A Lifetime of Yesterdays, Chapter One 4/15/25

Thank you for reading my memoir's first (developmental draft) chapter, A Lifetime of Yesterdays. This story is my leave behind for people close to me. Family and friends drive my efforts. I have been publishing pieces of my book on my website (farberisms.com) while I write it, so consider this a reference for some parts of this I have already published. My story helps others, which is another reason I am writing it. While I don't intend to publish the entire book in a big way, if my story is so compelling, I would consider it. This means I will self-publish many copies for local distribution. Local means you know me vs location. If Steven Spielberg calls or Penguin Random House, those would have to be meetings I would take. In short, I spent a career in sales and marketing, and I know what it's like to win or lose a deal. I would not look forward to pouring my heart out and then going on the road to pitch my story.

The book covers my life with OCD, Depression, Alcoholism, Cancer, MS, Abuse, and surviving startup technology companies. In short, the book takes place in the two primary places I have lived, Rumson and Tinton Falls, NJ, where I still live. For me and my doctors, OCD is where my story starts. The onset of my illnesses all reverts to the trauma I experienced as a boy. Please remember that two doctors are reading my book to check for medical inaccuracies. In short, my audience understands the towns, places, and areas I write about and the people I reference, where I have not changed their names.

As I have been writing my story, I have relived much of it. It's primarily a guide to overcoming significant challenges. There is so much overlap between beating these ailments that it has become an unintended self-help book. I have identified ten things that cross these challenges and will share them in a later chapter.

I have a disability. My form of MS is incurable; I receive infusions every six months. My best outcome is that it does not get worse. It resembles a ceaseless, last-place marathon. Running harder and faster leaves me right where I am. My journey led me here. Despite my maladies, I had a successful career and retired long ago. The project demands my focus, my experience, and my time. This group provides crucial expert guidance. I am thankful you are taking the time to read my work. If you see inaccuracies, please let me know. I seek corrections for potential issues regarding people, places, and things. My editor will handle spelling, grammar, and punctuation. The scars on my back are likely from her.

Last, I am an ekphrastic writer, meaning I am motivated to write by art. For me, art is music. Some references might echo familiar song lyrics. If so, turn it up loud. Peace, Chris.

1

Chris Farber Chapter One. We Were All in The Crash.

This document is the current draft of A Lifetime of Yesterdays, updated as of 4/14/25.

The water was freezing against my teenage feet, and the slimy soap caused me to rub my big toe on my right foot against the index toe beside it. They moved smoothly together, lubricated by the soapy water from the dishwasher and the laundry machine that had flooded our small basement. The dirty water flooded the space; over fifty gallons of it. The flood was my fault; I'd had a severe, obsessive-compulsive episode the previous night. I needed to ensure the pump switch was in the correct position before bed, typically taking twenty to thirty minutes. The pump, attached to a washbasin, drained our kitchen and laundry machines. I had inadvertently turned it off by repeatedly pressing the switch, lacking an indicator light. The basin overflowed with a stream of soapy fluid and remnants of the prior night's dinner, which we discarded in the garbage disposal. It continued all night, filling the usable living space with several inches of cold, dirty water. I had woken up to my mother screaming at me. Hopelessness enveloped me.

The water had cooled after sitting on the cement basement floor all night. The mortar and dirt ten feet below ground remain fifty degrees year-round in the Mid-Atlantic states. Even when dry, the thin padding and carpet did little to warm the floor. Now, submerged in dirty household waste, it was as cold as the Atlantic Ocean in early May. I stood there, shivering, as my mother screamed, "Christian, what the fuck is wrong with you?" My toes cringed, and I shuddered at her words. I had never heard her swear before, let alone use "fuck." I felt utterly isolated, in trouble with the one person I could usually rely on. My sister had left for college, leaving my mom, dad, and me.

My behavior frightened me, and I had no clue what to do. The flood would be the first consequence of my constant checking. Something was developing a hold on me. The next obsession became the stove. Spending ten to thirty minutes in front of the burners to ensure they were off was exhausting and drained my little energy. I needed to figure this out on my own. A nearby library offered the perfect location.

