Where I am with the book idea...

Nowhere. 

I have not made one single effort in the attempt to write the book.  I just cannot wrap my head around this story becoming a book.  I've only told a small handful of people about the prospects and have gotten nothing but positive opinions.  The consensus is that since I could not find anything at all in the way of positive, hopeful or encouraging stories that I could relate to concerning a situation like this - that I should write it so others can.  And I get that and maybe I should.  I want to or at least I want to want to.  But something about it seems kind of "wrong" too.  Like capitalizing on such a god-awful tragedy. I was only able to do this blog because I had to have an outlet for all of my emotions.  I had to do something to give Brian a voice and make him human to those that only saw a monster.  It was all that kept me going for such a long time.  I had a positive reason for it.  I felt like it had a higher purpose, and it did not give me any opportunity for credit, recognition or profit.  It was just a way to honor the three of them, remember them and grieve them the way I was not allowed to do.  It helped me vent.  It helped me process.  It helped me --period.  

I just wish I could get it in my head that a book might do the same... And, if I'm honest, I'm a little afraid of it.  I'm afraid that in writing it all again from the start and reliving it all again from the beginning that I will go back into that deep pit that it took me years to come out of.  It may give me insights and possibly help someone else going through this --but I'm just not sure I could take it all again and I know that is a large part of what is holding me back.  When I started this blog, I had no way to go but up.  My progress through this has been slow, start and stop, backwards a little and forward a little and it has taken me eight long years.  I don't think I could take it if it took me backwards and I'm just afraid it will.  I am afraid of those emotions again.  I'm older and not as strong or resilient as I used to be.  Eight years of this has taken its toll.  Some days I'm still not sure I'm going to make it.  And on those days going backwards ...No.

But it is true that I read over 100 grief books trying to find something that would help me or encourage me or give me hope and could find nothing I could relate to.  I just had to take all of them glean what I could and create a composite of little generic positives from each and do the best I could with that.  It wasn't what I needed.  It wasn't what I'd hoped for but it was the best I could do.  

There is definitely a need.  I just need the courage to try.  And of course, the desire, the talent, the enthusiasm, the motivation, the encouragement and the time!  

A Book? Mehhhh I don't know...

I keep thinking that I want to capture all of these intense emotions so that they are not lost to me should this blog ever go away.  I have toyed with the idea of perhaps writing a book.  I want to and yet I don't.  I'm not sure I can go back and relive all of these emotions day by day again.  And while a lot of them are still alive and well it isn't like it was in the beginning and it has taken a long time to make what little progress I've made to get here. So going back to the beginning and retelling -- reliving all of this again well I don't know about that.  Also, to be honest there is something about writing the details of this story and having it be even potentially profitable - well that just seems wrong.  And for sure any anonymity that protects me from public judgment would be over.  

And those are my reasons for not pursuing it thus far.

In my efforts to try and make a solid decision I've had to ask myself a few questions:

Why do I want to do this?

Who am I doing it for?

What do I hope to accomplish?

And when I started to answer those questions it is there that I see merit in the prospects of a book.

Why? 

-   Because I want to introduce the Brian we knew to the world at large because I cannot stand knowing that his entire life was reduced to ashes and his entire 41 years before that day counted for nothing.  I cannot sit by and see the man he had been up to that day -- the light-hearted, funny, sweet son, the concerned, loving, playful dad, the loyal-to-a-fault husband, the funny baby brother, the hardworking employee, the practical joking co-worker, the fun uncle, the dependable nephew, the closer than a brother - brother-in-law --be reduced to the monster the news media and Sheriff's department portrayed.  I cannot let that erase all that he was up to that day.

-   Because we cannot be the only family that has been where we are and I know better than most how hard it is to find something we can relate to.  It was a determination so devastating, so difficult and so harshly judged and because of that it is bathed in shame and secrecy.  No one talks about it and as far as I can find no one writes about it either.  It is something that leaves you feeling so hopeless and alone and I want to give others what I could not find.  Hope.  Understanding.  Empathy.

-   Because I want to find the lessons I can only see in the rear-view mirror.  I want to bring it out of the darkness and look at it closely in the light, twist it and turn it and see it from all angles, analyze it, dissect it, put it all under a microscope and learn from it what I can.  I do not want to waste this pain.  If there are lessons in this, I need to be able to see them and that is so difficult to do when it is shoved under the rug.  I want to find the beauty from ashes, and I want to help others do that too.

Who is it for and what do I hope to accomplish from it?  These kind of run together.

-   First and foremost, it is for Brian because I firmly do not believe for one minute that he was capable of this, and I want to honor the person he was before this and by letting the world know the person that we knew in the hope that it could raise a question in their mind too.  I want him to have a fair trial the only way I can get him one —by giving our side of who he was and perhaps give some that read it cause for "reasonable doubt".

-   The average person - I want the reader to see that there are two sides to every story.  I want others to know how sometimes the police department's final determination may not always be correct.  And before they are so quick to judge they should realize that there is a 100% chance that they do not know the whole story. I'd also like for others to know how quickly their lives can change and how a jaded determination from a police department could happen to them just like it did us.

-   The police departments - I'd like for them to see what an emotional snap judgment on a grisly crime scene can omit about who someone is.  I'd like for them to know that saving time and money on what appears to them to be a useless and costly investigation can decimate the lives of all of the survivors.  

