R for Raaaaaaaagggggggeeeeeeee

I’m going to warn you right now, lovely reader, this post is anything but fun, humorous, or light-hearted. I am so filled with rage at the moment that I literally cannot focus on anything else. I decided the best thing to do, because I’m stuck at work right now and thus cannot bury my face in a pillow and let out a few hundred primal screams, was to blog it out. Viewer discrtion is advised. This post contains adult language not suitable for children or those with delicate sensibilities.

I have completely and totally run out of patience for my mother. Not just patience, but compassion, respect, and even love are out the window at the moment. I’ve had it!!! I’m so ready to just be done with her, and yet I can’t completely cut ties because I want access to my nephew. My mother is a vindictive bitch, and I truly believe she would withhold my nephew from me should I not keep up the illusion that we are a truly loving mother-daughter pair.

I’ll try to start from the beginning-ish (I don’t have the time to get into the history of me and my mother’s relationship right now, but I will at some point.)...

This is a terrible time of year for my family. If you’re a regular reader, you know why. If you’re new here and don’t know why, I’ll summarize it: my nineteen year old sister was murdered on December 19, 2007. You can read more about that here, if you’re so inclined. I wrote earlier this month about how I refused to let this time of year drag me down anymore. How, instead, I choose to celebrate my sister’s life and celebrate the holidays as she would, were she here with us.

My mother is making it nearly impossible for me to do that. It’s like, because she’s completely miserable this time of year because she chooses to wallow in grief and sadness, the rest of us should be as well. She called me yesterday and said, “I think we should all be together on Sunday (the anniversary of my sister’s death), so everyone is going to come over here.” Well, that’s great, but she doesn’t get to make those decisions for everyone anymore.

I’m a 32 year old married woman with my own family and agenda. I will decide where I need to be and what I need to do. I lost a sister—no, a daughter, because that’s what she basically was to me my whole life, especially after my mom and my stepdad divorced—too, and as such, I (and I alone) get to decide how I’ll spend the anniversary of her death. Besides, we will all be together on Saturday at the memorial bonfire meant to honor her.

Kristine has been gone for three years now. Time has healed the wounds for some of us; it's left behind jagged, ugly scars—sure—but the pain isn’t as raw anymore. While others, like my mother, choose to wallow instead of trying to heal. And that’s just fine, as long as they don’t try to force the rest of us into it. But it’s not her wallowing or insistence on focusing on the loss and death that gets to me so much. That I can get past. People grieve differently, and she has a right to her methods. What I cannot get over is her never-ending need for attention and the fact that she consistently tries to profit from my sister’s death.

That is where I draw the line. Right now, I’m nearly ready to vomit over how disgusted I am with her.

As I’ve mentioned before, my mom and her husband are not in a good place financially. They probably never will be either. Why? Because they make stupid, bad decisions and don’t have their priorities in order. At all.

For example, mom’s husband up and quit his job last spring. Why? Good question, lovely reader! Because he has a bad back and the hard work of sitting on his ass driving a school bus every day was just too much for him. He was off of work for three months, and it was only when the threats of eviction started that he realized he probably needed to get out and get a job. My mom’s meager school bus driver salary couldn’t support a family of four all on its own. Of course that put them even more behind than they already were, so now they’re playing a constant game of catch-up.

The new job that mom’s husband got doesn’t pay nearly as well as his old job. And, due to my mom’s illness, is the only income they have at this point. There is no doubt that they’re struggling. They depend on the food shelf, barely get by paycheck to paycheck, and are behind on all of their bills.

Musicman and I have offered to take custody of my nephew since the day after my sister’s death. And I consistently remind mom and her husband of our willingness to do so. Not just to remove some of their financial burden, but also to allow my mom to just be a grandma again. And, of course, to make sure that my nephew’s needs are consistently met and that he grows up in a home that’s loving, nurturing, and supportive.

A memorial fund was setup, a few days after my sister died, to help the family with funeral costs. I don’t know where that money ended up, but it’s gone now and my sister’s funeral was never paid off. Nor will it ever be now that mom and her husband declared bankruptcy. A few months later, there was a benefit for the family, because new financial concerns came about after my grandmother passed away and mom’s husband’s son had medical issues. Of course, at that time, people were reminded that this family had tragically lost a daughter to a senseless act of violence. (Gotta tug at the heartstrings; it gets people to open their pockets and wallets a little wider.) Thus began mom and her husband's addiction to public support and attention.

Musicman and I have helped them out faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaar more than we should have. This year alone, we’ve given them well over $1,000 in financial assistance; to save them from eviction, to put food on the table, and to help out with my nephew. Or so I’m lead to believe. Until I read Facebook and find out that they had their internet turned back on (not a necessity), they’re eating takeout, and my mom’s husband is out standing in line (with his bad back) for the midnight release of a $60 video games. But, whatever. Shame on me for giving them the money and expecting them to honestly use it for what they said they needed.

We’ve given them money to help my nephew more than anything, because our offer to take custody of him also came with the offer to help when needed, and they’ve caught onto that and have started to use him as a pawn to try to get more out of us. When we found out that, due to my mom’s recent illness and lack of paycheck, they weren’t going to be able to buy even a single gift for my nephew for Christmas, Musicman and I offered to buy gifts on their behalf. Despite the fact that we’re already out over $1,000, we refuse to let my almost five-year-old nephew go without Christmas.

We decided we’d purchase one “big ticket” item (around $50) from them and a few smaller gifts and some clothes from Santa. I figured my mother would see this as our Christmas gift to her and her husband (even thought adults in my family don’t exchange gifts) and that we’d give them the gifts at the bonfire this weekend so that they can have them all wrapped up and under the tree—ready for Li’l D on Christmas morning. Of course, we will also purchase additional gifts for him from Auntie Elle and Uncle Musicman too.

Yet what do I see on Facebook yesterday? A second fundraiser has been setup for them. One fundraiser was setup weeks ago, but apparently that one hasn’t garnered enough interest or attention, so a second one was started. Of course my mother insists that she and her husband had nothing to do with this and that their friends and neighbors want so badly to help them out. Yet she’s the one spamming everyone’s walls with the link to the fundraiser.

This recent fundraiser says that the family tragically lost their daughter three years ago to a senseless act of violence, and since that time have cared for her son. That’s pretty much the only part that’s true. The description goes on to say that the family faces financial hardship because mom’s husband was forced to temporarily quit working due to a back injury and that they’ve been struggling financially since their resources were used up in their quest to make sure that the murderer was convicted. Oh, and that because of this financial hardship, they will not be able to provide a Christmas for my nephew.

*Queue eyeballs popping out and head exploding here* What. The. FUCK?!?!? First of all, mom’s husband was never forced to quit working. As I stated above, he chose to quit his job. Because that’s what you do when life gets hard, right?! You just quit and later on depend on other people to finance your life. And it wasn’t because of an injury he had recently sustained—it’s an old injury that, to my knowledge, he’s never really sought treatment for, choosing instead to complain and whine about it. If there's one thing he and  my mom excel at, it's playing the martyr.

Secondly, NONE of their money was used to convict my sister’s murderer. The state prosecuted him. The only out-of-pocket expense any of us had was getting time off of work (some of us unpaid) and paying for transportation and/or parking to attend his trial, and numerous pre-trial hearings, which of course wasn’t required of us. But, we all attended every day; each for our own individual reasons, but also for one we all had in common: to see justice served.

The part that really gets me though is where the fundraiser's description says my nephew isn’t going to have a Christmas. REALLY?!?! Why are my husband and I busting our asses, while watching our bank accounts dwindle, to purchase gifts for my nephew on behalf of my mother, her husband, and Santa?!! It’s like a slap in the face! No…A kick in the gut.