My investigation would begin at the Oceanic Free Library on the corner of Avenue of Two Rivers and Ridge Road in Rumson. The gregarious Al Lamont owned the Mobil gas station on the west side of the corner. Aptly named Lamont's Garage, he wore the mechanic's uniform with "Al" stitched on the pocket, holding a box of filterless cigarettes. My father usually had him working on one of his trucks. Across the street from Lamont's is the library. My sister visited the local library, which has a rich history, because she did her homework while I listened to music. It was the summer of 1974, and Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young were on tour. I was planning to see them at Roosevelt Stadium in Jersey City. My girlfriend and I had tickets for the show. I was thirteen years old.

The library's classic literature collection was extensive, unlike its medical collection. That library focused on education, holding many classic texts I needed for academic success. Unlike my sister, I was my worst enemy here, unwilling to do anything to educate myself.

The library yielded nothing for me, so I asked Mom to drop me off in Shrewsbury at the Monmouth County Library, where I spoke with the librarian about medical books related to mental disorders. After several visits, I homed in on ailments that included neurosis and compulsions. The term Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD) was not part of our lexicon yet. I read about them and felt this was what I was experiencing. As I sought something definable or its equivalent, I grappled with OCD symptoms. Fourteen years passed before I received an official diagnosis because I avoided doctors and consistently avoided physicals. I played hide and seek with my doctors' appointments and was effective at avoiding them until I was not.

My family has seen its share of medical issues from accidents and poor health. These would include a horrible crash where dad, run over by a burning car, almost died. The ambulance responding to that emergency struck the flaming vehicle at high speed, which ran over my father. He had been driving through Rumson in his work truck when he came upon the burning car. He had a fire extinguisher in the truck, so he stopped and fought the unattended fire. You cannot make this shit up. It happened before Victory Park and restaurant favorite What's Your Beef on River Road in 1973. That ambulance, replaced by its backup, would be driven four miles west through Fair Haven to Riverview Hospital in Red Bank with Dad in it.

I attended Forrestdale School as a seventh grader when the accident occurred. The office secretary showed up in my class and took me to the office to visit the principal. This trip, though familiar, felt unlike previous ones. Principal Shanley gave me the news. "Christian, your mom called me. There's been an accident, and your father was in it. She stated he'd be fine; remain here, and she'd phone later." I played in a scheduled basketball game against Holy Cross and walked home afterward. On my way, I saw a neighbor, Jimmy Scalzo, who was friendly with my parents. He gave me a ride and an update on the accident. I still had not spoken to anyone from my family. I began praying silently in my head.

I looked beyond the church to draw closer to and trust in a God. I prayed for my dad's life, the doctors' help, my mom and sister's call, and for everything to turn out fine. I continued praying for my dad to live, for the skills of the doctors to help him, for my mom or sister to call me, and for my family to be all right and on and on until our home phone rang, and it was my mom. She explained the situation in a broken and tired voice, meshed with stuttering and stammering. She said he was gravely ill, attended by a priest and many doctors. I remember thinking the principal at school said my mom told him he would be okay. What the fuck?

Doctors and nurses in intensive care spent a long time making life-or-death decisions. The following twenty-four hours were vital for Dad's survival. If he lived, he would require more care, but his chances of survival do not seem promising. Mom said that my sister, Karen, would be home later and that I should try to sleep. I ended the call, returned to the couch, gazed out the window, and resumed praying. I remained motionless; darkness fell, obscuring the river. Only a few Locust homes, deep within the woods, showed lights. 

At the hospital, the doctors and nurses called in the priest, who prepared to read Dad his last rites. The impact from the ambulance struck the burning car, and it ran over my dad and broke every bone in his chest. Doctors found every muscle shredded and his spinal column decimated. The car engulfed in flames, dragged his body thirty-two feet down the road—the friction with the road scrubbed off the skin and flesh on his back. The first minutes were tense and filled with critical decisions by the doctors, and time drifted for me while my father's life sped up.

I arrived home from school around 5:30. I sat on our living room couch and looked out the large bay window. I could see the Navesink River easily from this spot. The view down Riverside Avenue and over Highland Avenue brought my misty eyes to the blue water of the river. Across the channel was the Hartshorne area of Locust, a section of Middletown Township. The area has little development and has been unused since the Lenape Indians occupied it. I did not know yet that the street view would become an area of extreme focus for me, my family, and the Rumson police the following year. On this day, I stayed on the couch for a couple of hours alone, praying for my dad.