It may not matter to them, but it matters to those that are devastated by the results of not having a proper investigation.  And I fully realize that I cannot know for sure that I am right, and they were wrong.  I admit that.  But I am certain I knew him well enough to make a better judgement call than they could in a few hours.  And I'm sure I cannot know exactly what really happened but that's the whole point. I can't and neither can they.  What I do know is that I could have accepted it and moved on had I had a full and thorough investigation with a half an ounce of concrete forensic proof.  Something they did not deem important.  

-   For Kara's mother - the only other person in this tragic mess that had the same loss I did and understands from my perspective what the loss of a child and grandchild means and to let her understand who Brian really was and why I still cannot believe he could have done this.  She doesn't have to agree with me or believe as I do but I want her to understand why "I" don't.  I know it cannot bring back her child, my child or our grandbaby but I live in hope that it can give her peace with the fact that they were loved and there was no way this was out of malice.   

-   For all mothers that have lost children everywhere under any circumstances.  We share a common bond of love and loss that no other human can come close to understanding.

-   And to anyone that has ever experienced a loss that they cannot acknowledge.  There are so many layers to that loss that they will continue to peel through for years to come and the emotional damage that keeping this kind of secret causes is unfathomable.  It would be my hope that bringing this out of the darkness and into the light that I could acknowledge and accept this and in doing so that others can as well, hopefully setting us all free.

Home is where the heart is...or at least where it used to be.

We are coming up on Paxton’s fourth birthday and with Christmas but two weeks later I have decided to get an early start on the crying.  I’ve done a little better lately but am having a rough time getting through December.   I had hoped that after the first year of holidays that Christmas could return.  And maybe it will some time but clearly this is not the year.  This year, we are just going to let it slide again.  I don’t “think” I am being rebellious about it.  I hope I’m not.  But I am just not up to it.  Especially since the last Christmas we had together, was the one where Paxton cried out “Nana, I missed you!” when he saw me and brought both me and his Mama to a puddle of tears.  He had just turned two and I had hardly heard him say a single word you could understand and suddenly he throws out an entire sentence.  That is all I have been able to think about for a week.  So when and if Christmas comes back – it is going to have to look a whole lot different.

Thanksgiving however, was actually good --better than I could have hoped.  We had fourteen which is way above our normal Thanksgiving crowd.  I had a long-time friend and her daughter come that I had not seen in twelve years.  That was a pleasant surprise and she and I had a really nice catch up visit for the entire weekend.   

Brian’s only daughter and first grandchild came – a bitter sweet time for both of us.  This was the first time she had been back to our house since the Memorial Service the week after they all died.  It was difficult for her I know but I am hoping that now that that hurdle has been scaled, it will get easier for her and we will begin to see more of her and the baby.   All in all, it was an enjoyable family gathering.

Speaking of family gatherings, this house has always been the family gathering spot.  We have a lot of space and it has been great for entertaining.  Problem is that is what all of us see here now.  Every family thing we have ever had included Brian and for many years – just Brian.  We have had Sunday Dinners, cookouts and egg hunts, fishing and canoeing, swimming and hiking.  We have held every Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, Memorial Day,  July 4 and Labor Day celebration that was held --here. All of the grandchildren learned to swim here, caught their first fish here, climbed their first tree here.   This is where three little boys and me camped out in the back yard - for about two hours before they said, “Nana, camping was FUN!!  Now let’s go inside.” 

There are so many memories here both good and bad.  We’ve been snowed in together without power for a week here during the only blizzard I have ever experienced in over 60 years.  This is where Brian’s oldest son got snake bit on my birthday the year he was two.  The boys worked side by side with Donald and I as we built our very rustic barn from a hundred year old oak tree that fell on the property.  And the boys and Donald spent weeks building an apartment for my mother in the bonus room over a detached garage and that was where she moved into and spent the last four years of her life. 

We have taken 20 plus years of family milestone photographs here including prom pictures, graduation pictures, first car pictures, first fish pictures, wedding pictures and baby pictures. 

This has been the home that has always drawn a crowd and over the years we have hosted well over seven thousand people here for various functions.  Think about that just a minute....

For the last three years of my mother’s life I hosted a party for all of her retiree friends that she worked with for over thirty years.  I have had cookouts and picnics for forty plus friends and co-workers at the last three places I worked at.   We have held over 100 weddings here and at least half-dozen baptisms and of course every single family holiday was here.

For the past twenty three years this is where we have called home and it has truly been the first place that I ever really felt “at home” safe and like I belonged.  The roots we planted ran deep.  Since living here we have loved and then buried twenty years of family pets and here we have experienced every stage of our family’s life – watching as our family has grown exponentially from a family of five to a family of twenty one. 

But this is also where we were when the world came crashing down on us.  This is where I collapsed in a puddle in my bedroom floor surrounded by a steady flow of tears and prayers as together both immediate family and church family learned the details about the loss of my son, my daughter in law and the baby I adored.  

This is where I became intimately familiar with the fuzz in the dark corners of my closet floor as I reeled in shock and tried to absorb all that had happened.  This is where hundreds of friends and family flowed in and out for the following week bringing food, words of comfort, prayers, cards, and support however we needed it.  This is also where I was stared at everywhere we went for the months that followed.  This is where we felt deserted and disillusioned as most of the same friends that had been here that first week seemed to drop off the radar and have never set foot here again.  This is where total strangers and casual business acquaintance asked questions and pressed for details prying open the gaping gashes torn in my heart.  This is where the guy that was so enthusiastic about getting to cut our grass and do some landscaping for us asked around and found out we were “those people” and suddenly refused to show up or take my calls anymore.  This is where for fifteen months my granddaughter and my oldest son have refused to come back to because of the sad reminders that will always connect them to the worst day of their lives leaving me feeling lost and abandoned and not knowing what to do because though that is true for all of us --this was my home.