The slap in the face came after our generous offer when my mother texted me to see if we could bring nephew out shopping to buy gifts for her and her husband, because Lil’D has really been talking a lot about buying Christmas gifts for nana and pop-pop. Apparently our gift to them wasn't enough. No; I’m not joking. Within 24 hours of us offering to basically finance Christmas for them (not including all the food I’ll be preparing and bringing…just talking gifts here), she texts to see if we’ll also buy gifts for her and her husband on nephew’s behalf. SERIOUSLY?!?! Who does that?!? Selfish much?!?

I haven’t received a Christmas present in I don’t know how many years. Musicman and I agreed long ago not to do gifts (we go all out for each other’s birthdays instead), and no one in my family can afford to do an adult gift exchange, so no Christmas gifts for me. It goes without saying that, since most of the adults can’t afford a gift exchange, we also do not get auntie and uncle gifts from our nephews and niece. And that’s okay. Christmas shouldn't be all about presents. I think the focus of the holiday should be on the kids, and I pay out quite a bit of money each year buying my nephews and niece what I hope are the perfect gifts.

Needless to say, I told my mom I wouldn’t have the time or the money to take my nephew shopping and sent an email to my sister asking her to step up (for a change). I wrote to my sis that, if she was having her kids make gifts for grandma for Christmas, it would be nice if she could include our nephew in that. She responded that she was going to take all of the kids (her two and Li'l D) to see Santa and to shop for gifts for mom and her husband from the kids. Great. Finally a break for me. My mom’s response to me saying no to her request? “No worries. You’ve done enough already.”

Really?!?! You fucking think so?!?! I’d say mooooooooooooore than enough. Waaaaaaaay more than enough! And, apparently, it’s still not good enough, because now there is a fundraiser that outright lies to people in order to get them to finance your life. The pathetic thing is people fall for their sob story. Their chronic bad luck is just unimaginable and so undeserved. How could such a caring, kind, hard-working family deserve to endure so much hardship?

The sad thing is, no matter what, it’s never going to be enough. Nothing is. Because my mom and her husband apparently think that the world should pity them for the rest of their lives, and as such, should pay to support them. It won’t be good enough until they are millionaires, because neither of them should actually have to work for a living.

And, as though I don’t have enough to be upset and angry about already, I get an email this morning from my mother indicating that she had forwarded details of the bonfire to the news media. One local station responded that they will pitch this as a story idea for their Saturday evening news program. WHY?!? Why would she do that?! Because my mother needs attention. She is addicted to drama and attention. I seriously think she went off the deep end long, long ago.

God forbid the memorial bonfire be a private event for friends and family to remember and honor my sister. Nope. That’s not good enough for mom. She needs attention on her.

I’m telling you right now, if the news media shows up on Saturday, I’m leaving. Enough of  my private, personal thoughts, feelings, and emotions were on display for the public three years ago; when I was in too much shock, and my emtions too raw, to know that I could've (and should've) said no to the interviews and the prying. I will not stand there and watch my mother’s disgusting attempts to garner sympathy and pity by telling the world about how not only does she continue to struggle with recovering from the tragic loss of her daughter and the burden she carries raising her grandson, but also her bad luck never seems to change. Now she’s terribly ill and once again faced with struggles that no one should have to deal with. Poor her. Poor, poor her.

I’ve had it. I’m pissed off. I’m beyond pissed off. I’m so livid right now that I’m almost turning myself inside out with rage. I don’t want my nephew being raised to think that this is how life works; that because his mom was murdered, he’s entitled to do what he pleases and not worry about the consequences because the world owes him everything. That’s bullshit! I also don’t want it constantly thrown in his face that his mom was murdered and that he should be perpetually sad about that. Of course, he is probably the biggest victim in this awful, terrible, horrible tragedy, but that should not define him. He doesn't need to live his life as a victim; not when he can live as an inspiration, a survivor!

I honestly don’t know how my mom lives with herself. How do you sleep at night knowing that you’re lying to conning people to try to profit from your daughter’s death?!? I wonder how much time she spends each day anticipating what the award she deserves for stepping up and taking care of her grandson will look like, and the monetary value that will be attached to it, of course. Because, apparently, she deserves big things.

When, really, she let her daughter die. She sent my sister to the murderer’s house that day. Alone. Because she insisted that her grandson should see his father. Despite the fact that she, unlike many of the rest of us, knew that the murderer had been violent towards my sister in the past, she sent her daughter to the lion’s den. Of course, she will admit that to no one.

Instead, she gets to look like the poor, grieving mother whose heart was ripped out the day her daughter—her baby—was murdered. And, while there’s no doubt that’s tragic—trust me, I get that; I live through the loss of my sister every single day—the true tragedy lies in the fact that she chooses to capitalize on her daughter’s death instead of celebrating her daughter’s life and focusing on the wonderful little piece of her that's been left behind and helping him to grow into a better man than his daddy ever was (instead of using him as a pawn).

P for Passages of Time

It is amazing how quickly time manages to fly by; isn’t it, lovely reader? Life has been hectic lately. Like don’t remember what day of the week, let alone what month, it is kind of hectic. Psychology class is over, and Algebra wraps up in a couple weeks, which means I’ll soon be on a lovely three week winter break! Wooohooo! I’m looking forward to having some downtime, catching up on my blog reading (I have a lot of catching up to do), and enjoying some time with friends and family. In addition to the busyness of school, work, and life in general, there has been some pretty major family drama too. I just don’t have the energy to get into it right now, so I’ll summarize as best I can…

My mother, who had weight loss surgery over three years ago, is incredibly ill. Like the possibility of dying exists kind of sick. While she insists that this illness has nothing to do with her surgery, it’s hard to deny that it makes recovery more difficult. It’s also hard to ignore that she’s been ill, in one way or another and to one degree or another, since she’s had the surgery. But, whatever.

She’s severely malnourished; her body does not retain any nutrients, or calories, or apparently anything from the food she eats. She’s gained 30 pounds of water weight alone. Apparently there's a possibility that she might have thyroid cancer, but the tests haven’t come back yet. She just started 24/7 IV nutrition therapy in the hopes that they can get her nutrition levels up enough to figure out what exactly is wrong with her, and then hopefully fix whatever it is. To top it off, she and her husband continue to barely scrape by financially. I have loaned given them more money than I care to think about or admit. And there’s no sign that any of that will get better anytime soon. It could, in fact, get worse, because there is a very real possibility that my mom will lose her medical insurance as a result of having to take 3-6 weeks of leave from work in order to try to get better.

It has become a very real possibility that MusicMan and I will need to take custody of my nephew, Li’l D, a lot earlier than we thought we would. We’re as ready as we can be for this, and of course, we want what’s best for Li’l D. Unfortunately, my mother remains stubbornly resistant to the idea. It’s getting to the point where I’m going to have to tell her that, if I’m going to financially support Li’l D any longer (because that’s really the only reason I have given her so much money), then he’s going to live with me. That’s not going to sit well at all. She might sever ties with me, and as a result sever our access to Li’l D. In which case, I will be forced to drag the whole thing into court, because I want what’s best for my nephew. But for now, we wait. And hope…

That things will get better. That my mom will heal and survive. That Li’l D living in such a stressful environment won’t affect him detrimentally for the rest of his life. That mom will come to her senses and do what’s best for Li’l D. That MusicMan and I will be able to handle suddenly becoming “parents” to an almost five-year-old basically overnight. That life will just quit being difficult for a while.

Speaking of difficult, I mentioned at this time last year that I hate this time of year. I gave a few reasons; the biggest of which, is that the anniversary of my youngest sister’s death is in December. It’s amazing the difference a year makes, lovely reader…

December 19 will mark three years that my sister has been gone. I’ve been so focused on finishing up the semester at school, getting ready for the holidays, and excitedly anticipating the bonfire we’ll have (on December 18) to celebrate her life that I momentarily forgot the significance of the date. My cousinfriend made a comment in a conversation we had recently about the date, December 19, being a hard day for my other sister and my twin brother (this is what my mother told my cousin, anyway). I seriously had to think for a few moments about why that would be. Imagine my shock and horror when I realized that the significance of the date is that it is the day, almost three years ago, that my sister was robbed of her life. Time flies.