I went upstairs to my small bedroom as it was approaching midnight. Darkness filled the empty house. I switched on my tiny black and white television to watch Johnny Carson. My head was spinning; my room stole some light from a streetlamp hanging on the telephone pole just outside my window on the Avenue of Two Rivers. I lay on my bed, looking at the ceiling of my room. I could not rest, so I started counting sheep, which my grandmother told me to do when sleep was distant. It did not work and was hard to do as my prayer played nonstop. It was making it hard to sleep or count the sheep, so I opened my eyes and started counting the ceiling tiles of my room. My tiny room's limited tiles made counting tiresome. I counted the small holes in each tile, which was a more formidable task, particularly when praying continuously.

My obsessions and compulsions persisted. Light switches, stove controls, door locks, car ignition, doors, lights, food, and talking. Everything was fair game for me to fret over. Did I turn off the appliances? Had I dipped my hand in poison before shaking someone's hand? I must wash them and ensure they are clean before touching anyone else. So, I started washing them many, many times every day. They never felt clean to me. Frequent handwashing eventually damaged my hands. They cracked and bled, so I had to hide them as much as possible. They hurt a lot, particularly in the dryness of winter. While chapped hands sucked and gave the unwelcome sight of mental weakness, some of the worst compulsions I was developing were the constant checking through the crack in my bedroom door. I checked Karen's room to confirm her safe return home. To achieve this, I peered through the crack. I would do this in groups of ten until her return home felt safe. Her safety depended on my compliance. The daily, intense neck pain reminded me of this activity. It sucked, but worse was getting into bed and ensuring that my sister had her door shut and locked.

My father lived through the night; however, his heart and lungs continued to cause concern. The doctors were still working on stabilizing him so they could continue treatment on his spine. The doctors told my mom that the accident had severely damaged Dad's spine. Everything seemed to take forever, which meant more excruciating pain for him. Doctors heavily sedated him for several operations to repair his body. The days became weeks, then months; he was a unique story of unexpected survival.

Dad returned home after over two months in a neck brace, which he would wear for the following year. Work was impossible then. Doctors heavily medicated him, and he attended therapy and saw many specialists. His treatment included prolonged traction and two further spine operations. The injuries would wreak havoc on him for the rest of his life and change his attitude forever. His family relationships would suffer with each of us, with particular emphasis on me.

My dad would completely change toward us. He became short-tempered and opinionated. His explosive temper seemed to arrive before he did, even if you did not know he was coming. Dad developed an explosive personality layered with physical abuse. Never afraid of a fight, he became filled with fiery heat, seeking gasoline when he had no control over a situation. The transference was binary and would altogether skip irritation or annoyance. The change was instant and without warning. If you were present during this change, you were a target, the target. It did not matter if the issue involved you. His face constantly displayed anger. This look clung throughout his entire day. Even sleeping would not wipe it off his face. He stayed that way until he passed forty-five years later.

The car accident shattered dad's body, yet he remained physically strong. I always felt like I missed out on experiencing his physical abilities. His return would spur some controversy in the tony town of Rumson. He would use a powerful local law firm filled with town residents as attorneys to sue Rumson First Aid. A legally blind local drove the city's ambulance; he hit a burning vehicle. That fiery car ran over my father. The Red Bank Register published an article titled "Farber Receives $100,000 Settlement."

Mom and Dad and their business, Frank J. Farber Air Conditioning and Refrigeration took a significant beating with the settlement. I never reached the CSNY concert as my girlfriend took her best friend in my place. I still had not figured out that I was not in her plans anymore. Oh well. Nixon's resignation announcement after Watergate coincided with that night's show. The band announced his resignation at the show, receiving loud applause from many but not from me. You can find the event recording in the CSNY archives. They left the stage to watch Nixon's resignation on TV with the rest of America. It was August 8th when he took to the airwaves to say he would resign the following morning. The country would swoon. Things were changing. Gerald Ford would become president. CSNY would return to the stage after an intermission and update the fans before breaking into Carry On.