It once seemed like home to our entire family. 

It's sad that it doesn't feel like home here anymore.  

Today...

I keep trying to write but for some reason I am having a really hard time; me - the person that can sit down to write a thank you note and ramble on for ten pages.  I cannot think of anything useful or edifying to say.  I never had any plans when I started this blog for how it should go, what it was going to be about, where it was headed or when it would end.  I just needed an outlet so I jumped in and wrote whatever was on my heart that day.  I needed to be able to express the torrent of thoughts that bombarded me daily: the questions, the memories, the insecurities, the inconsistencies, the anger, sadness and confusion as well as the doubts, the lessons, the insights, the epiphanies and the other boggy, mud-covered steps I’ve taken through this process.  But eventually something would have to change.  Either there is growth and progress as I healed in which case it would eventually just ride off into the sunset or it would have to morph into something completely different but you cannot just keep going with a continuous rant about the same old stuff.  And I am certainly not healed and the journey has not ended. Not by any stretch of the imagination but instead it seems to be going in a circle and I really don’t know how much can you write about a journey where the scenery never changes?  

This has been on my heart for several weeks and I actually took the blog down from public view for a week or so.  I had a little feedback from people closest to me asking what happened or blaming themselves and so I put it back up but I suspected even as I did that – that it probably wasn’t for long.  I didn’t want to take it down again without at least letting everyone know what was going on.  I owe you that. 

It is beginning to sound like I am in a phone system loop.  Push one if you would like to hear about my unabated anger, Push two if you want to hear about my latest crying fit, push three if you would like to hear about about my faltering faith, push four if you’d like to repeat this menu…

Better instead of bitter - that's what I'm shooting for and in checking my inner feelings against those of others that have experienced profound loss I do see a few things that I feel that are different from a lot of them.  I am not now nor have I ever been angry at Brian.  I do not see other people that still have their sons or grandchildren and feel jealousy or anger at them and wonder “Why my son and not yours?” That has truly never crossed my mind.  I would not want any human being to suffer this loss. And I can look at it and say instead "Why not mine?" I'm nobody special.

I can see people enjoy their small children or grandchildren and it does not bother me or make me sad. What does bother me however is a child crying over something preventable; a parent that does not seem to appreciate the child they have or a parent doing exactly what I would have done prior to this – taking something away from their child because of rules or to make a point and making that child cry.  That will make me cry in a New York minute and I do have an almost uncontrollable urge to tell them to please just give the baby whatever it wants, just let it be happy and love it while you can.  You could be sitting where I’m sitting.

So here is a progress report – I am functioning. Better.  I laugh but I also still cry – randomly and without warning. I am able to shop and pass the toy department and baby department without the trip ending in a puddle of tears and me running out of the store.  They are still the first thing on my mind when I wake up and the last thing on my mind before I go to sleep when I can sleep but there are more times in between that I don’t dwell on them obsessively. Strangely enough, it is getting more difficult to look at their pictures and videos??? I don't get that.  I still have most of their stuff in my building.  "Most" being the key word here.  I still have Brian’s Pepsi in my fridge and Paxton’s booster seat is still attached to my dining room chair and I am still breaking my nails on child safety latches on my kitchen cabinets.

I am beginning to go out in social situations although still few and far between.  I still prefer to be with family or close friends on a one on one basis.  I still have problems with crowds or large social functions.  But I am pushing myself.  I have tickets to a Mercy Me concert next week with my daughter, one of my two best friends and her sister.  It will be a crowd.  It is a social situation and it is not one on one or just family so that’s a baby step. 

I am planning to have Thanksgiving Dinner this year on Thanksgiving Day and try slowly to stop “pretending” (sneaky denial.)  I am still not planning to celebrate Christmas – I’m just not ready for that and I don’t have a “new normal” version to work with yet.  But again, it’s a start. 

My faith – here, we are still on shaky ground.  I’ve done everything I know to do to hold it together. One corner falls down and I run get a book or two and put under it.  It holds it for a little while and then the other side begins to lean – I go grab some Christian music and a few podcasts from Charles Stanley and carefully prop it up on that side.  We’re good for a week or two and the other side starts crumbling again.  I borrow some faith from my sister to use to fill the cracks, nail another sermon from church to that side and grab a chapter or two from the bible and glue them along the sides.  And I’ve managed to hold it together long enough to go search for more material. It is not a plumb, square or sound structure. And it is just as shabby as it sounds and I hate that but I’m doing all I know to do.  Truthfully, some days I want to take a bulldozer and just mow down what’s left of it and push the whole mess off a cliff.  And actually that may be what it takes. Maybe I will have to let God rebuild it from the ground up because my shoddy patch job trying to put it back together with the scraps I’ve got is just not working all that well.

To me, that is still the scariest part; the saddest part and believe it or not, the worst part of all of this. 

And how much longer I will keep the blog going is still up in the air but for what it’s worth that is where we are today.

Shipwrecked

I’ve been thinking a lot about my biggest fear and greatest loss through this.  And with so very much loss it seems I have a lot to choose from.  And as hard as it is to believe, the clear winner is the loss of my faith as I knew it. 