This, of course, caused me to think about how far I’ve come in that time. I don’t cry nearly as much as I used to. I no longer fear the question, “How many siblings do you have?” and can talk about Kristine’s death without feeling anxious or having a panic attack set it. These are really good changes. Yes, I’ve come a long way since December 19, 2007.

When I first noticed that I hadn’t “lost it” in a good long while, I felt so guilty. How could I not be crying over my dead sister? What was wrong with me?! Then I realized that there was nothing to feel guilty over. Not crying regularly doesn’t in any way diminish the feelings I have for my sister or the profound sense of loss that will always exist as a result of her absence from my life. I love her beyond words. I am thankful that I got to spend the time with her that I did. And, I will never, ever, ever forget her.
I can't cry forever, and crying really truly doesn’t make me feel better about anything. Nor will it change anything. Don’t get me wrong, when those moments of extreme, gut-wrenching anguish hit, I give in to them. I cry my heart out until I just can’t cry anymore. But those moments don’t happen nearly as often anymore, and for that, I am incredibly thankful. The fact that I don’t cry as often anymore means that I’m not in pain as often, and that’s a good thing. It means I am moving forward.

I still think of Kristine every single day—at least once a day, but usually quite a bit more. I miss her more than words can even describe. Of course, I want her here. I want to hear her laugh, I want one of her amazing hugs, and I want to be enveloped in the light—the spirit—that was her. I want my nephew to have his mommy; to know what an amazing mother she was instead of having to hear about it as he grows older. These feelings never go away. My heart physically aches at times over all that she’s missed out on, and will miss out on, and over just how much I miss her and long for her to be here. But, I’ve realized that just isn’t possible. She’s not coming back. Ever. That is a cold, hard, unchanging fact of life.

The grief and healing process is a weird, horrible, confusing, multi-faceted, terrible, amazing thing. I’m proud of how far I’ve come, but at the same time, I know I will be healing for the rest of my life. A big part of that healing lies in forgiveness. I swore I would never, ever forgive Kristine’s murderer, Zachery, for as long as I lived. Like most people, I confused forgiveness with forgetting. Just as I will never forget my sister, I will never forget what Zachery did. I will always, always remember that he hit her so hard that he knocked her out, made a ligature out of a shoelace, and used all of the force he could muster to squeeze the life out of her for no less than two minutes.

But, I’ve forgiven Zachery. I really mean that. Those words—I forgive—come from deep down, the bottom of my heart.

I. Forgive. Him.

Of course, that forgiveness is more for me than it is for him. It means nothing to him; it would mean nothing to him even if he knew. It doesn’t mean that I’m in any way okay with what he did. It doesn’t mean that I don’t miss Kristine. It doesn’t mean that I love her any less. It certainly doesn’t diminish the tragedy of what happened. No.

What it does mean is: I’m done with him. Forever. He’s not worth the time or effort I was spending on hating him, being angry over him, or wondering why he did what he did. There’s just no room for that in my head or heart anymore. I’m taking back the power he, or at least what he did, had over me. He did what he did, and he’s being punished appropriately for it. Just as we have to deal with our loss for the rest of our lives, he has to deal with what he did for the rest of his, and that’s good enough for me. I’m done.

I think I needed to forgive him in order to move on with my life, and I really truly have. I feel lighter...cleaner...just plain better. My realization the other day—that I had sort of “forgotten” the significance of the date—makes me realize that I have chosen to honor my sister’s memory not by focusing on her death, but by celebrating her life.

I’m choosing the good memories over the bad. This was her most favorite time of year—the festive feel of the whole season and the buildup to one of her most favorite holidays. Since she can’t be here to enjoy it, I owe it to her to at least appreciate that I can be. This year I’ll do one better. I will joyously anticipate and celebrate Christmas like she would have. In her honor. Because I can’t think of a better way to honor her. Besides, she wouldn’t want me crying all the time. That was so not her style.

T for Trials and Tribulations

Edited to add: I've gotten a couple emails saying people are having troubles commenting on this post today. I don't know if it's a Disqus or a Blogger problem, but it makes me sad, because I love to read what you have to say. If you click on the actual post title, and then scroll to the bottom, you should see comments available. If not, please feel free to email me. You can do that by clicking on "Send me a Note" under my picture at the top right of the page.

I’m participating in Mama Kat’s writing workshop today, and as I alluded to yesterday, this post will be anything but lighthearted. Also, it could get long; really long. The prompt I chose is:

Tell us about a day you were sure you wouldn’t get through.

This one is, unfortunately, far too easy for me. And while it will be hard to write, because it involves recalling memories that I'm not particularly fond of, I imagine that it will also be cathartic. The answer isn’t what you might think (especially if you're one of my six faithful readers). Of course after receiving the news that my youngest sister had been murdered, I was sure at least once per day in the following days, weeks, and months that I wasn’t going to make it through that particular day. I still wonder at how I made it through it all. I still marvel at the strength I never knew I’d had but that appeared right when I needed it most.

December to January, 2007, was a whirlwind of funeral planning, speaking with investigators, speaking with media, trying to figure out when I’d go back to work, clinging to my husband and family, attempting to celebrate Christmas if only for the kids, and adjusting to a life that would certainly never be the same again; and yet, it was also a blur. Everything happened so quickly but so slowly at the same time. It was like being in a perpetual nightmare, and if I could just wake up, I was sure everything was going to be okay.

I relished the approximately two minutes I had every morning when I was in that stage right between sleeping and awake; temporarily unaware of what had happened, what was yet to happen, and how life had changed forever. Then, I’d open my eyes and get out of bed, working hard to suppress the overwhelming nausea, the tightness in my chest, and the tears. I’d usually lose the battle, at least on the tears front, and many times would return to bed in the hopes that sleep would numb the pain.

Though there were times I was sure I absolutely would not—could not—get through the day. I did. I made it through. And, as we’d started to heal, and move forward with our lives, and things settled down and got quiet, I started to feel more relaxed and comfortable; there were even bouts of happiness here and there. Then, the murderer’s trial started…

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The trial of Zachary Matthews started in the middle of October, 2008, and lasted about five days. Though I don't imagine that I'll ever forget it, especially since I took notes to keep myself busy and to document the proceedings from my point of view, there was one day in particular that I’ll certainly never forget. Not only did I not know how I’d make it through the rest of the day, but I was once again shattered, which I didn’t think was possible after all that had already happened. I found myself struggling once again to gather the strength to face something—someone—I didn’t think I’d ever have reason to question or the ability to lose my faith in…

We were about halfway through the first day of the trial, which had already proven to be far more difficult and emotionally exhausting than I’d imagined. The prosecution team went first. We’d heard witness testimony from some of my sister’s friends and many other people. There was the previously unknown to us woman whose life was forever changed when she returned from a meeting the evening of December 19 to find a burning car in her driveway. I cannot imagine how often the horror of removing my sister’s body from the car replays itself over, and over, and over again in her mind; tormenting her with the fact that none of her nursing skills could help the dead young woman who now lay in her driveway.

There were detectives and police officers who talked about crime scenes, canvassing neighborhoods, and collecting evidence. There was the medical examiner who talked about his findings during the autopsy and confirmed the cause of death. There was emotional testimony from my sister’s friends about the secrets they knew and regretted not telling until it was too late: Zachary had hit and punched and pushed and kicked Kristine, he had threatened her life, and she feared him. Many of Kristine’s family members, me included, didn’t know these secrets, but oh how we wished we did. The prosecution was working to establish a history of domestic violence in an attempt to prove that Zachary, my sister’s ex-boyfriend and the father of her child, was guilty of this murder.

My mother had been absent from the courtroom all morning. She wasn’t allowed to sit with my family to bear witness to the testimony and evidence we’d seen. Instead, she was barred from the courtroom until after she’d fulfilled her duties as a witness for the prosecution, lest seeing any other testimony or evidence should taint her own.

