Farewell to Jackie D'Acre's Memoir -- for Now.

Dear Readers. Thank you for following my adventures in life this far. But, I’m sorry to say, this will be the last chapter of Hovering Above Myself—A Memoir, to be published at this award-winning blog. I’ve been advised by book publicity experts that pre-publishing kills book sales when the book later comes out. So I hope you understand and you’ll look for the complete book! Thank you again, Jacqueline D’Acre

Chapter Fifteen

I haven’t written a word in many days. I have been ill. Terrible stomach pains and unrelenting nausea. Finally, one night, I got fed up with the pain (which had gone on for a month) and I called 911.

            At the hospital they took blood, X-rayed and found I had pneumonia. They admitted me. After hours on the stretcher, it’s hard surface killing my back, I was taken to a private room on 2B. Private, because I was considered ‘infectious.’ The nausea continued. I was living on water. After a week, while I was still feeling nauseated, the doctor announced that I was allergic to marijuana. He was sending me home. Oh no! I finally find a pain killer that works and now this? I didn’t believe him. I called Bodystream, the medical marijuana clinic, and asked them about the incidence of allergy to marijuana. Answer: None, but some were allergic to the oil it came in. There was a company that sold the marijuana with coconut oil and the allergic reaction disappeared. But what was really wrong with me? The pain was vaguely familiar. Then I remembered: Twenty years back I had rampant candida in my digestive tract. After months of antibiotics for a persistent case of walking pneumonia I developed exactly the same symptoms as I have now.

Late, the night after I got out of the hospital, I woke up compulsively vomiting. This carried on for over half an hour with no sign of letting up. My abdomen was racked with pain. I could barely talk but I called 911 again. Threw up in the ambulance all the way to Emergency and this continued after I was in a stretcher in a cubicle. I was crying aloud with the pain. A nurse came and gave me hell for making so much noise. It was difficult to stay silent. Finally they gave me a shot of morphine and something for the nausea. I talked to the doctor, who looked like he might be a bit counter-culture: He had long hair pulled back in a ponytail. He might not be prejudiced against marijuana like so many and be open to candida as the problem. He went along with me somewhat and prescribed an expensive probiotic. No anti-fungal medication. 

            I got home. Still in some pain and then I remembered I’d drank aloe vera juice years before. So I tried some again. Instant relief from the nausea. Now I only have nausea some of the time, but I sip the aloe and it fades. But I still don’t feel 100%—I’m weak and tired.

In Basic Training in the Air Force, we had classes every day but I cannot remember much of what we studied, except that I got good grades. The material—atomic warfare was one, surviving tear gas another—wasn’t difficult. (In the tear gas demonstration we put on gas masks and walked into a shed foggy with the gas. Halfway through we were ordered to stop, remove the mask, and dash for the exit. The hut was misty with tear gas. It was difficult to make myself pull off that mask and feel the gas. But, I winced and I did. My eyes teared up instantly. I ran for the exit and emerged, blinking and coughing, like everyone else. Then as person after person emerged, we all laughed.)

            One night at the Snack Bar I met a nice-looking boy named Bob. I think I did a portrait of him. He held my hand and walked me back to the barracks that evening. We agreed to meet the next night. What a nice guy! Finally. Someone decent. Bob told me his family had a ranch in the Calgary area in Alberta. He was the sole heir. He hinted at me joining him there after we mustered out. I gave it some serious thought. Where else would I find such a nice man? I wasn’t madly in love, but I was very much in like. And Bob was a cowboy! A horseman! I was thrilled.

My little squad developed a strong esprit de corps—we strove to be superior to the other squads. I looked forward to graduating with them. But I got bushwhacked. One morning I woke up feeling bad. I could hardly stand. The room whirled around. I needed a doctor, but the only way to get to one was to walk to the infirmary. Could I walk that far? I managed to get dressed but I couldn’t face breakfast. So I set out walking to the infirmary. I was actually stumbling as I moved forward, afraid I might fall down by the roadside.

            I came to in a hospital bed. There was a voice: “She’s coming around.” I opened my eyes and saw a nurse and a man standing at my bedside. The man was a doctor. 

“Hello,” he said. “You’ve been a sick young lady. You’ve been unconscious for four days. How are you now?”

            “I don’t know. I’m tired.”

            “You’re going to feel tired for a while. You’ve got mononucleosis. It’s sometimes called ‘the kissing disease.’ We’ll be keeping you here. You had us pretty worried for a while there.”

            I felt frightened. “How long will I be here?”

            “A week or more.”

            “But I’ll miss graduating with my squad!”