Some days are better than others but I have to admit I still struggle and any one of you that choose to judge – I challenge you to walk a mile in my shoes – if you dare - before you say it could never happen to you.

I feel terrible for it – certainly.  And I worry that I won’t be forgiven for the doubts and anger that have plagued my days for nine months now.  The anger has let up some – thank goodness but now I live with the constant guilt left in its wake.  

What has taken the place of that anger is a cavern of emptiness.   I have days when I feel better about things and there are days when I look at the way I used to “know” God and realize that there is no way that could have ever worked.  But what is worrying me is that I seem to have had far more clarity on that months ago.  There are days when I see clearly that God had to destroy the self-centered, worldly image that I had of Him in order for me to know His real, true nature – but I also know that we’re only half-way there.  He destroyed the image that I had – that’s for sure.  But I haven’t found the replacement image as yet to know who He really is because He seems very far away right now.  And I’m a little afraid of rebuilding that “house of cards” as C.S. Lewis put it. Like if you tried handing me another baby and saying “Here fall in love with this child and let’s see how this one works out.” 

Not going to happen.

And I’m not sure I can build another belief system out of the shreds of faith I have left either.   I hope and pray that I can and that though I am not there yet – in time I will be –but at this point, I honestly do not know.

As I look back over the months and I reread here what I’ve written along this horrific journey, it appears that in many ways I seem to be going backwards.

 

I was in counseling.  I was reading a lot of grief books, self-help books and inspirational books.  I was watching videos.  I was going to Grief Share.  I had my sister to talk to a lot and had daily responsibilities that kept me out of the closet and after nine months you’d assume I’d be on my way up out of the depths of despair. 

When the numbness wore off and I was so devastated and so broken and so fragile I was running 90 MPH trying to “do” everything I could think of, to keep me from wanting to die every minute of every day.  

I lived with the daily fear that I would succumb and wreak more havoc on my already devastated family.  I wrote on the blog the first entry that I was not sure I could live through this but this was my attempt to at least postpone “not living through it” as long as possible.  Even I, thought if I could just postpone it for some reasonable amount of time that I would be kind of past the danger period.  Not over it -- I knew better than that -- but dealing with it enough that I was comfortable that I would not do anything stupid.

So I bombarded myself with every avenue that I thought may help.  Everything anyone suggested – I tried.   I devoured everything anyone sent me – books, articles, videos, inspirational quotes cards and letters.  I was doing what I do -- being obsessive about it and hitting it with everything I had in my arsenal. 

Still I went to bed at night hoping and praying that I would not wake up.  I didn’t want to be the actual cause myself of any more pain to my family but if it happened ---well I’d have been perfectly happy.   And when I woke up every morning I was pissed off.  But human nature is such that I still continued to fight.  If I wasn’t going to die then I was going to have to find whatever it took to give me the will to live. 

So I prepared for the battle.  I have never known this kind of profound grief and despair and I had to literally learn how to survive it.  So I found out what to do and what not to do in order to heal.  I learned grief was messy and had no defined timeline.  I learned that you lean into the grief and you do not hide it or run from it or attempt to cover it up if you want to heal and not get stuck.  I learned you should feel and express your emotions.  I learned the language and what to expect: “melt downs” and “ambushes” and “triggers”.  I learned we all grieve differently and on different timelines.  I learned it was work and that you needed to talk about your loss and acknowledge your loved ones. 

I attacked it like I would any other project.  It was here.  I couldn’t avoid it.  So I would research it, find out all I could about it and just deal with it head on.  I was fighting; fighting to survive it though I didn’t even want to – I was doing it for the rest of my family and my few closest friends.  As it turns out two thirds of the family and friends I was so concerned about “sparing” any additional pain, have chosen to walk away and cut all ties so there was very little need to worry.  I'm kind of thinking they would have been just fine.

My sister has gone to her own home now.  I am back at work fulltime.  I am out of the rental house and back home where all of their memories were (and still are) and where every weekend I had breakdown after breakdown as the triggers here slapped me in the face the minute I arrived and stayed long after I left.

I can no longer attend Grief Share since it is not close and my spare time is now spent in a nearly four hour daily commute. 

All the books began to run together and all the information I'd read was pretty well internalized so I felt I was ready to let go of all of the external efforts and obsessing and put what I learned to practice so I could finally begin to heal. 

I knew the Kubler-Ross  five stages of grief (denial, anger, bargaining, sadness & acceptance)  I was aware of the danger signs of depression and I was prepared so as not to fall off a cliff there.  I knew to steer clear of temporary “feel better” fixes like alcohol, drugs, shopping, over-eating or having an affair.  I knew not to make major changes in my life or make major decisions while still in this state. 

The plan was to fix it in whatever way was in my control – I guess I was going to “Type A” it into submission.  And apparently while I thought I was facing it head-on – it was just another way to throw the focus on my "obsession with dealing with it" and avoid the obvious.  And now here I am nine months down the road...wondering if I am any better or actually worse --again?

In looking back over the previous nine months of posts – which is also what I was supposed to do in order to “realize growth” – I'm not sure that is what I’m seeing...There are no longer sweet baby stories, or amusing anecdotes of our time together, no more inspirational epiphanies about life or love or God; no more accounts of miracles in the face of this tragedy. 