I was glad that mom wasn’t faced with the choice of whether to leave the courtroom or to see and hear graphic testimony regarding crime scene and autopsy photos. The rest of us thought we were strong enough, but it proved too difficult for some who ended up leaving the room halfway through the presentation of evidence. My mother probably would’ve been like me; she would’ve forced herself to stay. I was somehow able to separate my sister from the body in the pictures. My sister was a vibrant, living, breathing, laughing, smiling, human being; she wasn’t a body. My sister as I knew her had been gone long before the body she left behind was discovered and preserved for perpetuity in gruesome crime scene and autopsy photos.

As my mother was called to the stand, I looked forward to temporary relief from the shocking surprises and horrific evidence that had perforated the day, and I prepared myself to project strength. All of us wanted to be strong for my mother, because we couldn’t imagine doing what she was about to do. I was proud of her for having the strength to go on the stand to tell her story and the courage to face the monster who’d done this horrific thing that changed our lives forever.

My family has always been relatively close. We all talked to each other all of the time, so we were all always up to date on what was going on with who, who was doing what, and how everyone’s lives were going. If one of my family members so much as sneezed funny, I was sure to hear about it within a day of it happening. As such, I had no reason to suspect that my mother’s testimony would include any shocking revelations, because I was certain that I knew everything there was to know. I knew what she would talk about. At least, I thought I did…

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She was going on the stand to tell the jury, the lawyers, and the judge about the time that Zachary had tried to strangle her when she had tried to break up an argument between him and Kris. She would talk about the restraining order she had against him as a result of the incident. She was going to tell the court about how we’d all accepted him into our family and provided him and Kris with unwavering love and support, and that despite that, he turned on her. She would talk about the violent temper Zachary had exhibited on more than one occasion before actually following through with real violence when he attempted to strangle her, and how that temper and that incident had caused concern for all of us over whether he was using violence against my sister or my nephew. She would confirm that none of us suspected that my sister’s life was in danger in any way, because my sister stood firm that Zachary was not abusing her or their child.

My mother talked about how, months before her death, Kristine had moved back home with Li’l D. Kris had gotten tired of Zachary’s unwillingness to grow up and take care of his family, and they had broken up. Kristine was in the process of moving on. My mother encouraged Kris to facilitate visitation between Li’l D and his father, and usually that happened by way of them meeting up in a public place like the mall. It was only in the few weeks before Kristine’s death that she had started bringing Li’l D to his father’s apartment so that father and son could spend the day and/or evening alone together. Kris enjoyed these little breaks, because it allowed her time to go out with friends, and she had also met and started dating someone. She had never gone alone when she dropped Li’l D off at his father’s apartment; until that fateful day when we lost her forever.

Then, the prosecutor asked my mother to recall a particular date. And as I sat and listened, I was stunned and shaken by a story I’d never heard before. My mother described the day, a few weeks prior to the murder, when she had woken up early and was surprised to see Kristine awake already. Kris appeared to be shaken, and my mother asked her what was wrong.  Kris said that she’d been asleep in bed when she thought she’d heard something. She rolled over and scanned the room in the dark, but didn’t see anything. Convinced that she was hearing things, she tried to fall back asleep. But, she couldn't. Something didn't feel right.

Once her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she realized that someone was standing in the corner of her room. She was paralyzed with fear. After lying still for a few minutes, she slowly got up to turn on the bedroom light. That’s when she saw that the person standing in the corner of her room was Zachary. He had somehow broken into my mother’s house and had stood there for who knows how long watching my sister sleep. When Kris asked what he was doing there, he said he was just watching her. He was making sure that she and Li’l D were okay. He cared about them, and he’d just wanted to see her. Kris told him to leave, and he did.

As my mother’s story progressed, I was overcome with emotion. It was as though all of the air had left the room. I started to sweat, my stomach was cramping as it tied itself in knots, my ears were ringing, and I could feel tears pushing at the backs of my eyes. I looked at MusicMan, who upon seeing the shock on my face, grabbed my hand and gave it a squeeze. He looked at me as if to say, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do, and I’m sorry.” I refused to cry. I willed my eyes to contain the tears that were threatening to burst forth at any moment.

I thought about running from the room, but I feared if I started running, I’d never stop. I didn’t know if I could get far enough away from my mother, that courtroom, this life that just couldn’t possibly be mine, or from the excruciating pain.

As the implications of what my mother said really hit me, the tears began to flow and I began to shake uncontrollably. She knew. She knew her daughter was in danger. She could’ve stopped it. She had a restraining order against Zachary, and he had broken into her home. One call to the police could’ve had him in jail for quite a while. Maybe even for enough time for Kris to completely move on and sever all ties and for him to calm down and get over her. Perhaps my sister would still be alive today. None of us would have to be here, in this courtroom, trying to maintain our delicately cobbled together hearts and emotions as the old, not fully healed wounds were torn open all over again as we relived those awful, horrific days.

My mother had failed to do the number one thing a parent should do: protect her child. Not only did she fail to protect her child, but having the knowledge she did—that the violence was escalating—she encouraged her daughter to enter the lion’s den under the premise that Zachary deserved to see his son. In my mind, which I’ll admit was in emotional overload, my mother helped murder my sister. She was partially responsible for the death that shattered my heart into tiny pieces and threw me into such a delicate emotional state that I could go from being fine one minute to crying in the car on the way to work the next.

I could barely breathe as I sat frozen, wanting to hear no more but unable to leave. I couldn’t even look at my mother. We’d had our moments, especially in my teen years, where we’d argued and she’d said cruel, cruel things to me; things that no mother should ever say to her daughter. But, I’d forgiven. Because that’s what you do, right? You only have one mom, and deep-down, I knew she loved me. At least I thought she did. I mean; didn’t she have to? She was my mother after all. I loved her. Despite her venomous words, some of which made my heart physically hurt, I loved her. Besides, moms are human and can make mistakes. But this?!? This was more than just a mistake. How could she have just sat back and let my sister walk out the door to her death that day?! HOW?! WHY?!

***************************

Court rested for lunch shortly after my mother’s testimony. As soon as the good and honorable jurors (that’s what the judge called them, and they truly, truly were) filed out of the room, those of us in the gallery standing as a sign of respect for them, I fled. MusicMan followed me while the rest of my family waited for my mother.

Safely ensconced in the elevators, I spoke for the first time. It was a hoarse whisper, “SHE KNEW!” MusicMan hugged me. I repeated it over, and over, and over again in my head and occasionally out loud; willing it to be untrue. The closer we got to the outside of the courthouse, the louder I got. Until we were outside, and I was screaming and crying hysterically, my legs threatening to buckle under the gravity of what I’d heard and the overwhelming emotions it had stirred.

“SHE COULD’VE SAVED HER! AND SHE DIDN’T!! SHE DIDN’T DO A SINGLE THING TO PROTECT HER OWN DAUGHTER! MY MOM KILLED MY SISTER! SHE KILLED HER!” MusicMan held me as I sobbed. I knew I couldn’t go on. After everything that had happened—learning of Kris' death, the funeral, the partial healing, and now reliving it all over again—I just couldn’t do it anymore. The trial was just too much. I didn’t have the strength to continue.

How was I supposed to deal with all of this? How?! How was I ever supposed to face my mother again?! How could I look at her and not accuse her of killing my sister? How could I look at her and not ask why she failed to protect her daughter? How could I avoid asking, “WHY didn’t you do everything in your power to SAVE KRISTINE’S LIFE?!”

***************************

I eventually calmed down, with the help of MusicMan and Cousinfriend. My rational mind finally took over a little more, and I realized that there was nothing that could be done now. I could hate my mother and I could scream my accusations at her, my words cutting deep into her core and hurting her heart like her words years earlier had hurt mine, but what would that accomplish? My sister was still dead; gone forever. Unfortunately, nothing was going to change that. It was a fact that all of us who knew and loved her had to face as we learned to live in a world without her.

