Confessions of a Second Grade Failure: A Prologue

Stephen A. "Stevie" Rhodes, age 8

September 23, 2014

Dear Constant Readers,

As promised, today begins a new series of posts which I hope will form the first draft of a book.  The working title for this book is, "Confessions of a Second Grade Failure."  It is a coming-of-age memoir about growing up in Kingsport, Tennessee during the 1960s and early 1970s.

Today's installment is the prologue which sets up the story.  I hope you enjoy it and will leave comments and feedback.

And don't forget - if you subscribe to receive my blog posts by email before October 15, you will automatically be registered in a contest to win a new Kindle reader from Amazon.  For more details about the contest and how to subscribe, please read this post.

Cheers,

Stephen

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Confessions of a Second Grade Failure

Prologue

It was the Tuesday following Labor Day, September 3, 1968 - the first day of a new school year. It was also Promotion Day, when tradition dictated pupils were elevated to the next grade in elementary school. The students of Mrs. Williams’ second grade class were all gathered in her classroom. Each was seated in his or her familiar desks from the previous year.

A little red-headed boy was in his old desk. Dressed in a blue and white striped knit shirt, crisp blue jeans and Keds sneakers - all newly bought the previous week by his mother at the J.C. Penny’s downtown on Broad Street. The boy’s hair was cut short, but with enough on top for a slight comb over. His burgundy faux-leather briefcase sat next to his desk near his feet. In it were his No. 2 lead pencils, extra eraser heads, a ruler, a blue cloth-covered three-ring binder, and 100 pages of lined paper which had been manufactured at the local Mead paper plant, not far from the school itself.

While his classmates around him talked to each other about how they spent their summer - where they

had gone on vacation and how excited they were about going to the third grade - the little boy sat quietly, lost in thought. Unlike his friends, the emotion that he felt at that moment was not excitement, but anxiety.

Here he was sitting with all his classmates as if nothing had changed. Maybe he had imagined it all. Maybe his sense of dread was needless. No one had said anything to him directly about what had happened at the end of the last year - especially not his teacher, Mrs. Williams. What if opinions had changed in the last three months, decisions altered? If his foretold fate was still happening, wouldn't someone have said something to him by now? But here he was in his old classroom with all his friends on Promotion Day, and everything seemed so normal.

Mrs. Williams stood beside her desk and called the class to order. She welcomed them all back to Andrew Jackson Elementary School for a new year. She talked about how grateful she felt to have had them as students the previous year. But a new school year was about saying goodbye to what was past and to ready oneself for a new beginning - a new grade.

When Mrs. Williams had concluded her remarks, she asked the class to stand, placing hands over our

hearts, reciting together “The Pledge of Allegiance” as they faced the flag near the door.

With that Mrs. Williams gave the class instructions on how they would proceed to their new class. The first row of students would gather their things and would form a single file line. The second row would follow them with each row following in turn. She told them that they must stay quiet while in line as they made their way through the halls of the school.

Silently, the students walked through the school’s red brick corridors. Their journey wasn't far. In a moment or two, Mrs. Williams stood at a open door. She knocked on the door frame and asked the teacher within if she was ready to receive her new students. With that, the expectant students began to file into their new classroom. One by one, they crossed the threshold, thus passing from the second grade into third.

The red-headed boy was last in line. His heart began to beat faster. Yes, maybe it had been a terrible mistake. He was in line, wasn’t he? And the line of students were all walking into a new classroom. Maybe he had worried himself needlessly. When it was his turn to walk into the class however, Mrs. Williams held out her hand as if she were a crossing guard motioning for traffic to come to a halt. The boy stopped. Mrs. Williams looked at him as kindly as she could. She then said, “Not you, Stevie. You are going to another class, remember?” The red-headed boy dropped his head slightly so that he wouldn't have to meet her eyes. He nodded obediently. His chin trembled slightly, but he held back the tears. Mrs. Williams then commanded him, “Follow me.” And so he did.

