Chapter 1: 9/11

— Chapters appear as excerpts only. —

— Full chapters will appear in the printed published book. —

My mom was a very robust, strong woman in her younger days. The circumstances of the day of my birth in 1950 paint a vivid picture of the place and times we lived in.

Before my birth, our family consisted of my mother and father, Edith and Peter Freak, and their three sons. My mom had a miscarriage before she had Doug, the first born. She knew the first would have been a girl. Sometimes I wondered what it would have been like to have had an older sister. Perhaps though, if that child had been born, I might never have been born. My parents would have already had four children, including one girl.

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My birthday month and date, September 11 or 9/11, held little significance when I was born, or for the following five decades. After my 51st birthday, it would be forever remembered, but not because of me, of course. My oldest brother Doug shares 9/11 with me as he turned nine years old on the day I was born. Doug often refers to me as his ninth birthday present and jokes about how I interrupted and ruined his special day, all said with underlying affection, I’m sure. My three brothers and I were all born three years apart. I was the fourth child, the only daughter, and I was the last one born into the Freak family dynasty headed by John and Anastasia.

Giving birth to a baby was considered a routine task in 1950, that’s the way my mother viewed it anyway. On the morning of my birth, my mom woke up with light cramps. She calmly went about her routine housewife and motherly chores: feeding the family, making lunches, cleaning the chicken coop, and collecting the freshly laid eggs. In addition to that, she baked a birthday cake for Doug. My father left early to work at his job with the Canadian Pacific Railway.

As the morning wore on, her cramps became somewhat more pronounced and uncomfortable. Because she knew the birth could be imminent, she decided it was time to make her way to the Dryden hospital.

She knew the route well. The trip to Dryden did not faze her, she had done it many times on her own and this day would be no different. She did not panic or become overly concerned. She was stoic and self-reliant. My mom knew she would get to the hospital and have the baby. My father stayed in Eagle River and kept working. My mother would see my father when she got out of the hospital, usually in about a week to 10 days. Nothing unusual about that.

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My mom named me Mariana Marlene. She told me that my first name, Mariana, was derived from the combination of the names of my Freak relatives, my grandmother Anastasia and her oldest daughter Mary. Perhaps my father was pleased about that. My second name, Marlene, came from the famous German song that was popular at the time, “Lili Marlene.” My mother decided to call me by my middle name and, as a result, I have always been known, throughout my life, to friends and family as Marlene.

For those who didn’t know me, I often had to mention specifically to call me by my middle name, not by my first. It has only been in the last few years and only in medical circles, where I have been called Mariana. It makes me feel special to be called Mariana now. I like the name, it has a soft sound and reminds me of Latin music. It also helps me escape from some of the horrible memories of the past that are associated with my childhood name, Marlene Freak.

For someone like my grandfather, the Freak name would have been the least of his worries. Survival and the hope for a better life would have been his most important goals. I have no idea if the Freak name ever affected any of our family in Eagle River in a negative way during the time we lived there. I don’t think it mattered to our family or to anyone else. It was just another name.

The Freak name, absolutely, would have negative, profound and everlasting effects on my life. My childhood was just beginning. It wouldn’t be long before I was faced with traumatic situations and big challenges that were far beyond a child’s control. They would shake me to my core. I would try to muster up the courage to cope. Many times, I would see little reason for hope. And I would question myself, whether I should just give up, that I was born a Freak and I should just accept myself for what I was — a freak.