And, I thought about the guilt I carried and how it ate me up…I didn’t spend enough time with Kris. I didn’t appreciate her while she was here. I should’ve answered the phone those times that I chose to ignore her calls. I should’ve asked more questions, and I should've forced her to answer honestly. I could’ve talked to her more, and maybe then she would’ve told me her secrets. Should’ve, would’ve, could’ve…the guilt will consume you, if you let it. And, you can’t let it. I had gradually begun to learn that I had to let it go, because I couldn’t change what had happened in the past, and my sanity depended on letting go of the guilt and realizing that hindsight is 20/20. The same is true for my mother…

For the rest of her life, my mother will have to live with the fact that she maybe could’ve prevented my sister’s death. With the knowledge she had about the violence increasing, she could’ve cautioned Kris against ever spending time alone with Zachary. She could’ve opened her home to visitation, or at the very least allowed Zachary to come to her house to pick up Li’l D. Again: could’ve, would’ve, should’ve. The facts are what they are. Kris went there alone, and her life ended that day.

My mother has to deal with her own demons. She has to decide if she truly believes the excuses she gives to those who ask how she didn't know what was going on or why she didn't try to stop it. (The main one being, "She was 19; legally an adult. My hands were tied!") Someday she might have to deal with the grandson she's raised asking her those questions. That's her cross to bear. And, that's punishment enough.

We will never truly know if any of us could’ve done anything to change what happened on December 19, 2007. We will never know why Kristine didn't tell us she was afraid or why, despite that fear, she went to Zachary's apartment alone that day. We will never know why Zachary did what he did. We will never know the answers to all of the questions that swirl around in our minds. And we—all of us who knew and loved her—have to live with that. Because we have to go on living; there is no other option. It’s what Kris would want, and we have to make sure that her son has the life she would’ve wanted him to have, or better.

I survived that day and the rest of the trial. As hard as it was, I faithfully sat through each day’s proceedings, taking it all in and hoping that justice would prevail. And it did. The jury found Zachary Matthews guilty of first degree murder, and because of the severity of his crime, he was sentenced to life without the possibility of parole. And that day? The sun was bright as my sister smiled down on us when we left the courthouse. And I knew that I was going to be okay, because I am a better person for having had her as a sister, even if it was for only nineteen years, and I'm stronger than I ever thought possible.

(And thank you so much, lovely reader, if you made it all the way through this post.)

S for Sad (or SAD)

I’m beginning to wonder if a choice I made back in April was the right one. That’s the nature of choices though, isn’t it? Some of you might remember that I decided to go off my antidepressants back then. I’d been on them for a few years and felt as though enough time and healing had passed for me to take a stab at life on my own without the help of chemicals. My doctor developed a good plan for me to gradually taper off, and everything worked out well. I didn’t experience any withdrawal symptoms, increased depression, or really any side effects at all.

Now, though, I’m beginning to wonder if I wasn’t a little too quick to make the decision I did. As the weather changes and we move further into fall, I find my mood changing as well. And not for the good. As the days get shorter and darker, so does my patience and mood. I’ve been feeling down a little more regularly lately, and I find that I either want to sleep way too much or I have trouble sleeping. Today, I feel downright sad and weepy. That’s not cool when I’m stuck at work. And it’s frustrating, because I really have no reason to be sad. Well, let me rephrase that…

There is no immediate cause for my sadness. Nothing in particular has happened recently to upset me. I’ve long suspected that I have SAD, and the way I’m feeling lately confirms this self-diagnosis. Of course, this will always be a bad time of year for me. October brings the bittersweet anniversary of the trial and sentencing of Zachary, the man who ended my sister’s life, and December brings an anniversary I’d rather never have to acknowledge. Yes, it’s safe to say that this will always, always be a bad time of year. And, of course, it just happens to coincide with the season that brings colder, darker weather. It’s just not a good combination.

I try not to focus on it or think about it, but the hole created where my sister used to be is just as much a part of me as she was when she was here. I want so badly not to forget her, and I fear that I am. That I do. Or maybe I just try to force myself too hard to try to remember her, and that compounds the feelings that I’m a bad sister for forgetting. I wish there was a way to remember her but to forget the pain. I know that’s not possible. And while the pain isn’t as ever-present and hard as it used to be, because it’s true what “they” say about time healing, it’s still there. It will always be there. And at this time of year, it seems to push harder and becomes a more forceful presence. That sucks. Really HARD!

I suppose it doesn’t help that I spent last night writing a post for tomorrow that stirred up a lot of not so good memories, but it was cathartic for me, and I look forward to sharing it with you tomorrow. Then, I sometimes wonder if this being a bad time of year isn’t a self-fulfilling prophecy. Am I choosing to focus on the pain, thus making this a bad time of year? Is this something I can control?

I don’t know. I don’t think so though. If I were my mother, the answer would be a resounding, “YES!” Because my mother lives for attention and seems to crave pity. I, however, do not.

It also doesn't help that, because Psychology class runs for three and a half hours every single Saturday, I don't have as much downtime as I'm used to. So, I'm not resting and recharging as much as I'm used to. I’m not entirely sure how I want to deal with this seasonal depression thing right now. I think I’m going to just try to be gentle with myself for a bit. No undue pressure to be the best I can be for everyone else, but instead focus on taking care of me the best I can for me. And, of course, I’ll let MusicMan help out with taking care of me too.

I think that maybe I need to release this by just having a good long cry. What do you do, lovely reader, when you're feeling down?

M for Memories and Mud Volleyball

As you know, MusicMan and I celebrated our anniversary last week. We had originally planned to celebrate the weekend before our Monday anniversary date, but ended up spending time with family instead. Every year we go back to my hometown, where my mom and stepdad still live (but not together; they divorced years ago), to enjoy the town’s Heritage Days festivities with the rest of my family. I should clarify that when I say I’m going back to my hometown, I don’t mean that we’re travelling extensively in any way; it’s about a twenty minute drive from our house to my mom’s place.

It’s become a tradition for our family to gather together to enjoy the town’s annual celebration, which usually falls the week before our anniversary but was pushed up a week this year for some reason. I used to march in the parade each year as part of the high school marching band. Even today, hearing and seeing the marching band in the parade envelops me in a nostalgia that gives me goose bumps and stirs my emotions. It’s overwhelming to think of how far we’ve come, were we’ve been, and what’s happened along the way, isn't it?

My youngest sister used to looooooove Heritage Days. I’ll never forget the phone call I received a couple of months before she died:

Her: Sheeellll? (She was the only one, besides nephews and niece, who could get away with calling me "Shell" or "Shelly.") *said in her mischievous “I’ve got something up my sleeve.” tone of voice*

Me: Hey, kiddo! What’s up?

Her: You know what you need to do this summer?

Me: Ummmm...tons of things?! We are planning a wedding after all! *laughing*

Her: *laughing* Well, yeah, but… You need to play mud volleyball on my team this year.

Me: *Thinking my sister must not know me at all, or at the very least, has temporarily forgotten that I do not play anywhere in, near, or around mud. I’m the one who hates getting dirty; the one who wouldn’t even play in the sandbox as a kid, because the sand was dirty and made my skin crawl.* Are you INSANE?! Not only do I have absolutely NO interest in playing mud volleyball, but that’s a week before the wedding!!

Her: Oh come on! I need people to play on my team!

Me: No way! I don’t need to end up hobbling down the aisle on a twisted or broken ankle and/or having photos taken with a huge black eye on my wedding day! And, if you hurt yourself playing, you just remember that I will force you to crawl down the aisle if you have to, and you will be in pictures regardless of whether or not you have a black eye! *said in a totally playful way...I was absolutely not a bridezilla--people will vouch for that!* MusicMan and I will come and watch from the sidelines if we have time that weekend. If you can’t get enough people to form a team, join Cheryl’s (sister’s dad/my stepdad’s girlfriend) team!

