Choices
A Parent’s Unconditional Love in an Age of Ignorance

The First Book of a Trilogy

by Sherry Ann Bryson

Author’s Note

Choices, the first book of a trilogy is the story of a child growing up in the 1950’s and is told as if it were written by an older woman, a mother, reflecting back on raising a daughter. Miriam, the fictional author, titles her book Reasonable Certitude in an effort to explain the forces that makes the improbable come to a mostly positive conclusion. She is writing the book towards the end of her life not for fame or money but to record it so it will not be lost. The story Miriam tells is, of course, fiction. It did not happen, and perhaps it could not have happened. Still it is not entirely improbable, given the power of a mother’s love, and the recorded history of the work that a very few in the medical profession were doing in the 1950’s and 1960’s. The reader will be the ultimate judge of probability.

Struggles is the second book of the trilogy. The title speaks for itself. It tells the story of a child beginning in the 1950’s at age eight and concludes in the mid- 1990’s when the child has become a successful adult, married with three children but focuses on the struggles of gender and identity. The story is meant to provide some insight of the dynamics of being different in an earlier generation.

The Third book of the trilogy is Paths which brings the main character from each of the other two books in the series together as adults. The reader may read either Struggles or Choices first but it is suggested that Paths be reserved until both have been completed, and thusly Paths will be posted last.

The writer attaches the usual caveats. Of course, this is a work of fiction, so any similarities of the people or happenings contained herein with real events, or actual persons, living or not, is just coincidence and, well, inconceivable with the exception of two real medical professionals incorporated as characters, each with a professional public record. The author has penned not inconceivable fictional conversations with these men. Perhaps, some will claim this statement is the real fiction but as of this writing it is doubtful anyone reading what follows and making such claims would see themselves, or the author for that matter.

Reasonable Certitude follows:

Reasonable Certitude

Miriam Hartman Roberts

A Message from the Author

I am addicted to reading. I have literally read hundreds of books, perhaps thousands. I am a professional reader. I read fiction, biographies, history and even a little science fiction. I read during the day and at times all night. I claim my vast experience as a professional reader, coupled with my journalism degree, as sufficient qualification to transition, in my later years, from a reader to a writer. If anyone knows good writing, as well as bad, it is I.

Deciding to start writing at age 77 was not the whim of an old senile woman. I felt I had a story that required telling. Actually I know that this is a story that needs to be told, even if it is a story without the drama, or melodrama, so necessary for today’s fiction, or even non-fiction. In the parlance of modern literature this really isn’t a story of note, at least not in the sense of our everyday dependence on a stream of endless provocative and sensational events; our collective addiction as I like to say. My story is one of how a family took a potentially provocative, sensational, and personally devastating fact and made it nothing; how that family created normalcy out of something so different, against all odds. It is a true story that began over forty years ago, but most likely still has much relevance for many today.

I have relied not only on memories that are ingrained into my brain forever, as long as I am alive, but also my journals. From my final semester at West Virginia University in the spring of 1939, through the death of my son in 1968, I kept a journal making almost daily entries. For those who do read this and think it fiction, I offer my journals, as the confirmation of truth.

Miriam Roberts

Preface

My doctor is a comedian. He told me I was dying. That wasn’t the funny part. What seemed comedic to me was that with a straight face he told me he didn’t know what was going to kill me. He said it could be my lungs, struggling for oxygen now after decades of smoking, or it could be my liver, from years of drinking, much of which I’m proud to say was a little on the heavy side. After he paused to read my reaction to this obvious news, he freely offered his best medical advice, of which I am certain, I, or the government, will be considerably charged.

“Miriam, you must stop smoking and drinking.”

“Both?” I countered sarcastically.

“Miriam.” He admonished. His tone wasn’t overtly judgmental but I was sure he wouldn’t be checking the box ‘Natural Causes’ in the Cause of Death section of my Demise Certificate.

Dr. Doom had been around for awhile in my life. His real name was Downs. Dr. David Downs, M.D. had been overseeing my trip ‘down hill’ for some time. The alliterative Doctor David Downs was known as Dee Dee to most of his patients, wrongly giving a feminine handle. No, Dee Dee was really two d’s, or DD. In any case DD was a perfect fit. David Downs – Doctor Doom or Doctor Death, both fit, DD seemed appropriate for someone whose average patient age was reduced when I first signed the consent form in his office years ago. He practiced geriatrics and constantly was in need of fresh, but ever thickening, blood.

To DD’s chagrin, I wasn’t one of those people who lived the later years of their life constantly trying to find a way not to die. Years ago I dutifully chose 65 as my targeted life expectancy and regularly drank an amount to make it likely that I hit the target. By this calculation I had already lived an additional fourteen years, accounting for my exceptional good take on Dr. Doom’s gloom.

My children, the two daughters still living, felt I had a death wish, I’m sure. Far from it; I always firmly believed in a balance and therefore lived by two basic rules. First, take every prudent measure to live a healthy, long and productive life. Second, enjoy life to the fullest. Fortunately, or not, you be the judge, the second rule almost always trumped the first.

Living life to the fullest might suggest a certain wild existence, brushes with death, intrigue, scandal, promiscuity, an affair or two or at least serial polygamy. I almost regret not having at least one or two of these checked on my life list, but I have none. Actually, looking back, I can’t say there were any parts of my life that are worthy of significant note. Perhaps that’s the common tragedy of many of us. We live fulfilling but not unusual lives, with run of the mill twists and turns, ups and downs; lives like those adequately chronicled in thousands of novels; common stories for common people leading common lives; best sellers, all of them, with covers showing a beautiful full breasted woman striking an adulterous pose. I’m certain my story is not the stuff of even a run of the mill novel, certainly not a best seller.

Dr. Doom, expects to scare me. He tells me I could still have years of a good life ahead of me. He reminds me I have children and grandchildren. He tells me I have so many friends. With ministerial zeal he implores me to repent, medically speaking, change my sinful ways and look forward.

But I think about my past constantly now; not my future. I am torn; use what time I have left to connect with those few who are still in my life, or make an effort to write my story. I argue against an autobiography. To what end; who would read it; who would find it a compelling story or even interesting? Then, under self cross-examination, I admit that any accounting of my life would be valuable even if there was an audience of only one, and I was the one.

So I compromised, as I have so often. I do have stories to tell; stories I find compelling. The primary story is of a life that let love and compassion win out over reason and societal norms. Perhaps that is not unusual but I will let others judge.

I left Dr. Doom’s office feeling much improved but no less determined to make changes in my life, just not the changes the good doctor severely recommended. Before I unlocked my Mercedes I lit a Newport and made a mental note to stop and pick up fifth of Johnnie Walker Red on the way home. Besides the Johnnie Walker, I stopped and picked up a ream of paper and a ribbon for my Selectric. I had so much to look forward to.