One year ago today, I went to your apartment, and you were dead.
You proposed to me April 4th, 1995, and we were married April 6th of 1996. For so long, April was my best month ever. It meant life, renewal, hope and love.
Until last April.
Last April, I made a mental note of what would have been our 16th wedding anniversary, if we hadn't gotten divorced. And then I moved on.
Regardless of what you always thought, I never believed divorce was in the cards for us. Until I found out just how bad your addictions were. And I had to choose between keeping my children safe and healthy, or staying with someone out of a sense of responsibility and past memories.
There was no question. My children will always come first.
Last April, I found out that your grandfather had died on April 10th. Your family never told you, so you didn't go to the funeral. Not realizing this, I texted my condolences to you, and that's how you found out that he had died. I can't imagine what a punch in the gut that must have been, on so many levels.
April 10th is the last time I ever saw you alive. You dropped the kids off at my house, after they'd spent the weekend at your place. Zach's birthday had been just 10 days before, and it was the first time he'd ever gotten to have you all to himself. He came home the next morning just glowing.
18 days after his birthday, you were dead.
I was so pissed at you when you dropped the kids off, that I wouldn't even let you in the house. I took their stuff from you at the door and shut it in your face.
Why? Because you refused to pay child support, and refused to get a job. And the plasma bank had refused me because I have epilepsy and I was feeling somewhat desperate. You knew this.
Just before I shut the door in your face, I saw that smile of yours. The smile that never reached your eyes. The one that said, "I know I screwed up. Can't we just forget about it and"....and what? Be friends? Not so much. Get along? Ok, we could do that. Just barely.
I knew you were drinking again. Because you never could get anything past me. And because you missed Julia's choral reading that week. For the second time. I texted you and told you I wasn't going to come over this time. I asked you to call your sponsor. For our children's sake, if nothing more.
I told you I wasn't going to let your addictions draw me into your sick matrix, because I had a feeling that whenever you felt lonely or unloved by your mother, you started drinking, knowing that my need to help and rescue would bring me to your door.
But not this time.
This time, I decided that I would not be the other half to this co-dependent back and forth. I was done.
Except.....
On April 15th, I happened to be in your apartment complex on work-related business. After the evaluation I'd done was completed, I couldn't help it. I walked over to your building. I opened the door, painted maroon many years ago. I trudged up the avocado green carpeted stairs, to your apartment.
C-4.
It was a Friday, around 4:30pm. I listened at the door for a few minutes, but all I heard was the noise of your fan. I struggled with myself more than anyone will ever know. Should I knock? If I do, I'm falling back into that old pattern. No. I need to walk away.
But that's easier said than done. I raised my hand, made a fist and got ready to knock. I hesitated, knowing in my gut that this scene would play out, again and again, as long as your liver held out. I thought about our kids, their hopes and prayers for a Sober Daddy repeatedly shattered by your addiction. But didn't I owe them another chance at a Sober Daddy?
Whir-whir-whir-whir replied the fan. I could tell you had it on oscillate.
I made my decision.
And I walked away.
That night, Julia texted you. You texted back:
"I love you sweetie. See you soon!"
That was the last any of us ever heard from you. She texted and called you repeatedly the entire weekend, but you didn't respond. This was not like you, and I started to get worried.
Sunday night, April 17, 2011. I told the kids I was going to the store to get some bread, but I went to your apartment instead.
You were dead.
The next three hours were a nightmare, a blur, something I would never wish on my worst enemy. The police showed up, then the coroner. Neighbors peeked their heads out, and then closed their doors again.
When they got ready to bring you out on the stretcher, I asked to see you one last time. Because I'd been angry at you the previous week, and I didn't want that to be the last time I ever saw you. Your eyes were closed, your mouth was rigid and you had thrown up. I stroked your hair for the last time, remembering how soft it had always been. I ran my fingers over your eyebrows, and the bridge of your nose, just like I'd done before bed for the past 18 years. And then I kissed you on your forehead.
The police gave Panther food and water, since she'd been out for who knows how long. Then they asked if I would take her. I told them, yes, she was the family cat. My kids will want her.
I drove home, crying, with Panther confused and wailing on my lap. I wondered where I would find the words to tell our children you were dead. Gone forever. Ben called when I was at the intersection of Main and University and told me he wasn't sure, but he'd heard you might be...He's dead, I told him. It's true. I just left his apartment. I have his cat. I heard Ben's sob catch in his throat as he said Oh God, no! Because he'd been your best friend since 6th grade. He was the Best Man at our wedding. And the sound of his half-prayer/half-pleading hit me in the gut all over again and I lost it. Right in front of Avanti's. Because I knew it was just a taste of things to come.