            “I’m afraid so.”

            Oh no! All my new friends were going to go on without me. (At that time I didn’t know the saying: ‘When one door closes another opens.’)

            I thought for a bit. “Does my mother know I’m sick?”

            “No. We didn’t notify your parents.”

            Imagine! I had been seriously ill for days and Mother didn’t know. I started to cry. I would be out of my squad and I missed my mother. I could have died and she wouldn’t have known it for days. Really, I was far from home. And my siblings. They were growing up without me, doing cute things, being funny. Damn my father.

           

I had one particular friend in the squad. Can’t remember her name, but I can still see her face. She was tiny and she looked like Elizabeth Taylor: blue eyes, black hair. We each took time getting ready on our pass weekends to go to Montreal. It was 1961 so, of course, we teased our hair into high ‘beehive’ mounds. We both adored eye makeup and each of us wore plenty of blue eye shadow. Then, of course, white lipstick. We wore civie clothes for those weekends.

We talked about everything. Even sex. She was the one who educated me about something she called ‘69.’ She said she did it all the time. You could have the fun—sex was fun?— and not get pregnant. This was why she did it. Apparently, (shudder) the boy put his mouth on her vagina and she put her mouth on his penis! No way would I ever do that. I wasn’t even having simple sex with anyone. This ‘69’ was not like some fairly innocent hugging and kissing outside the barracks at night.

We took the bus to Montreal and we stayed at the Dorchester Hotel, just off the main thoroughfare, St. Catherines. The place was overrun with airmen and airwomen. Doors stayed open as people partied in each room and then moved on to the next room. The bar was blue with the RCAF. I drank Pink Ladies, a pretty drink in a champagne flute. I have no idea what was in them, it was just that they tasted delicious and they got you drunk. I drank a lot of them. Some weekends we never left the hotel, we just partied there until it was time to catch the bus home. Other times we walked the streets of Montreal, me marvelling at this big city, using my high school French to say things like: “Quelle rue est-ce que, s’il vous plait?” And feeling quite sophisticated, merci.

They treated me very well at the infirmary, but you knew it was the military: when you were well enough, you made your own bed. (This happened on another occasion. When, I can’t remember, I developed a giant boil in my right armpit. It was so large it hurt to swing my arm to march. I could hardly wear a bra without pain. I was put in the infirmary and tests were run. It took me a while, but I finally realized they thought it might be cancer. Eventually, they operated and excised the entire giant growth from under my arm. During my recovery, I made my own bed. When I returned to active duty there were no ill effects, only a scar.)

On my mono recovery, I was let out with the warning: I would feel tired a lot of the time and this would continue for three months or so. Three months! At least it would get me out of the awful, endless running in the hangar.

On the base I met a fellow whose nickname was ‘Spider.’ He wasn’t very tall, but he was handsome: startling blue eyes with a thick fringe of black eyelashes, wavy blond hair. He approached me and I was flattered. We had cokes—yes, pardon me, Grampa, cokes!—a few times at the Snack Bar. We agreed to meet up for a date next trip to Montreal.

Meanwhile, I spent most evenings at the Snack Bar with a sketch pad and a box of pastels (when I wasn’t dancing). My little knack for drawing portraits was paying off. I was doing people’s portraits in pastels for a dollar a throw. This helped tide me over to the next meagre payday. ‘Meagre’ meaning we were paid either forty dollars a month or eighty, I can’t remember, except each month, a few days before pay parade I ran out of money for cigarettes. I had started to smoke when I was seventeen. This was a deliberate choice. I wanted to be glamorous. People like Lauren Bacall and Humphrey Bogart in the movies looked very glamorous puffing smoke. So I picked a romantic brand of cigarettes: Black Cat. It was hard at first, I kept coughing every time I took a puff, but I persisted and I improved in my smoking skills. Soon Jeffrey was smoking with me. This happened in the basement room at 544. I made little ash trays out of tin foil and crushed them when I heard footsteps approaching. Frantically, I waved my arms trying unsuccessfully to disperse the thick smoke in the room. At some point, I painted three nudes—nude from the belly button up—on the wall, hoping this art would embarrass Gram and she’d stop barging in. Orange, red and yellow women, shockingly bare-breasted, waving their arms above their heads. But Gram would walk in, not announcing herself (no privacy whatsoever), striding through a cloud of smoke which she didn’t ever acknowledge. Didn’t she see it, or smell it? How could she miss it?  If she told Mother, Mother would have a fit—she didn’t smoke and she was proud of this. (Father smoked. Roll your own. He dribbled a line of tobacco onto a cigarette paper then rolled it up, licked the edge and glued the cylinder together. Voilà, a cigarette.) While Gram was there we girls sat on the bed playing innocent. The minute she left, though, I reached under the mattress and unearthed our hidden smokes.