Her: Oooookaaayyyyyy. *using her saddest, most depressed “you’ve ruined my life” voice in one last attempt to get me to acquiesce.*

A couple months later, she was gone forever, and I found myself willing to do anything in the world—even play mud volleyball every single day for the rest of eternity—to get her back. Unfortunately, as we all know, that’s not the way things work. We cannot bargain for the dead; there is no way to extend their time here on this Earth. Not even for a day. Not even for an hour, just to have a few moments to tell them all the things we need them to know about how much we loved them, how much we’ll miss them, or how much we wish they weren’t leaving us. As it stands, I hope that someday I can muster up the courage to join Cheryl’s team to play in honor of my youngest sister.

Mud volleyball is one of the highlights of the Heritage Days festivities. You might be wondering what mud volleyball is. Well, lovely reader, it’s exactly what it sounds like: playing volleyball in pits of mud. There are train tracks that run through the town, and along those tracks are three pits, about a foot and a half to two feet deep, that get filled with water to make the mud pits.

Citizens of the town form teams of however many players it takes to play volleyball (you can see how much I know about the sport) and signup to play for the fun of it. There might be prizes too, but I'm not really sure; clearly I have never played. Some teams are quite competitive, returning every year in attempts to either hold on to, or win, the coveted title of mud volleyball champions. You can tell who the “pros” are, because they’ve learned things from their years of playing. Things that new teams haven’t quite seemed to pick up on, like: one must duct tape his shoes and socks to his legs in order to not lose them to the mud pits, and falling in the mud or getting one’s hands muddy can make the game much harder to play, because hitting a ball with very slippery arms and hands doesn’t send the ball in the direction you hope it will.

After enjoying the parade, my mom, Li’l D, MusicMan, me, my middle sister, her kids’ dad (and whatever the hell else he is to her), and her kids, Princess and Soccer Boy, headed over to the carnival. The kids enjoyed riding the rides and playing carnival games, and then we all enjoyed carnival food such as hot dogs, deep fried cheese curds, mini donuts, caramel apples, roasted corn on the cob, and beef brisket sandwiches. After that, we headed over to the mud volleyball pits to watch Cheryl’s team play.

This year, MusicMan brought his camera along to capture the festivities, and I’m sharing some of my favorite photos with you, lovely reader.

This is one of my favorites of Li'l D riding the swing ride.

Princess on the Merry-Go-Round.

Li'l D wearing a frisbee he'd gotten at the parade. (My mom insists that, despite the impression given, that is not in fact a halo, because Li'l D is most definitely not a little angel. What four-year-old boy really is?)

Soccer Boy at the parade.

Princess on the swing ride.

Soccer Boy walking in one of the mud pits between games.

Cheryl waiting for the game to start; she was surprisingly clean after having plaid a few games already that day.

My stepdad's girlfriend, Cheryl, serving the ball.

This guy, from the opposing team, really got into it...rolling in the mud right away to get it over with. Some teams celebrate victories by diving into the mud and rolling around in it too. Good thing there are fire hose "showers" rigged up for players to rinse off.

This guy fell going for a ball.

I was shocked that my sister actually let Soccer Boy play the roll of "ball boy," which is the very important job of keeping the volleyball clean if only so that it can be seen by the players.

What do you think, lovely reader? Have you ever heard of mud volleyball? Would you play?

H for Happy Birthday

I should be celebrating my sister’s 22^nd birthday today (or at least this upcoming weekend). She, my middle sister, my cousin-friend, and I should all be getting together this Friday to go out for dinner and drinks like we did a few weeks ago for my middle sister’s birthday. We should be laughing until we nearly cry; probably over something completely and totally ridiculous that in retrospect isn’t anywhere near as hilarious as we think it is in our celebratory state. But we’re not, because she’s not here. A selfish, pathetic, ridiculously weak, sociopath took her life a little over two years ago.

(Photo taken less than a month before her death; She had taken Li'l D to get his 2 year old pictures done. The fabulous people at Sears let my sister and I pick these pictures up, and upon hearing the story of her death, gave us a CD of all the images along with a photo release.)

I am angry and I am sad. And that’s actually a huge understatement, but I can’t quite find the words to say what I’m really feeling. My brain is crowded by thoughts and emotions that are swirling out of control.

She should’ve been at Li’l D’s 4^th birthday bash on Sunday. She’d be so proud of her “little man.” He’s getting so big, and he’s becoming his own person; complete with a huge personality, thousand-watt smile, and plenty of attitude just like his momma. She only got to be his mommy in person for a little under two years, and that’s just not fair. To him, to her, or to any of us. Her beautiful son will sing “Happy Birthday” to his mommy’s picture, like he’s does every year since she’s been gone; he'll blow out the candles on her birthday cake for her, and he'll release balloons into the air with a happy birthday message for his mommy.

(Auntie Elle and Darion celebrating his 4th birthday!)

(Happy 4 year old!!)

My emotional outbursts/crying jags happen far less regularly now than they used to, but days like today are harsh reminders of the wounds I carry hidden away from most of the rest of the world. Tonight I might surrender to my grief, allowing the hard, body-shaking sobs to come. Music Man will hold me and comfort me, whispering into my hair that he loves me and that he misses her too. He barely got to know her, but in the short time that he did, he loved her. Everyone did. That’s the kind of person she was.

It’s not that I’d rather grieve than try to celebrate her life; it’s that I can’t tonight. I just don’t have it in me. I have a nasty head cold, so I’m already physically exhausted, which just seems to intensify my emotions—especially the negative ones. Sometimes, surrendering to the emotions is just the easiest thing. Emotionally spent and physically exhausted, I’ll head to bed early hoping that she hears me wishing her a happy birthday.

I’ll remember the good times we had.  I’ll think about what I miss and what I’ll continue to miss. I remember her contagious laugh—the one that would’ve gotten us all started this weekend; we would’ve collapsed into giggling fits right in the middle of the restaurant, not caring about who might be staring at us or questioning our sanity. I want to hear it again—that laugh—but it’s fading now. I can’t hear it in my mind like I used to be able to. I miss her hugs; she gave the best hugs. Now, I barely remember what it felt like to have her arms around me, and my heart physically hurts when I recall our last hug, which was far, far too long ago.

It seems too soon for these memories to be gone, or so faded, and the feeling of loss is made worse by the knowledge that I will never again hear her laugh or feel her hugs. There’s no way to recapture these things once they’re gone.

It’s moments like these, where I sit and think and wish and wonder, that I am overcome with emotion. Life isn’t fair!!! I know it’s not supposed to be, and that no one ever promised that it was, but this feels like a ridiculous level of unfair. She was only 19. She was a mother, daughter, sister, aunt, cousin, niece, granddaughter, and friend. She was loved and cared about, and as the youngest of my siblings, she was fawned over. She shouldn’t be gone, and she most definitely shouldn’t have died the way that she did.

It’s all a bitter reminder that life is short, and yet it feels too long as well. Two years without her has been hard, excruciatingly so at times. I miss her every single day. Somedays it hurts more than others; days like today are a prime example. I can’t imagine the rest of my life without her, so I have no choice but to take life day by day until the pain subsides again and I feel stronger.

Happy birthday, baby sister. You are gone, but never forgotten. I love you and miss you more than I could ever say. Wherever you are, I hope that you are happy and at peace. I know that you watch over your little man, and I can only imagine how much your heart swells with pride over what a fantastic little boy he is. I hope that you always know how much you are loved. I look forward to seeing you again someday—we’ll have a lot of catching up to do. I can’t wait to hear that fabulously contagious laugh, to see that giant beautiful smile, and to feel your most fantastic hugs.

            Love always and forever,

            Your big sister

O for Owie

I’m participating in Mama Kat’s writing workshop today. The prompt I chose is: Explain a time there was an emergency. What “mode” did you go into? Freaking out, calm and collected, etc.

