned that cousin Charles had been recruited to assume the position as "sitter".

My sister and I lamented and discussed as only an eight year old and five year old can do. Marie was pretty and kind and she smelled so good. Charles was gruff and well, he was a boy? "Who had a boy babysitter" we thought back in 1964? There is no such thing as a boy babysitter we assured one another. We came home from schools, put on our Marie headbands and waited for her.

So it was though, Charles would sit us and we little kids didn't have a whole lot to say about this. I am sure he was not so happy about this arrangement either, but he, like me, well we knew our roles in our family and we played them. Suddenly this 13 year old was responsible for his eight and six year old cousins and I am pretty sure he didn't want the job. He did it well though and so well that I can remember his lessons today. They are part of the basis of my training manual in which I direct my supervisees in the field and I think good lessons for all.

My training manual is a several chapter protocol setting which include not just the international agreed upon disaster trainings that are required for first responders in the field, but also the "boring" back stories from my own experiences as a psychiatric rehabilitation supervisor, a registered dance therapist and a first responder. It is well known in all fields that if you "pull Cath G" or the "pit ballerina" you are in for a lot of trouble. It does not matter that I have been teaching and training for now thirty years. My evaluations always come back badly. I am "unfair", I "expect too much". I have been told over and over that I work my supervisees too hard. Fifteen years ago, one of my new supervisees confronted me in the hallway of the busy NYC hospital where I worked and told me, "Cath, you just raise the bar too high. You set very high standards for yourself and everyone around you and they are impossible to meet". I was new to the job and I kept my mouth shut. I went home that night and was banging around pots and pans in the kitchen when my then husband asked me why I was so upset? I related the story to him and though our marriage was then in tatters and we would soon separate, he assured me, "Cathy, yes you do set the bar high, but then in your line of work someone has to do just that". The ex was right of course because I hear from students and supervisees every week who assure me with statements like "Omigod I hated training, studying, learning with you. You were so hard. You made me the best, I cant thank you enough".

Here's the thing though, it was not me. It was my cousin Charles.

1. If you hold my hand you won't fall. Probably the best words in the world for a fatherless child but especially for a fatherless child like me. My cousin Charles was leading me around the neighborhood while I was dressed in a ridiculously large Halloween costume. My mother, ever intent on impressing her neighbors, had dressed me in this outlandish costume that only 12 year olds would have worn. My younger sister, Maureen, had a comfy clowny costume that made her look cute. She never fell down or even worried about that. I held my 13 year old cousins hand and learned what I should have if I had a Dad in my life. If someone offers you their hand, take it. It is the simplest and yet most loving gesture two people can share. When my staff become overburdened in the field or when my colleagues are drained with emotion or when I feel that I cannot go on, well, I feel best when someone grabs my hand. I start every dance therapy session that way because I know how profound the gesture is. It was only a month or two ago that my cousin Charles reminded me that he held my hand when I was a very pained child who just really needed a good hand holding. Thanks Charles.

2. Try to be a good girl. Its a euphemism here in the field of first responders and it means "Do not let your emotions guide you. Hold fast to your training. Be professional, be empathic and do not lose your center". Thanks Charles.

3.Don't cry. I am sure what he really meant was don't cry so much or so hard Cathy, but he said in his 13 year old voice what he knew best. He didn't want me to be sad or lonely and he communicated this as best he could. He had a hard job in taking care of me and Maureen. I sometimes feel this way as well.

Every day I see "trainees" in the field performing such heroic acts. I stand back and I observe them and I marvel at the strength, the sheer love of humanity and life and the willingness they have to risk life and limb to save a stranger. They return to me dusty and tired and hungry and their eyes shine with hope and humanity and I do not cry. I never cry. Well never in front of them anyway. Thanks Charles.

Until I go home and then I cry. I cry buckets. I cry out of pride and admiration and such intense respect for the people that learn from me. I think so much of all of the field workers and their families.

Well I am not going to tell Charles that part of the story am I? I wont. He knows though.

I love my cousins Marie and Charles and Bon and I miss my great Aunt Louise a lot.
Hold my hand, be a good girl and do not cry. Well I am almost part way there.