(Once I decided to make wine. I didn’t have any grapes, so I snitched boxes of raisins—dried grapes, right?—from Grampa’s store and dumped them into a large crock pot along with sugar, yeast and water. I hid this concoction in a big, camel-backed trunk in our basement room. It began to ferment and the air was permeated with the smell. Jeffrey was in on it. Gram came in as usual but then began to sniff. “What’s that smell?” Jeffrey and I sat on the bed, eyes wide: “What smell?” This continued until we bottled the ‘wine.’ Gram never got past saying ‘What’s that smell?’ We lay on the bed and, quite excited, drank our wine. Terrible! After I imbibed some I waited to feel drunk. I didn’t. Then I got a little scared. What if what we had produced was poisonous? We threw the rest out.)

Stephen was just here, one of my favorite nurses. My skin condition has broken out again. But I hadn’t seen him for a month. We both were delighted to see each other.

Soon, a pass weekend came up. I was looking forward to getting to know Spider better. I liked his nickname—it reminded me of the mysterious Spider I’d met in Fort William who interested me in joining the air force. I liked spiders, their webs. (There is a First Nation concept that all the letters of the alphabet can be found in a web; so the spider is the spirit creature of writers.)

I arrived at the Dorchester. Can’t remember how I spent Friday evening. Somehow I relayed to Spider what my room number was so he could come and pick me up for our first date the next day: Saturday. I fussed over my appearance. I was quite slim, I still had a stash of diet pills. So I didn’t look too bad when I was dressed up. A knock at the door. Excitedly, I dashed to the door and pulled it open. There stood Spider, but there were also four other boys standing behind him. Very tall boys. I looked at them in surprise. Then I froze in apprehension. My little black cloud reappeared flashing terrors of thunder and lightning. Then Spider put his hand on my chest and pushed me backwards into the room. I protested. I didn’t want these people in my room. He didn’t listen. Suddenly, he wasn’t the charming fellow I thought he was. The boys followed him into the room and closed the door, locking it. The click of the lock horrified me. All of them pushed me onto the bed. They crowded around. Two boys forced my head back. My nose was pinched closed and they poured whiskey down my throat. I had to swallow or choke. Whiskey ran into my mouth and poured down the sides of my face. I gulped and sputtered and, choking, swallowed. Then I remember nothing.

I woke up in the morning with a raging hangover. My bra was still on but it was pushed up above my breasts. My panties had been torn off, my skirt was up around my belly. I was naked from the waist down. And when I tried to move I found I was terribly sore all over my body, like I had been beaten up, but I hurt especially in my vagina. It felt like someone had rammed me with a broomstick. I couldn’t think clearly. Had I been raped? Gang raped? I had. I was overwhelmed with shame. And bewilderment. Were all males like this? How could I walk around the base not knowing who knew because the only male I could identify was Spider. I was nice to him. How could he do this awful thing to me?

Back at the base I kept my head down. I was so embarrassed I didn’t tell a soul, not even Elizabeth Taylor. Days passed. Nothing happened. No one took any special notice of me, there were no jeers or ridicule, so I guessed the ‘boys’ hadn’t blabbed. Of course if it got out, it meant the stockade for them. Perpetual shame for me. My reputation would be ruined. I would be fair game for any miscreant that came along.

I am not nauseated. Instead, I have actual hunger pangs for the first time in seven weeks. Maybe I can eat lunch. Chicken soup at least. My fridge is full of Meals on Wheels that I can’t eat. C’mon Vickie! Feed me!

I sipped only the broth from a can of Campbell’s Chicken with Rice soup, and had to stop. Just couldn’t handle the rice.

A day or so later I woke up with awful nausea and abdominal pain. It went on and on, getting worse. In desperation I called 911—how I hated to go to Emergency—but where else could I turn for help? The doctor was tall and thin and wore a face mask. Once again, I wearily recited my symptoms. I said I thought it was rampant candida, I’d had this before. Just like the previous doctor, he ordered blood work, X-rays and a CT scan, this time with an injected dye. After the X-ray came back the doctor stopped by my stretcher and said he thought there might be some enlargement of my bowel; the scan would show more. This was a little unnerving. What was done for an enlarged bowel? Did they operate? But they couldn’t take out the entire bowel. Maybe there was a prescription and I could be at home with James Bond and all my caregivers. I waited forever for the scan. They’d given me a shot of gravol which worked. The nausea and pain vanished. If only the gravol pills at home worked so well. After a while the doctor reappeared. Test results were all in. I could go home, the scan showed everything was normal. Hurrah. But the gravol shot was wearing off and I dreaded the return of the pain and nausea. I asked the doctor: “What about my nausea?”