My mind keeps drifting to thoughts of a shipwreck.  Someone stranded in a lifeboat on the high seas.  The first few days they fight with blind determination to make it through.  That is of course when they still have plenty of food and water.  They pray.  They cling to hope.  They look diligently for the rescue boats to come.  But then as days stretch into weeks, the food runs out, the fresh water runs low and they see hope draining out of the bottom of the near-empty water source.  Then come the rains and hope is rekindled.  They have a measure of relief.  They praise God for the gift of the fresh Heaven sent water.  Suddenly the gentle welcome rain takes an evil turn as swirling, menacing darks clouds appear; lightening begins popping all around; thunder roars, gale-force winds whip and the waves become huge and raging.    The little boat is tossed and battered as is the struggling soul on board.  Finally, the storm subsides and hope springs forth - a little slower this time and not quite as high.  The sun comes out - a welcome sight then it begins to beat down relentlessly until the suffering soul on board starts to hallucinate; slipping in and out of consciousness. "Surviving" has lost its momentum.  Then one day without any foresight or fanfare - he just slips quietly under the water…

Just random thoughts

It has been one of the hardest weeks in many months.  Brian’s birthday apparently woke me from a numbness that I had not even realized I was in.  I have cried non-stop until I wonder how much more one can cry and keep producing tears. 

I am not a crier as a general rule.  But the tears I’ve cried since August 23, 2014 far outweigh all the tears I’d cried in the entire 60 years prior.  And I wonder if they will ever stop?

Funny how you will have weird premonitions about things and never understand them until you look back.  I started a Memoir about five years ago and titled it: “Bring on the Rain”. 

Well—it’s here.

And five years ago I thought I’d had a pretty rough life – Oh God, I didn’t know anything then.

But another weird premonition that I have just recently remembered haunts me now day and night.  It came with the announcement that Brian and Kara were engaged to be married.  I kept feeling very anxious and nervous and I told my friend Sara that I was and that I kept having the feeling like “if they get married, he will die.”

I had no idea how or why but those are the words that came to me regarding my anxiety about their marriage.  She kept asking “Why?  What are you thinking is going to happen?”  I had no clear answer except that I just had a bad feeling and felt like he would die.  I could not enjoy the wedding or feel happy for them and I was a nervous wreck for the entire first year.   Then I blew it off and finally got okay with it.  And then…he died.  She died.  They all died.

Things have been very hard lately and I feel like I am hanging off of a mile-high cliff and clinging to the edge by the tips of my fingers –like any little miscue and I’ll plunge to the bottom or I will just tire of hanging on and plunge to the bottom or something will come along and stomp my fingers and I will plunge to the bottom.

Though I’m not completely sure what the “bottom” actually is -- I’m absolutely positive that the threat is very real.  Is it physical death; spiritual death or just a complete break from reality?  I’m not sure but it is an overwhelming darkness that threatens to swallow me and I feel powerless to stop it.

I am not sleeping and I’m sure that is exacerbating any negative feelings I may have.  If I happen to go to sleep it is after midnight and I am waking at 3:00am –even with sleep aids.  That makes it very hard to function on my job or in my life.  What few minutes I slept last night I dreamed that I picked up my phone and had a text message from Brian.  It shocked me so until it woke me up and so I did not get to see what it said – nor did I go back to sleep.  I am running off of 90 minutes of sleep all night and I have a nine hour day at work and an hour commute and then GriefShare until 9:00 tonight.

I feel like I need to get away for a while and yet we had vacation scheduled for next week and I cancelled it.  I just could not go.  Not even my favorite spot – the beach - was a draw.  I was simply not up to planning anything or packing or driving 8-hours.  Nor did I really feel like anything would be enjoyable.  I can’t really see spending the money to sit in a condo somewhere and cry when I can do that at home for free.   

Strange happenings

There have been several strange things that have happened since the loss of the kids.  I’m not exactly sure what to make of them but I wanted to record them here and you can take them however you wish. 

The Clock:

About a month before they died the clock in Paxton’s room quit running.  Naturally I assumed it was a dead battery and made a note to get batteries for the clock. 

During this time, my sister moved in with us and my life became very hectic --I never bought the batteries. And the clock remained stopped.  No big deal.  I have no less than ten other clocks.  And Paxton could not tell time.

Sometime, in September “after” the loss of the kids I walked by his room and noticed movement out of the corner of my eye. I stopped looked in and the pendulum on the clock was swinging.  I assumed my husband had replaced the batteries until I looked at the clock closer and realized it was not actually running.  The time was stopped on 4:22.  I have already noted in a previous post that the morning of their death I awoke from a sound sleep at 4:00 am and burst into tears for no known reason.  I sat upright in bed – crying and praying for all of my children (and I always consider my grandchildren as my children too) and my sister, currently in the hospital and then lay back down and went right back to sleep. 

Later I asked if he had replaced the batteries or started the pendulum.  He said he had not.  That would mean that a completely stopped pendulum started itself on a clock that was not running and had a dead battery for several months prior...

I walked over and stopped the pendulum.  And again, I made a mental note to pick up the batteries for the clock.  I noticed the time was still at 4:22 and since I was still waking up every morning at 4:00 on the dot it kind of stuck in my mind – that too seemed slightly weird.  I left the room to finish what I was doing.  I decided someone that had slept in there during the time of the Memorial Service must have started the pendulum and I had just not noticed until now. However, twenty minutes later I headed down the hall a second time, glanced in the room and the pendulum was swinging again!  The clock had been stopped for over a month.  The batteries had not been replaced.  And now a second time the pendulum had started itself swinging.  That was September.  This is March.  It is still swinging.  The clock is still stopped on 4:22 and I have still not replaced the batteries.