Time passed, and eighth grade was approaching for me at Forestdale School. I was looking forward to the school year for one reason: it had nothing to do with learning. Instead, I focused on basketball. The upcoming school season would be the last one before we merged with players from Fair Haven's Knollwood School and Rumson's Holy Cross, and it would become a lot more competitive. That would require a physical examination by a doctor, which meant poking and prodding around my body, which completely freaked me out. I had heard so much medical and doctor talk around the house about my dad's injuries, combined with my deepening neurosis. I was sure there was a health-related doom coming for me.

My new preoccupation was to worry about my glands. I had read that if my glands became enlarged, it was a symptom of cancer. I devoted my free time to reading medical texts and examining my armpits. Because I did it so much, raising my arms was painful. I thought I was developing lymphoma. The summer of 1975 was coming, and I would enter Rumson Fair Haven Regional High School in September. My father had improved enough to be present for some of my activities. Throughout the last year of grammar school and my first year of basketball games, he took many photos of me playing. I played on the RFH first-year team without getting a physical. 

I kept saying I had a conflict if I needed a physical examination. Finally, the school said I needed a signed note from my doctor; they wanted proof that I was in good physical condition. I got a copy of the note and forged Dr. Rudnick's signature. I was part of the first-year team coached by an asshole, Pat Bugney. We did not agree on anything. My starting position changed to sixth man as the season progressed. I disliked it; my performance was poor. I fought with the coach, and he managed my time down. The season ended, so I pressed on, getting involved in everything that did not require a physical. I was more consumed than ever with my health and whether appliances were on or off. I obsessed over causing harm to my family and friends through inaction or silence. It was heavy, and it was affecting my behavior. I was extremely popular despite my unusual activities. I enjoyed my popularity and used it to my advantage with the girls.

While I was sure I had some neurosis, I must admit I did not understand most of the medical information I was reading. Doctors have diagnosed and treated me for over thirty years. I looked for some keywords I understood, seeing if they applied to me. If they did, I had it.

In the summer of '75, I did my best to have fun. At the beach, I surfed and relaxed. I smoked some weed but did not like it and never would. I had a girlfriend and had my first kiss, and would soon find myself in more trouble than I had ever been or would be in my life. My popularity allowed me to hang around with kids older than me, so I got asked to party with the high school sophomores. Although summer break had begun, I was still a first-year student. A friend and I were invited to a party on Riverside Drive, at the other end of town, near Little Silver. It was familiar; the parents were away on vacation, so it was time to party. We went, and after a couple of hours and beers into it, the Rumson police officers arrived looking for me. A police officer escorted me to the car and put me in the back seat. They kept questioning me about my whereabouts all night, but I did not know why. I told them I was at the party and that was it. They told me they had received a complaint from a resident that I had been on their property, creating mischief and looking in their windows. The police stopped by my parents' house and spoke to my dad. The street names, which only included the difference between drive and avenue, confused them. Ironically, the call came from someone just down the street from our home. I was three miles away. Riverview Avenue was across from my house. Riverview Drive was at the other end of town. 

After clarifying where I was that night, my situation with my dad and the cops improved. But not for long. Over the ensuing days, the neighbor would continue calling the police and complaining about me. I was home or at basketball camp at Christian Brothers Academy during this time. Eventually, the tensions and accusations rose to the point of a threat to kill me. She said she was going to shoot me with a gun. That day, mom closed the blinds as we planned our next steps. Why didn't the police arrest her? It is a question I still have. That house was my home for fourteen years. Law enforcement instructed me to keep clear of windows because of the potential gunfire. I mostly stayed secluded in my back room. After a few days, I moved to my grandparents' home in Oceanport. I lived there for the better part of a month with my mother's parents. I felt safe there.

I always enjoyed spending time with my maternal grandparents. However, as I was entering an age where other things would become essential, I didn't include them as much. I went fishing with my grandfather on the Shrewsbury River. While we fished, my grandmother would cook food for us. She was such a splendid cook.

My maternal grandmother emigrated from Germany. She entered the USA through Ellis Island and was fearless in a new land. Mary Simmeth came to the US for an arranged marriage. She worked as a housekeeper for a wealthy family. Following her wedding escape, she found solace with the estate's plumber. Victor Terwilliger would become my grandfather.