“Take gravol pills at home,” he said.

“They don’t work.”
            “Well, there is a stronger anti-nauseant, but it’s very expensive. You couldn’t afford it.”

What???? How dare he! Flabbergasted, I said, “Just how expensive is it?”

“About eight dollars a pill.”

“That’s it? Write me a prescription, please.”

“Well, I’ll only prescribe eight.”

Something was better than nothing. Besides I had an appointment with Dr. Naqi the coming Tuesday. She’d help me, I hoped.

I got home about three I the morning. Coming down the hall in my wheelchair I heard James Bond crying. He was out of his mind missing my company. As soon as I got on the bed he jumped up on me and perched beside my neck, then pressed his cheek against mine and purred. He stayed with me the entire night and all the next morning. The longer I have him the more affectionate he becomes. He was evolving into one of my Greatest Cats of All Time, right up there with the great Siamese, Plum and the mighty tuxedo, Felix.

It’s now Monday and I am using the anti-nauseant the doctor reluctantly prescribed. It is a tiny wafer of a cloth-like paper to be slid under the tongue. It had an unpleasant peppermint taste, but all tastes to me were now unpleasant. I needed to lose weight—and I was—but this was a terrible way to do it.

At the same time, the nursing care for the skin condition under my breasts and my belly had been stopped. It looked like I was healed. But that was misleading: without daily cleansing it would break out again rapidly. I went for four days with no care and I felt the rash start up again, with pain and itching. Then I called the agency that provided all my care, Limn, formerly CCAC, and asked my caseworker, Jessica Cooper, for nursing help. They called back and said I needed a referral from my doctor. I called the Port Arthur Health Clinic and discovered all the help was on strike! But an answering service took my message for Dr. Naqi and she called the next day. Yes, she would put in a referral for me. Soon, a nurse came, a tall thin man named Chris. A small patch of skin on my belly was broken and bleeding. Of course! The condition—was it candida?—needed daily care. I could not afford to go without for even a day or the rash would re-occur.

But I still had the nausea. The wafer under my tongue—ten of them for only fifty bucks; of course I could afford that—only helped so much. What was wrong with me? I was a little scared. This had gone on for at least six weeks now. It interfered with my writing, which was unacceptable. I had now seen four doctors, and none had diagnosed the problem. My belief that it was abdominal candida fell on deaf ears. The doctors (except for one, a tall blond man with a long pony-tail, wrote me a prescription for Lactobacillus, a powerful probiotic) considered everything but candida.

My RCAF class graduated without me. Out of the hospital, I was assigned to another squad, and in a short time, I graduated with a group of strangers. I thought I would directly proceed to another base for training, but I was told I would be held back: the base was putting on a celebration of women in the forces, the twenty-fifth anniversary. A group of airwomen were to put on this ceremony, which would be attended by the military of several countries. They expected a crowd of three thousand.

            I was picked to be a part of a torchlight precision drill team.

            These days of rehearsing and nothing much else passed as if in a dream. It was early summer and the base was neat and green and sunny.  I met a man, I think his name was Donald. He was a civilian and he came every night to the base entrance in his white Triumph sports car, top down. (Later he let me drive the Triumph. It was on the Queen Elizabeth Parkway and I  gave Donald a grin and pressed my foot to the pedal. The snazzy little car zoomed up to 120 mph. I was thrilled. I’d never gone so fast before.)

I hopped in beside him, decked out in civie clothes, and we tore off to a great bar somewhere, with music. He was a lot of fun! Handsome, too. He was friends with another couple. They spoke only French: Donald was bilingual. We all sat around tiny tables in smoky saloons and laughed and talked and listened to music. After a couple of drinks, my French improved enormously, and soon I was chattering away with the French couple. They seemed to understand me. They generously praised my fledgling French. Actually, with a little more time, I was close to becoming fluent.

            Donald and I went out for weeks. He was a gentleman. He never pushed me past kissing and hugging. But he was no boy. He was a man, and I think he came to really care for me. When eventually I was transferred from St. Jean, we held each other for a long, long time. We agreed to write. But, we didn’t.