The Phone Call:

I have for some reason been saying since the loss that I just wish I could hear Brian’s voice again.  I really don’t know why that?  Not see his face or talk to him but hear his voice and I bet I have said it twenty times.  I guess because I was the last one to talk to him and just keep regretting letting him off the phone so quickly. 

Ever notice how everyone has a certain way of beginning a conversation on the phone?  

Brian’s was always the same.   He generally called on Sunday afternoons to run by for a quick visit or because we had the baby and he was coming by to pick him up

Brian - “Hey, what are y’all doing?  How long you going to be home.  Thought we’d come by for a minute.”

Always the same. 

My mother – “What’s going on?”

My daughter – “Hey. What cha doing?”

My oldest son – “Hey.”

My oldest grandson  - “Hey Nana, what’s going on?

One Sunday afternoon at home I had cried literally all day long and all I could think of was how I would never be able to hear Brian’s voice again.  I just kept saying how I wish I could just hear him one more time.  About an hour before we were set to leave to come back to the rental house in the city my phone rang.  It came from a number that was familiar to me but I did not “know” it and nothing came up on the caller ID.  When I answered the very familiar voice says:

“Hey, what are y’all doing?  How long you going to be home.  Thought we’d come by for a minute.”

–Familiar number; Brian’s words --Brian's voice? 

I almost fainted.  I literally screamed into the phone like a crazy person – “WHO IS THIS!” 

“It’s me Nana --What’s wrong?” 

My oldest grandson.  I can’t tell him.  I can’t even talk.  My knees go weak and I burst into tears.  I need to sit down.  I had never noticed his voice and Brian’s ever sounding alike and never had he began a conversation with these words…

The Phone Assistant:

I finally broke down and got my new phone as my old one would no longer hold a charge.  I had gotten all the pictures off and they assured me that the texts would all be saved and come over on the new phone.  This phone has SIRI.  My old one did not.  I am not familiar with that feature and did not even know how to activate it – intentionally.  However, in trying to check email my finger lingered on the home key a little too long and up pops SIRI. 

“What can I help you with?”

So deciding to explore this feature I let it go on.  SIRI begins to type suggestions for me.

“Some things you can ask me:” pops up on the screen.

“Where can I get coffee near me?”

“When is my next meeting?”

“Are we there yet?”

“Call Brian?”

DO WHAT?!  Did this thing really say that?

I check again as pages of suggestions continue. 

Where is Brian?

And the clincher…”Text Brian that I am on my way…”

Really? 

SIRI - Could we just sit down and talk?  Finally someone has answers?  I have a multitude of questions concerning Brian that I’d like to ask.  Could we have coffee or lunch?  Could you just tell me please what on earth is going on and what really happened? 

One choice

Brian could never have imagined how many lives "this" has affected.  The trickle down fallout of this kind of tragic loss, and the mind-boggling mysteries and deep confusion, has hurt, disillusioned and literally destroyed so many.  Like ripples in a pond --they just keep radiating out touching more and more in all directions. 


No one thinks about how many people their one single life touches.  Or how one single act can keep on destroying lives for years to come.  The mental images that keep one up night after night; the depression that sucks all joy from another; the marriages that could not survive all the grief and sadness; the self-destructive behaviors of still another; the guilt; the anger; the blame; the falling away of the previously devout Christian; the faltering faith of others.  The ripple effect has touched so many, hurt so many, destroyed so many...


It is impossible to know how many.  Not one life or two lives or even the three lives affected that night...but hundreds of lives forever altered.


Could any of us imagine that one single decision we might make has the ability to alter hundreds of other people's lives?  Could we even guess that one simple choice, made in a weak moment could have such far-reaching, devastating effects on so many?  We would never be so bold or so arrogant as to believe we could affect another's eternal future and yet, that is what every single choice we ever make is capable of doing. 


Not just the choice to take a life but every single choice we make -- every word --every deed good or bad makes a difference in someone's life.  We either make the choice to help, to uplift, to edify, to improve, to comfort, to encourage or to love or we make the choice to hurt, to embarrass, to discourage, to disillusion or to depress someone. 


Very few, if any, choices we make have "no" effect on those whose lives we touch.  Even "paper or plastic" has far-reaching, long term effects on the planet which consequently hurts --everybody.


So before you light that cigarette; before you reach for that joint or that pill or that drug of choice, before you pick up that bottle, before you make that secret phone call, hit send on that text, before you post the next message on Facebook or cut someone off in traffic - think about what unalterable difference you may be making in someone else's life. 


Sometimes one simple decision, one seemingly innocent choice can: lead to a divorce that alters the rest of your child's life; lead to a drug overdose that you may not come back from; can cause someone else to feel so hopeless or despondent as to commit suicide; can cause a wreck that will kill someone's mother, husband or child; can ruin someone's reputation and leave them bitter and angry; can cause the loss of a job that supports a family; can cause someone to have their children permanently taken away; can cause someone to lose their faith. 


One choice.


One choice caused almost 3,000 people to lose their lives on September 11, 2001 leaving in the wake orphaned children, widowed wives and husbands, devastated families, neighbors, friends, co-workers and even strangers thousands of miles away were affected.


One choice cost up to 20 million Jews to live in the most horrific conditions and then lose their lives in the gas chambers during the holocaust.


And One choice caused the downfall of mankind to sin - causing suffering and sickness and death to come to the whole world until the end of time.