We were celebrating what would’ve been my sister’s 20th birthday; our emotions still raw from the life changing event less than two months prior, and our minds still attempting to figure out how to move forward without her contagious laughter and big, heartfelt hugs. The questions still swirled around in our brains: How? Why? What really happened? And the only person who could answer them was sitting in a downtown jail cell.

Many of my sister’s friends had come to celebrate her life with us. They brought their children with them, so my sister’s son (my youngest nephew), Li’l D, was surrounded by friends. We had decided to once again do one of her favorite things; a bonfire was crackling in my mom’s backyard on this unseasonably warm February day.

There were at least half a dozen kids playing in the snow in my mom’s backyard. My sixteen year old stepbrother started pulling some of them in a sled, taking a circuitous route from the backyard to the front yard and around again to the back. The kids loved it! All of a sudden, those of us standing at the bonfire recalling our memories aloud heard my stepbrother screaming, “OH NO! OHMYGOD! OHMYGOD!” We turned. He was running towards us with a crying Li’l D in his arms. Li’l D was holding his head. We all saw it at about the same time; the blood that was running down Li’l D’s face.

My mom freaked out. She ran towards my stepbrother screaming, “What did you DO?!?! WHAT DID YOU DO?!? WHAT HAPPENED?!?” She tore Li’l D out of stepbrother’s arms. She pulled his little hand away from his head and shrieked, “OH.MY.GOOOOOOOD!” as she ran into the house with him. Mom’s husband asked his son what had happened. Stepbrother claimed he didn’t know—he was pulling the kids through the driveway, and all of a sudden he turned around and Li’l D was laying on the ground bleeding. Mom’s husband asked me to go in the house and check on her; I was already halfway to the door.

She was still screaming when I entered the house, going on and on about all the blood and having to go to the Emergency Room. I headed straight for the bathroom, calmly declaring to those sitting in the living room wandering what was happening, “I’m sure it’s not that bad; head wounds always look worse than they are because of all the bleeding.” I am not a medical expert by any means, but I thought I’d heard that somewhere once.

My mother screeched, “NO! This is BAD! This is seriously BAD!” I entered the bathroom to see Li’l D sitting on the counter with a hand towel pressed firmly to the left side of his head right above his temple. He was no longer crying. Mom was washing blood off of his face and hands. I crouched down to his eye level and spoke gently, “How ya doing, buddy? Got a pretty bad owie, huh?” He nodded his head, “Uh-huh.” Mom told me that the blood was spurting out. She said that, if the washcloth was removed, the gaping wound would shoot blood out.

Mom has always had a flare for the dramatic, so I thought nothing of it as she gently pulled the washcloth away from my nephew’s head to prove to me just how horrible his injury was. Okay, okay, so maybe it was that bad. There was a gash about three inches long and a quarter of an inch deep in my two-year-old nephew’s forehead. I realized that I needed to be calm, because my mother was completely incapable of that at the moment. I was surprised that the extreme shakiness, brought on by the adrenaline surging through my body, wasn’t outwardly visible.

“Okay!” I said brightly, “Good thing we all already have our jackets on! Let’s get in the car and go to the Emergency Room.” I said this in the way one would announce to a two-year-old boy that he was about to depart on a grand adventure to Chuck E. Cheese's.

As we headed out of the house, I grabbed my purse. Music Man and mom’s husband were still outside trying to figure out what happened. Mom’s husband asked how Li’l D was doing, and mom snapped, “We’re going to the EMERGENCY ROOM!” I felt bad for mom’s husband; once again, he was being blamed for his son’s screw up. Whatever had happened was clearly an accident, and with all of us having suffered enough emotional upheaval in the previous months, I saw no reason to dub anyone the malicious bad guy. It was obvious that stepbrother felt awful, and it was obvious that everyone was concerned about Li’l D’s wellbeing.

Mom declared that we’d take her van, so we piled in; her holding Li’l D in the passenger seat and me in the driver’s seat. I quickly adjusted the seat and mirrors and started backing out of the driveway. There was a bump, and my mom screamed, “STOP! OHMYGOD! WHERE’S PRINCESS! OHJESUSOHGOD—WE RAN HER OVER!” Did she honestly think we ran over my almost two-year-old niece?! Jeezus! (Whose name is not Princess, but you probably know by now that all names used in my blog are nicknames or pseudonyms.) REALLY?!?

I tried to remain calm. I knew it was the mound of icy snow at the end of the driveway that had caused the bump. But, adrenaline racing, I temporarily forgot about my mother’s flare for the dramatic; Panic set in as I pictured my niece’s little body trapped under the back tires of my mom’s minivan. I screeched to a halt, put the van into Park, and nearly threw up as I rolled down the window and yelled, “WHERE’S Princess?” The group assembled on the front sidewalk announced, “Right here,” as my niece appeared from behind my husband. J.F.C! I was about ready to tell my mom she needed to get out of the van, because adding a saner, more rational person to this mix was a necessity.

As we drove to the Emergency Room, mom ranted about her stepson with Asperger’s; who, of course, obviously did this on purpose. She postulated that he had probably pulled the sled too close to a car that was parked in the driveway and that a license plate had clipped my nephew’s head as a result. She told me that she’d been thinking about separating from her husband, because she just couldn’t handle stepson anymore. “He’s just an idiot, completely incapable of doing anything,” she proclaimed, “I’m so sick of his carelessness and stupidity.”

I kept myself quiet as I realized that now was probably not the best time to point out that, if she knew him to be so careless and stupid, perhaps she shouldn’t have let him pull the children around the yard in a sled. I chose instead to try to change the subject, or at the very least, to keep her calm. Besides, I knew that the venom she was spewing was a result of her overly emotional state and not based on reality.

Li’l D kept trying to sit up, but mom insisted on cradling him like a baby, because the blood would move slower if he was lying down. (No, she’s not a medical professional either.) I asked, “How ya doing buddy?” A small voice replied, “Good. I got a big owie, auntie,” and his little hand reached up as he pointed to his head. Despite his large owie, he was cool as a cucumber. I was glad to see that he was dealing with the situation more on auntie’s level than grandma’s. When we arrived at the Emergency Room, mom rushed him inside as I went to park the van.

By the time I got inside, they had checked in and were waiting patiently for a triage nurse. A medical assistant came over to put a hospital bracelet on my nephew; seeing someone in scrubs walk towards him made Li’l D panic. He did not want to be touched by any medical professional; probably because his owie wasn’t hurting as much anymore, and he didn’t want them ruining that.

The triage nurse came over and took us into a little room. She asked my mom if she was the mother, and mom replied, “No. I’m his guardian.” The nurse asked, “Where’s his mother?” as she looked at me assuming that I would answer in the affirmative. My mother’s face twisted in anguish as she replied, “Deceased.” Tears rolled down both of our cheeks now. My mom quickly summarized my sister’s untimely death as the nurse took Li’l D’s vital signs.

I distracted him (or tried to at least) while mom held him and the nurse cleaned the wound and put some kind of numbing/antiseptic gel on his head. The gel stung “a bit,” and Li’l D started wailing and struggling to get out of my mom’s arms and away from the nurse. He reached for me with pure terror in his eyes, and I felt completely helpless. I tried to tell him that he was going to be okay and that the nurse was almost done, but his screams blocked out my words.

The automatic reflex children have to yell out for their fiercest protector, mommy, kicked in; As Li’l D screamed for a mommy that couldn’t be there, and who would never again be able to answer to those cries, we tried to console and calm him as the wounds on our already fragile hearts tore wide open again.

Tears continued to run down our cheeks as the triage nurse announced that he’d need stitches. As she tried to bandage him up, we tried to keep him calm and immobile. Mom held him in a bear hug while I held his legs—it was torture for all of us. I briefly contemplated asking if there was a doctor available to stitch up my broken heart, or perhaps, to put me in a coma until my grief had subsided.

