Elizabeth Anne Wood - Bound: A Daughter, a Domme, and an End-of-Life Story

Bound

Copyright 2019, Elizabeth Anne Wood

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

Published 2019

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN: 978-1-63152-630-5
ISBN:. 978-1-63152-631-2

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019934381

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Names and identifying characteristics have been changed to protect the privacy of certain individuals.

For my mother, Judy,
and all who loved and cared for her.

M y mother wanted to tell her story, and at one point while she was sick she suggested that we write something together. We never managed that. She was too sick, and we would never have been able to tell a truly honest story for fear of hurting one anothers feelings. After she died I found I really did need to write about our experience, and so what you are holding is more my story than hers.

I wrote this book with the encouragement and support of family members and friends who are described in these pages. Some of those people requested that I change their names in the manuscript to provide them with some privacy, and Ive done that. Ive also changed the names of my mothers lovers, the health care workers who treated her, and the facilities where she was treated in order to provide them the same courtesy. My mother received excellent care and I will always be grateful for the intelligence, skill, and compassion that was demonstrated during her treatment, but I did not seek permission to write about these dedicated workers, and my memory is not perfect. I would not want anyones careereven a small piece of itto be characterized in a way that could inadvertently bring unwanted scrutiny or criticism.

Regarding specific references to the BDSM community, Camp Crucible is a real event and one my mother loved. Im grateful to Frazier, shepherd of the Crucible community, for the experiences his camp helped her enjoy. Likewise, Passional is a real sexuality boutique in Philadelphia and Im grateful to Kali Morgan, its owner and proprietrix, for making my mother feel welcome there. I changed the name of the online service that I call MistressNet because I criticize it based only on what I learned from my mother and have no first-hand knowledge of it, myself.

This book is a memoir, and the memories on which it is based are my own. Other people involved in this story will no doubt remember some events or conversations differently. I kept detailed notes during the time my mother was sick, but I could not record everything that happened or each word that was said. In telling this story I have written scenes and dialogue that accurately reflect my recollection of events and my understanding of the truth.

N ot my cross to bear, I think with a wry smile as I stare into my mothers small craft room at the object that dominates the cluttered space. Perhaps seven feet tall, it is shaped like an enormous black letter X standing on a shallow base, canted backward at a slight angle. If it were a person, it would be standing tall with feet planted wide and arms flung out, its face raised to the skyexultant, powerful. This is not the image that would occur to most people who are familiar with such equipment, Im sure. This is a St. Andrews Cross, a piece of bondage gear, and it bears witness to my mothers power, strength, and willingness to defy convention. Yet it also evokes for me her frailties, weaknesses, and shamethe many crosses shes turned to me to help her carry. Not my cross to bear? This time its a question, and I know the answer is, Yes, it will be in the end.

I arrived by train from New York, hurrying here to Philadelphia in response to a series of confusing phone calls that began yesterday afternoon. Your moms in the hospital. She says shes had a seizure. That was my partner Wills message, left for me to find when I returned to my office after class. When I called him back, he had no new information, so I called Moms cell. Her voice was shaky as she told me shed never said anything about having a seizure. She handed the phone off to a nurse, who told me only that she was being admitted for observation for the night.

Should I come down right away? I asked when Mom took the phone back from the nurse.

No, no, Aunt Sarah is on her way. Im fine, she told me, and for the moment I let myself be convinced. It was a Monday in early April, a busy time of the semester. Leaving work wouldnt be easy, and if Aunt Sarah could be there, at least for a few days, maybe I could set my students up with an assignment and obtain some class coverage to get through the rest of the week.

I called again when I got home from work. Aunt Sarah was there. Mom had been taken for a brain scan. What Aunt Sarah had so far pieced together from Mom went something like this: Mom woke up at some point early in the morning, hallucinating, and stumbled from her bedroom to the bathroom. I might have left a bit of a mess, shed told Aunt Sarah, who related the statement to me.

We laughed.

Theres always a mess, I said to Aunt Sarah. How bad could this be?

Somehow, Mom had managed to call a cab to get her to an appointment with the oncologist who has followed her since her kidney cancer and nephrectomy three years ago. Shed arrived at the office bruised, bloody, and disoriented, and Dr. Campbell had arranged for her to be ushered straight to the emergency department.

Aunt Sarah said shed call again as soon as Mom was back from the scan and there was more information.

At eight oclock that evening, the phone rang again.

I have sparkles in my brain, Mom told me, sounding sleepy and confused.

Aunt Sarah took the phone and explained that Mom had brain metastases, possibly from the kidney cancer three years earlier, but without further testing we couldnt know for sure.

Ill be there tomorrow, I said, feeling instantly guilty. On the one hand, I chastised myself for not having gone right away. On the other hand, I started to beat myself up for the immediacy with which Id drop everything to get there when Mom was sick, given the reluctance I felt about just hopping on the train to go spend the day or the weekend with her. But I think of it as saving my reserves. Moms life is so chaotic, I never know when Ill need to draw on them. Still, I hear her voice in my head, asking why I only come when shes not feeling well. I cant win.

Now, hours after my arrival at the hospital, Aunt Sarah and I stand in Moms apartment and survey the wreckage. We find the commode she kept for nighttime emergencies overturned near a T-shirt stained with blood from the scrapes she sustained when she fell. Blood drops lead to the bathroom, where we also find a trash bag filled with plastic tubes and bags left over from the dialysis she performs on herself every night. If I were a crime scene investigator, Id be surprised by the lack of a body.