What will your next choice cause?

Strength...

I have had two friends in the past week make comments regarding my tremendous level of strength, as it relates to my loss.  I don’t see that I have any strength.  I don’t see that I have any choice.  Believe me if I did, you would not see strength.  If there was anything I could do any perceived strength anyone thought I had would quickly crumble as I begged and crawled to do what ever it took to get them back. 


Though I do not see it as the truth in this case, on some level it does not surprise me. I think in many ways it is the trait I most strive to portray. 

It appears in considering “strength” that I have a lot to say on the subject. Where did it come from? What does it mean?  Is it always necessarily a good thing? 

The strength I propose to portray is a direct result of my childhood.  Weakness in my daddy’s household was not tolerated.  My “strength” if you choose to call it that --was tried by fire almost every day.  Much like a predatory animal --he could literally smell fear.  So weakness in any form was a danger to my very life and the lives of my younger siblings.

We were raised in an abusive, alcoholic home.  My mother, when sober, was the picture of strength and determination.  My father admired that in her and demanded it of the rest of the world and most especially in me as the oldest. 

I was expected to stand up and take whatever he dished out without shedding a tear or showing even a hint of fear.  Any display of weakness brought his personal demons front and center.  He made a concerted effort to sharpen and hone what he called “toughness” in me much like a grinding wheel sharpens an axe.  He put me in terrifying and life-threatening situations to see how I would react without regard to the outcome should I not perform as he expected.  For instance, dropping me in a lake in water two feet over my head and calmly watching as I swallowed a gallon or two of lake water --was his version of "teaching me to swim" or putting me on a huge piece of “running” heavy equipment at ten years old and jumping off leaving me to figure out how to stop it before it plunged headlong off a steep hill mere yards away; or letting me at seven years old steer the family car with everyone's lives depending on my “ability” on the icy snow-covered mountain roads of Alaska.  Would that make you tough -- if you live through it – you bet it would. 

I endured not only physical abuse but mental and emotional abuse that for me was far worse.  I started out as a squeamish little girl with a tendency toward throwing up at the slightest provocation and I thought I was going to literally die when Daddy called me in from playing demanding that I sew up a large gash in his hand with my mother’s sewing kit.  Now he was tough.


Beloved pets were choked unconscious in front of me then tossed aside for dead.  And I watched my baby sister, crippled from polio, be beaten for crying because no one would help her out of her wheel chair and the one and only time I ever stood up to him was when he slapped my baby brother so hard in the face that his two tiny teeth went through his bottom lip. 


Many times I cringed in guilt unable to do one thing as my mother’s blood-curdling screams filled the house as she was locked in the bedroom and beaten bloody.  The one time I picked up the phone to call for help fearing he would actually kill her I was stopped dead in my tracks at the sound of the hammer being pulled back on the loaded .38 caliber pistol being held to my head. A family game of Rook took a weird turn one night when he calmly announced to everyone at the table that he was going to kill me.  Knowing him as I did, I wasted no time asking "why" I just grabbed my 8-month old daughter and took off running as shots rang out behind us.  Life was interesting around our house and I learned early on that “strength” or at least the appearance of strength was a very necessary survival skill.

Strangely enough people take that appearance of strength to mean that I do not suffer like everyone else; grieve like everyone else or feel pain like everyone else.  They assume that I am easily capable of handling anything life throws at me and therefore have no need of help, rest, or comforting. 

What it really means is that I am human just like everyone else but I struggle with my needs alone, bear my grief in silence and cry in a puddle in the bottom of my closet.  And as for handling what life throws at me – what choice do I have?  Against my better judgment – I just keep waking up.

What they might never guess is that the constant “portrayal” of strength is just like when I was a girl, only there to mask any appearance of my true weakness and vulnerability. 

That appearance of strength though makes it difficult for me to admit that I need help or accept the comfort I need.  I have been conditioned to stand tough and never admit that I can't do anything.

That alone makes it difficult I'm sure for others to give me the emotional support I need because on the surface I appear stronger than they do.  And I know this because even in my weakest, most vulnerable moments as I am facing the greatest series of losses one could ever imagine.  When I am barely able to even hold myself upright or put my shoes on the right feet --people still without blinking an eye –tend to lean on me?  At the lowest point in my life when I wonder how on earth I am going to live through this and then why I would even want to --a friend calls to complain to me about what a difficult time she is having with her emotionally troubled daughter.  Another couple confides to me all the trouble they are having with their adolescent son.  And still another calls seeking comfort because he is discouraged and burned out on his job.  All within weeks of the most horrific loss one can suffer; they are calling on me for comfort and support since I "seem to be doing so good”. 

So my strength is actually the cause of my feeling both overwhelmed and emotionally abandoned?

I am learning though through this great loss how to be human; how to be as strong as I am able at that moment which most days just means putting one foot in front of the other and doing what I absolutely have to do.  I am learning to admit my vulnerabilities and accept the help and comfort of others.  I am learning what it feels like to openly cry and even scream in front of others albeit right now just a certain few. 


I find it odd, how in letting my weakness show more than I have ever allowed myself to do, I feel I’m being stronger than I have ever been. 

What exactly --could be worse?

I had a very full day today.  I actually went in to work again and I definitely can see the benefits to getting your life back to some small semblance of normalcy.  Afterward I went to the hospital to see my sister.  She had a rough weekend with the dreaded "fever" 103!  She was better today thank God.  So I just visited a little while, picked up her dirty clothes and ran home to wash and dry them so that I could send them back clean with her husband when he got in.