My Very Own Personal Apocalypse, Part 3

September 16, 2014

Dear friends, family and constant readers,

In Part 1 of this essay, "My Very Own Personal Apocalypse," I shared the story of when I became ill with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and how it changed my life.  In Part 2, I shared with you the journey from becoming ill through the confusing search for a proper diagnosis.  In Part 3, I'll share with you how I was finally and properly diagnosed, and what it took to get it.

When last I left off, my friend and psychiatrist decided to refer me to a colleague who was both a practicing psychiatrist and a physician, believing that with expertize in both mental and physical illnesses he would be able to accurately diagnosis my malady.  This was in the winter of 2002.  I had been ill for approximately 5-6 months at this point.

An appointment with this new doctor was set.  Copies of all of my most recent medical records were sent to him so that he could review what had been done thus far.  His practice was affiliated with the Medical College of Virginia (MCV), which is associated with Virginia Commonwealth University in Richmond, Virginia, and considered one of the best hospitals in the Commonwealth.

I actually had previously met this new doctor.  He was a member of another congregation near my own, River Road United Methodist Church.  He had been a panelist on a congregation-wide discussion we had held on how to cope with the aftermath of the events of September 11th the previous fall.  He was affable and gregarious - very easy to like and trust.  In our first meeting, we reviewed my case together: the sudden onset, the continuing symptoms, medical tests performed to that point and the different diagnoses I had received.  He then suggested a new series of testing for both familiar and unfamiliar diseases.  This testing would occupy the rest of the spring and much of the summer.  

The pattern of this new testing was that I would go wherever he referred me and offer up some vital bodily fluid, permit myself to be poked or prodded or have some various organ or section of my body x-rayed or MIRed.  Then I would wait for the results of a given test.  In every single instance, the result that I would receive was "negative."  Test.  Wait for the result.  Negative.  Another test.  Another period of waiting.  Another negative result.  Etc., so forth and so on...

This left me with a sense of despondency that we would ever find out what was going on with my body.  I

clearly remember one day when I was being tested for multiple allergies at the Department of Rheumatology at MCV.  This doctor was an immunologist, who specialized in allergy-related diseases.  She tested me for various allergies by pricking my back with multiple needles (20 or more) - each a test for a different allergy.  After we waited the appropriate amount of time, she examined my back.  I could tell that something wasn't right by her expression - she had a wrinkled brow, for one thing.  When I asked her what she had found, she told me that the test must have been faulty in my instance because all the needle pricks were showing negative.  She then asked me if she could retest me.  That meant enduring another series of multiple needle pricks.  It wasn't without a degree of pain, but I reluctantly agreed.  She proceeded to test me one more time.  Once again, the results were completely negative.  I showed no indications of being allergic to any of the things for which they tested.  At this, my shoulders slumped and my voice cracked as I asked her, "Does this mean that I'm not really ill?"  She looked at me with a very serious expression and said, "Absolutely not!  It's clear to me that something is making you sick.  But it just may be that whatever that thing is, with our current level of medical technology, we may very well have no way of knowing what it is.  In another decade or so, we may look back at these very same results with new technology and see something obvious that we just can't detect today.  I'm so very sorry."

I returned to the doctor/psychiatrist who was directly my testing. He was completely non-plused. He had expected at least one positive result, but to have none was baffling to him - and to me. He had ruled out any psychiatric disorders as being the cause, so depression was taken off the table. And with all the medical testing, most other diseases had been excluded as well. He expressed a feeling that he had let me down. I assured him that no, he had not. He had done everything I could have asked. I felt that he had been extremely thorough. "So what now?" I asked. After thinking about it, he concluded that we wait for a few weeks or months to see how my illness progresses. If things were no better, he said that we would need to take our exploration to the next level. That would mean going to a research hospital, like Duke or Johns Hopkins. What I needed was a doctor and a medical community that routinely saw the non-routine. Maybe they could help.