Couldn’t write yesterday, couldn’t stay awake. Then it was time for my appointment with Dr. Naqi. I had pinned all my hopes on her. Janice, owner of Driving Miss Daisy, arrived and got me installed in my wheelchair. At the Port Arthur Health Clinic, we had to drive past the striker’s picket line: the secretarial and other staff were striking for better wages. Apparently some were getting less than minimum wage. The picketers gave us no problem.

            Since there was no secretarial or nursing staff the doctors themselves were collecting patients from the waiting room. Dr. Naqi came out and guided me to her office.

            She had all the test results from my hospital visits. I gushed over her—I was so happy to see her and I desperately hoped she would prescribe an oral anti-fungal medication for me. Bless her. She did. She also doubled the dose of the anti-nausea wafers the stingy Emergency room doctor had prescribed—Dr. ‘You can’t afford this’—without a murmur over the state of my finances. She examined the candida rash on my belly and prescribed an antibiotic cream for the bleeding, broken skin. In all, it was a very successful visit. Now, home, and let’s see if it really IS candida. When I take the anti-fungal for a few days I should see improvement.

            I have now had two doses of the anti-fungal medication and I feel improvement. I had also cut out all sugars and carbs: Oh woe! I was losing the fabulous deserts Meals and Wheels brought. Chocolate cake, orange cake, apple, rhubarb and cherry pie, tiramisu, mousse, puddings, cheesecake and more. All as good as if they came from five-star restaurants.

And, after just two days of treatment, a rare experience, I have actual hunger pangs!

The precision drill team was exhilarating! The whole group of us, wheeling, about-facing, left, right, we soon were marching as one: our footfalls were so in sync they sounded like one giant human. One huge heartbeat. No wonder Roman Centurions and Nazi soldiers went to war with such fervour: drilling was hypnotic. In the group, marching determinedly as one being, you felt invincible.

            Then an announcement was made one morning as we sat in a classroom: auditions for someone to recite ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic,’ for the celebration ceremony were being held the next day in the same classroom. I felt a tingle. My little inner voice said: try it!

            The next day I was in the classroom early. Sheets with the hymn printed on them were handed out. We were given some time to familiarize ourselves with the material. I read through it carefully. It was powerful, patriotic, and I felt the recitation needed to be delivered with gravitas. No flamboyant hand gestures, no excessive modulation of the voice, just a simple, calm delivery in a voice that was pitched low. 

            I sat through several aspiring reciters. Well, if they were a true sample, I was going to be the lonely little petunia in the onion patch. Everyone spoke excitedly, their voices shrill, rising and falling, their hands flailing the air. Then it was my turn. I rose and stood at attention at the front of the room, my arms quietly by my sides. I wasn’t the least bit nervous: either I got it or I didn’t. My voice is naturally low, but I dropped it notch lower and spoke from my diaphragm. I don’t know how I knew how to do this, but I did. I said: “Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord…” When I finished, there was absolute silence in the room. Shortly thereafter there was an announcement: Airwoman Jacqueline Cryderman to recite The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” I grinned.

            One unhappy thing, I was taken off the precision drill team. I didn’t like that: I loved the drilling. I’d have to content myself with the recitation. I still had no concept of what a big deal this event was.

Daily, we rehearsed on the tarmac of an airfield. Close to the big day, the RCAF National band flew in and joined us in our rehearsals. Now, while I recited, the band softly played the hymn behind me, soaring louder between stanzas, like backup. It was in the evening, so it was dark and they trained a single spotlight on me. With the music and the lighting, the effect was dramatic. I got goosebumps reciting, hearing the great band behind me. I delivered my piece. Silence. Then, thunderous applause. I bowed. Louder applause. The audience was air people. Still hearing applause, I stepped out from the spotlight and walked off the tarmac of the parade ground. Officers and enlisteds rushed up to me, shook my hand and praised my recitation—I was, just for those few moments, a star.

The next day, a blow. I was informed that I was to recite only one verse of the hymn. My recitation over-shadowed all the other presentations, and since mine was to honour our American sisters, this USA presentation overwhelmed the other pieces, even the Canadian. It had to be minimized. I had an ominous feeling: without several verses there was no opportunity to build the recitation to a dramatic climax. One verse could/would fall flat.

Well, I was right. On the big night the precision drill team marched in unison through the night, over the airfield, bearing their torches high. Other presenters came and went, then it was my turn. I walked into the spotlight in my dress blues, before packed bleachers and came to attention. The band began. I recited the single verse, giving it as much punch as I could, but there really wasn’t time to build to a resounding climax. There was mild applause. A single verse just didn’t have the impact.

A few days later I was sent to Clinton Air Base, in southern Ontario, for training as a ‘Fighter Cop.’