I finally got a therapist to return my call.  She actually tried to talk me into going to someone else because she didn't have an opening until next Monday and she did not think I should put it off.  It has been six weeks and she is the first one that has returned my call - I'll take whatever she has open.  So I have an appointment next Monday afternoon.


The Sergeant at the Sheriff's office emailed me that the autopsy was back and that he wanted to see me so that he could discuss in further detail "all" of my concerns.  He said Tuesday was the only day that he had any time available so I had planned to go back and meet with him again tomorrow but he has never responded to my email asking what time.  So much for that... 


I'm quite sure it will be another wasted trip anyway where he assures me that he did everything he was supposed to and that we would never know the answers to all the whys but that it absolutely was a murder suicide and thank you for coming.  We are done here.


Wasted trip or not, I will go because I will do whatever I can do to get any closer to the truth. I remember after that first week when we were all going crazy trying to make sense of all this - my son in law asked me to please stop searching for answers.  He was afraid the answers that I might find may just make it worse.  How?  What could they possibly tell me that would be worse than this? 


What could be worse than them saying my son killed his beautiful 29 year old wife and their precious baby boy and then himself?  What could be worse than everyone in the free world thinking that my son is a murderer?  What could be worse than my knowing how very much he adored them and was absolutely not consciously capable of this and yet "this" is the official determination that we all have to live with?  What could be worse than not knowing what to say when someone says "Oh my God, what happened?"  Or in the case where they already know --"What was wrong? What was going on in his life?  He must have had a lot on his mind.  Had he lost his job?  Was his wife leaving him?  Was he depressed?"  And I always wonder if they actually believe any of these reasons would justify "this"? 


What could be worse than living in a small town and knowing everywhere I go people "know" and are pointing and staring at me until I am uncomfortable even going out in public in a town that I have lived in over 20 years?  What could be worse than having the people that have been my friends, my co-workers, my church family and my neighbors for many years - actually avoid me now because they do not know how to act, what to say or how to be with me anymore? 


What could be worse than having the coroner be so judgmental and have such a negative opinion about my son that she is rude and downright cruel when she talks to me about the death of my child because clearly she thinks that he "deserved" to die?  And I guess by virtue of our being blood relatives that we all deserved to have lost our family and do not deserve any compassion or respect. 


What could be worse than knowing that my son, up until that day, a loving and dedicated husband and father - was not even placed with his family in death but in separate states to be separated for all eternity from the wife and child he adored?  What could be worse than knowing we, as his family, were not to be a part of the Memorial Service for the daughter-in-law we all loved and the baby I had loved and nurtured since his birth?   


I would stake my life on the fact that my son did not consciously do this but I absolutely know that we, did not and yet we have all been punished as if we are all guilty of this horrific tragedy.  So, really, what could be worse than this?




  

Four weeks...

Four weeks.  It has been four weeks since the last time I would ever hear my son's voice.


The worst four weeks of my life.


August 22, 2014 - 8:35 PM I remember the exact time because it had already been a bad day.  I had been at the Bone Marrow clinic with my sister all day.  She was diagnosed with Leukemia a few weeks ago and is going through treatment.  They had been unable to get her platelets to come up.  She was in very real danger of a brain bleed or a stroke and at 6:00 PM they finally admitted her to the hospital. 


I stayed with her until she was settled in and her husband arrived and as I was pulling out of the parking lot I checked and saw a missed call from Brian.  I called home to let my husband know I was on my way.  I looked at the clock - 8:30 PM I told him I should be home by 9:00 "and if I am not there by 9:30 come looking for me!"  I hung up and returned Brian' s call.


He was in a pleasant mood and said he had called to see what time we would be home on Saturday, he planned on bringing "The Boy" as he called him, by to see me.  He said the only thing they had going on Saturday was a Birthday Party for the little girl next door.  He called to his wife "Hey, Kara what time is the party again? 3:00 - she says it's 3:00 so we should be done by 5:00 and we will see you shortly after that."  He then told me a cute story about how Alisa was refusing to attend her own birthday party at Build-A-Bear unless Paxton could come.  Then we hung up.  Oh God, we hung up.


Nothing was wrong.  They had plans.  They had plans for the future, plans for the next day.


They had a new home.  They had their miracle baby.  They had a new dining room set.


He had just finished building a wood shed which was stacked high with firewood he had cut and split all summer long.


How do you plan to go to a child's birthday party, call your mom to arrange a visit and set a time, bathe the baby, go to bed and get up around 4:00 AM (more on that later) and walk over and shoot your beautiful wife one week shy of her 30th birthday then proceed down the hall to the bedroom decorated in the CARS Movie theme and shoot the baby that you absolutely adore and then turn the gun on yourself?  How?


How do you get from Birthday Party to Murder-Suicide in a matter of hours?


I cannot get there in my head in the four weeks that it has dominated my every thought.  As hard as I've tried - it will not go there. 


I heard what the detective said: "Ma'am, I'm sorry but this is what happened.  I see no sign of a struggle; no sign of forced entry, nothing appears to be missing.  Murder-Suicide.  End of story."


End of lives. 


Many lives.  Like Dominoes.  We all fall down.


This is where my story begins.  Not a story about how to survive this horrific tragedy as I am not sure at this point that you can.  It is the story about the struggle to get up everyday and postpone "not surviving it" as long as possible.