So another season passed as I waited on my illness to make itself known. That November, near the first anniversary of becoming ill, my father died suddenly. I left for Kingsport, Tennessee, my hometown, to look after his affairs and see to his funeral. As it turned out, I was designated executor of his estate. That meant more trips to upper east Tennessee. I was overwhelmed - first by my grief of losing Dad, and then my the many responsibilities I had just been given, all the while my illness continued unabated. In fact, the stress I was under only served to exacerbate my symptoms. One night, I was sitting in my parents' kitchen, when I decided to call my wife, Lynn. That day had been particularly rough and I could hardly hold my head up. As I poured out my woes to her, I told her that I had come to a conclusion - it was time to go to a research hospital. I didn't care which one. But I desperately needed to see someone who could help me.

(Dear readers, I had hoped to finish this story in three posts. But as I write this, I realize that it will take one more installment to properly conclude my narrative. I don't like for my blog posts to be too long, so I feel as though I need to break this one up into two separate posts. Thanks for your understanding.)

Peace,

Stephen

Beginning Again

September 6, 2014

Dear friends, family and readers,

When I was actively serving local congregations as pastor, the Sunday following Labor Day held special significance for me and for the churches I served.  The term I coined for this particular Sunday in the church year was "New Beginnings Sunday."  During the summer seasons of my last two appointments - in Northern Virginia and the West End of Richmond - the congregations took the meaning of sabbath so seriously that they even rested from the day of rest itself.  In other words, attendance at worship and other church activities fell off precipitously.  Folks were off to vacations, family get togethers, going down to the "Rivah" and the like.  I fought this trend mightily, but generally did not prevail.  Summers became the slow season of the year - church-speaking - and there was little I seemed to be able to do about it.

But in my planning for the church year, I would focus intensely in late August on gathering up my wayward flock from earth's four corners and return them to their pews once summer had ended and fall schedules resumed to where they had left off in May - hence my focus on the Sunday immediately following Labor Day.  Children and youth would be back in school, and adults once more felt the familiar strictures of their work lives and daily routines.  With that in mind, I invited church members to celebrate a "new beginning" on this first (unofficial) Sunday of fall by coming back to church.  What's more, I encouraged them to invite friends, family and neighbors who did not have a church of their own to come with them on this particular Sunday, too.

Believe it or not, this particular strategy worked most of the time.  While the crowds on "New Beginnings Sunday," were not quite the size of those at Christmas or Easter, they were a close third.  We celebrated our "new beginning" as a congregation singing our favorite songs and hymns.

 The choir, once again at full strength, sang anthems with renewed zeal.  Visitors and returning members were welcomed with open arms - we had a policy of no "church shaming," i.e. no one had to worry about being made to feel guilty about spotty attendance during the summer.  "New Beginnings Sunday" was a feast day of celebration, welcoming home the family members whom we had missed during the last three months and introducing ourselves to those who had never worshipped with us before.  These Sundays were among my favorite while serving as pastor.  Worship was a party - hugs were embraced and reciprocated, laughter and smiles became contagious.  It really was a new beginning for us.  It was just as the Bible proclaimed: "the old has passed away, (and) behold, the new has come." (2 Corinthians 5:17)

The reason I share this particular bit of history with you is that, like my former congregants, I, too, have been away for most of the summer.  I have been continuing to regain my strength and stamina after my rather severe relapse of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome in the winter and spring.  But now that Labor Day has passed, it feels right to return to a familiar routine and to carry on with posts on "This Writer's Life."  I would like to make a "new beginning with you and resume our online conversation.  Frankly, I have missed writing and I have missed you all.  So, it seems time to return to a more familiar pattern.  I can't say with confidence just how often I will be posting to this blog, but it should be more frequently than not.  I hope you will join with me in this new beginning and let us make the next leg of the journey together.

Cheerfully yours!

Stephen