As we sat in the waiting room again, it was clear that my mother and I were having similar thoughts. We FAILED! Li’l D had been under our* tutelage for less than two months, and here he was with his worst injury to date. We were in the Emergency Room, on his mom’s birthday of all days, and all any of us wanted was his mommy.

(* Clearly Li’l D was (and is) under my mom’s care. I say “our,” because our family agreed after the loss of his mother that “the village” would help raise him. Music Man and I had even offered to take custody of him, but my mom insisted on keeping him with her. She reaches out to my sister or me when she needs a break, and we take the little guy for a night or a weekend. Music Man and I absolutely adore our weekends with him, and still maintain that we will take custody of him if it’s ever necessary.)

Not sure how long we’d have to wait for the doctor who would sew up my nephew's head, my mom wanted her husband to come to the hospital with clean (read: non-bloody) clothes for Li’l D. I took my phone outside to call Music Man. I translated mom’s request for clothes and a few other things, and asked Music Man to bring mom’s husband to the hospital in my car.

The evening was approaching, and it was a Sunday night, so we’d need to head home soon in order to prepare for the week ahead. Music Man asked how I was doing. OMG...was he trying to break me?!?! I answerd in a quick clip, "I'm fine. Everything's fine. Li'l D is gonna need some stitches, but he's going to be okay." (I almost convinced myself that I was, indeed, fine.) I took a deep breath and headed back inside.

Mom was called away to deal with insurance forms, so I took Li’l D over to the children’s play section of the waiting room. He was immediately immersed in Thomas the train, suddenly oblivious to the trauma he had endured just minutes ago. I marveled at how resilient kids are. When Music Man arrived with mom’s husband, we said our goodbyes. I hugged my nephew, and told him that the doctors were going to fix him up really good. My mom and her husband hugged me, thanking me for my help and for keeping mom calm.

In the quiet safety of my own car, I broke down. All of the emotions that had built up over the day could now be freely released. I no longer had to worry about being the calm one or staying strong. Music Man held me as I cried, assuring me that Li’l D was going to be just fine. Of course he was right; I knew my nephew was going to be just fine. I was just wondering when, or if, I was ever going to be.

Li’l D ended up with 21 stitches that night. Today, almost two years later, he has a faint scar that will remain with him for the rest of his life. When he gets older, we’ll tell him about his accident. We’ll let him know what a strong, brave little boy he was and how proud of him we were. I will thank him for the lessons he taught me that night: I am strong. I am resilient. I will be okay.

S for Seven Random Things

Shell over at Things I Can't Say was tagged in “My Seven,” where one has to list seven random things about oneself. Shell "tagged" all of her readers. I thought this might be a fun little exercise, so here we go!

1. I am a twin. Yep! It's totally true. I'm a fraternal twin. My brother is 45 seconds younger than me, which means a lot when you're a twin, because technically that makes me the oldest. Though my brother claims that it was only because the doctors grabbed me first—it was, in other words, the "luck of the draw" (my mom had a C-section). My brother also likes to joke that I tried to kill him in the womb, because I “stole” all the nutrients. He says this because we were born about two months premature, so we were really really tiny. He was, however, quite a bit tinier than me. The doctors came to the conclusion that my brother was probably conceived about a week after I was. To which I say, “EWWWWWWWWWW!” and “WEEEEEEEEEEIRD!”

2. Speaking of siblings, I have two other sisters. One was born about two years after my brother and I, and the other was born when I was ten-years-old. The youngest one is deceased. You can read a little bit about how that happened here. I miss her every single day, and my heart sometimes physically hurts over it (just as much as it did the day I found out). My sister was cremated, and my mom, grandmother, siblings, and I got cremation jewelry pendants in order to always have a little part of her with us. I wear my heart pendant necklace every single day, and when I’m tired, nervous, sad, “zoning out,” bored, or annoyed, I rub and play with the pendant and think about my sister. Many people tell me this will eventually get easier, and some days (or weeks, or months) are better than others; however, it’s been two years, and I have yet to believe that.

3. My sister’s death had a lot to do with my decision to return to school. I reanalyzed my whole life, and realized that life is too short, and can be gone in an instant, so it shouldn’t be spent just going through the motions or doing a job I hate. I decided on social work because many people have told me that I’m a good listener, give good advice, and should be a counselor or therapist. I want to help people, specifically domestic violence victims and children. I learned many lessons from my sister’s death and feel as though her story and my life experience will lend an advantage in working with and understanding victims of domestic violence.

4. Music Man and I met on the Internet almost three and a half years ago. What is interesting about our meeting this way is that it turned out that we lived less than a mile apart, but had it not been for the internet, we probably never would've met. We were engaged within nine months, and got married on the two-year anniversary of our first date. I was ecstatic on my wedding day for all of the “normal” reasons, but especially because my name was going to change. I was excited to ditch my long, unique, hard to spell and pronounce, Scandinavian last name for a much simpler and more common name. (I kept it as my middle name though, because it is unique and I was attached to it more than to my original middle name.) Also, because I was my family’s spokesperson to the media up until a little over a week after my sister’s death, googling my maiden name just brings up all of the various news stories about her death. I’m glad to technically not be “that girl” anymore…as if that legacy no longer follows me because I no longer carry that name.

5. The reason I call my husband Music Man on this blog is that he is a musician; he plays bass in a local band. He’s not trying to make it big or be a rock star—it’s more of a hobby for him—he plays for fun (though some of the gigs don’t pay too bad, so that extra spending money is nice). I went to Music Man’s gigs a lot more when we were dating than I do now that we’re married. He doesn’t seem to mind, but I sometimes feel badly about it. In my defense, many of the gigs are weeknight gigs; Music Man and I agree that it’s not fair to the dogs to kennel them in the evening after they’ve been in their kennels all day while we’re at work, so I stay home with them. Also, I’ve gotten busy with school, and homework just needs to come first sometimes. And my final excuse is that I’m getting old!  I cannot stay out until past midnight and still roll my ass outta bed bright and early the next morning to face another day. I just can’t do it. Sometimes, Music Man plays great gigs in our favorite city on the North Shore. We use these gigs as an excuse to take mini-vacations in which we rent a hotel room for a night or a weekend and enjoy one of our favorite cities in the whole state. This happens at least a few times a year and is a super nice excuse to get away and refresh for just a bit.

6. My house is an absolute pigsty right now. It’s bad! Last semester was a demanding one, and then I spent the first couple weeks of this year being very sick, so the housework has been set on the backburner. Music Man has tried to keep up with his share of the household chores, but our house is still shameful at the moment. I would be embarrassed to have anyone over right now. I don’t know what has happened to me—I used to be so cleaning crazed that there was no way my house would ever get to this level of dirty. I used to clean even if I was sick—sometimes I swore it made me feel better. I don’t know if my priorities have changed, or I’ve become lazy, or what. I do hope to remedy this problem by cleaning my ass off tomorrow, and Music Man and I are going to price out housecleaning services to see if this is a luxury we can afford. (I would be willing to cancel Netflix and Cable at this point.) Having help just every other week would have a huge impact. Of course, we’d have to figure out what to do about the dogs on those days.

7. I hate cleaning bathrooms. HATE! But, I refuse to let Music Man take over the task, because I just don’t trust that he’ll get it done the “right” way. I’m the same way about laundry; I don’t mind doing laundry so much—it’s the folding and putting away part that I hate (especially socks and underwear!). I am a bit of a perfectionist and a control freak, which seems to conflict with number 5, and I’m surprised Music Man puts up with it sometimes. (This is one of the many reasons we have decided not to have children. I think I would just lose it if my children weren’t completely under my control all the time, and we all know that’s not a realistic expectation to have of children; not to mention that it would probably make for a not so good childhood.)

Wow! That was harder than I thought it would be, but there you go. I am an open book; if there are any questions you have, dear reader, don’t be afraid to ask them in the comments section on any of my blog posts. I will address them by replying to your comment within the comments thread or in a future blog.