Mary Terwilliger was the quintessential grandma. She was an excellent cook. Gray-haired and buxom, Grandma stood before the stove for much of the day. She cooked by feel and rarely measured ingredients. I have some of her handwritten recipes. Some ingredients were missing, and her measurements were vague. Her food was always fantastic. Her vegetable-beef soup, a favorite from my childhood, still lingers in my memory. I have tried to duplicate her recipe for years without success. I can hold my own in the kitchen and receive compliments on the food I prepare. However, the soup lacks a particular element. I considered this. I think I know why. 

My grandma saw a lot during the war. If you mentioned Hitler or the Holocaust, she would look down every time. I lacked understanding then, but time revealed World War II's tragedies. My mother reminded me not to mention these topics in front of Grammy T. Occasionally, the topic would arise. After all, my grandfather was a vet, and we had the debacle that was Vietnam in the sixties when I was a kid. I remember her looking down, though, ashamed. When she looked back up, you could see decades of pain in her eyes. Her eyes were as blue as a September sky. But when you discussed the war, they became black and drawn.

After college, I toured Europe with two friends and my backpack for three months. We went to Auschwitz. I remember arriving on the bus. My friends commented that it was a gray and overcast day. I recall stating, "It's always like this here." I returned home to tell my grandma about my trip and the places I visited. When I mentioned the concentration camp, she looked down. My hunger prompted her kitchen visit; she made me food.

Grandma Mary became a great grandma when our sons were born. She had an unlimited ability to love all of us. She channeled wartime suffering into culinary passion, concealing years of pain. I believe it was a coping mechanism for her. The pain was deep, which caused her to put more love into us. She also put some into her pots, which only increased the quality of her cooking. My grandma died three decades ago. My parents asked me if I wanted any of her belongings to remember her. I went straight for the pots. They are all cast iron. I have a deep camp pot, two frying pans, and a small soup pot. I have one of her wooden spoons with about an inch of the oval rubbed off, on a bias, from her stirring. I don't use it, but I have it displayed in a cabinet in our kitchen. I am sure there is so much love in those pots that transference occurs when I use them. I have been saying this for years. When my kids or someone compliments me on my food, I often say it wasn't me but my grandma. Then, I tell them this story.

The lesson: embrace life. You owe it to yourself, regardless of what you have seen or experienced. Convey emotion enjoyably to others. Put your love into your pots, and your pots will put your passion into your food. One ingredient is missing from the soup I enjoyed as a boy. My grandma left it out on purpose, so I would look for it and think of her. She made up for it by ensuring that everything I cooked tasted a little better.

My grandparents were a motivating factor in my young life. They would help smooth many bumps in my teenage years as I was learning what it was like growing up and getting out there while hiding a burgeoning mental illness. The worse my OCD got, the more outgoing I became. I spoke out loud about anything and everything and tried to gain friends and be funny. My popularity grew and provided all the gas I would need to keep going. I maintained my carefree attitude on the one hand and balanced it against a growing disease on the other. I was fortunate to meet some girls at a pivotal time.

A different sex became even more interesting to me, like every other teenager, and I felt free after being unceremoniously left in the lurch. This whole event would provide a new opportunity for me. Near the end of the year, I met someone in my algebra class. She was from Fair Haven. She noticed me in class one day, and we would date on and off for the rest of high school and college. Norah would be the first person I would fall in love with. Before meeting her, I never knew what love was. We would learn firsthand what it was and was not several times. Eventually, we would each find another love and stop dating one day. She had become a part of my life for a long time. There is a long story that played out over decades, along with other girls, ladies, and women I would know and love over my lifetime. I have always felt blessed that I still know many pivotal people in my life. Not all of them became girlfriends, but they were no less impactful. I feel lucky to know still so many people I knew long ago.

The whole bizarre experience with the crazy neighbor continued through that summer. We ended up in court, where the judge threw the case out. I knew I had done nothing to this lady and had never once stepped foot on her property. The total experience of the year would further ingrain my neurosis in me deeper and deeper.

End of Chapter One.

Peace, Chris