Telling the kids was horrible. Julia screamed and threw her shoes, and then ran out on the boulevard and threw herself down on the ground. Zach's sweet little face crumpled when he realized what I was saying.
And for just a second, I hated you. For doing this to our children, and to me. You and I both know how you died, and for that, I don't know that I can ever forgive you. And over the next year, I alternated between feeling sympathy for you, and hating you for what you'd selfishly done to our children.
The kids and I slept in the living room that entire next week, because we couldn't stand to be apart. Neighbors brought us food, which immediately went into the freezer, because none of us had any appetite. We took turns crying, sleeping, laughing hysterically and giving Panther lots of love.
The next few months were the worst any of us had ever experienced. Your children had their first Father's Day without you. Their first Thanksgiving without you. Christmas. Hanukkah. New Year's. The Super Bowl. We celebrated what would have been your 44th birthday. Without you.
But for me, my birthday was the worst. Because, you see, I turned 44. And you would forever be 43.
Each day gets a little bit better. We all have our days, especially Zach. Because he'd just gotten to have you to himself, when you took yourself away from him.
But he's a tough kiddo, and Julia is beyond tough. We're doing ok, and I refuse to allow your choices to rule our lives.
So this post is my acknowledgment of your pain, my recognition of your struggle, and my goodbye.
We will always love you, each in our own way, but I need to move on and find my own happiness.
Goodbye and God Bless.
This conversation just took place in my house. Seriously.
My 9 year old son was sitting on the toilet, when this conversation took place:
Z: "Mom? Did you know if you're a person who's blind, you can still eat?"
Me: "Really?"
Z: "Yes! If you're a person who is blind, you can still find your mouth, even if you can't see it. You can find your mouth so you can eat!"
Me: "Wow, that's awesome. Good to know."
Z: "I mean, like, you won't ever go hungry. You can find your mouth if you're blind, even if you try to miss it!"
Me: "click click, clickety-click....."
Z: "Stop it!!!! Don't you DARE put this on facebook!"
Me: "click.....clickety-click....ok...."
You're welcome.
Z: "Mom? Did you know if you're a person who's blind, you can still eat?"
Me: "Really?"
Z: "Yes! If you're a person who is blind, you can still find your mouth, even if you can't see it. You can find your mouth so you can eat!"
Me: "Wow, that's awesome. Good to know."
Z: "I mean, like, you won't ever go hungry. You can find your mouth if you're blind, even if you try to miss it!"
Me: "click click, clickety-click....."
Z: "Stop it!!!! Don't you DARE put this on facebook!"
Me: "click.....clickety-click....ok...."
You're welcome.
About the time I killed the Easter Bunny*
In honor of Easter, I'm reposting one of my most popular posts. Plus? I'm lazy.
_____________________________________________________
When I was little, my parents would ship me off to my grandparent's farm in Astoria for the week leading up to Easter, every year, without fail. It was cool because Mom would put me on the Greyhound bus and wave goodbye. I always used to fantasize that I'd end up in New York and possibly become a famous model or actress, known for my shiny hair and awesome dance moves. But no, I always ended up in Astoria, population 1,193.
I should let you know, many traumatic events occurred over the years during my Easter weeks on the farm. Like...LOTS. I got my first period, killed the Easter Bunny, and inadvertently cause the death of several baby chicks, to name a few.
I killed the Easter Bunny when I was 8 years old, which is a very impressionable age, my psychiatrist tells me. A time when great psychological good, or GREAT PSYCHOLOGICAL HARM can take place. It was a balmy April evening, as I recall. Two days before Easter, so I guess it would have been Good Friday.
My grandparents and I were finishing up our weenie roast, and I had just eaten the last of the toasted marshmallows (sugar was my crack). Euphoric from my sugar high, and momentarily distracted by a bird flying overhead, I wandered off and came upon a nest of two baby rabbits.
THEY WERE SOOOOO CUTE!!!! THEY WERE ALL BROWN AND FURRY AND, LIKE, SO SOFT AND THEIR EYES WEREN'T OPEN YET AND O.M.G!!!! I TOTALLY WANTED TO PICK ONE UP AND HUG IT AND SQUEEZE IT AND JUST LOVE IT FOREVER!!!!!
I quickly ran back and told my grandparents what I had discovered, and asked if I could have one of the bunnies. At that point my Grandma Josephine told me in her Very Serious Voice that I was not to touch the bunnies, EVER!!! Because if I did, their mother would know what I had done, and she would let them die. And then they would be dead. FOREVER. Because of me.
*GASP!* For realsies??
Me: "Can I just pet one?"
Grandma: "No!"
Me: "Please???"
Grandma: "NO!"
Me: "PUHLEEEAAAZZZZEEEE????"
Grandma: "I said no and I meant NO!! Now get up into the house right now, and I better not catch you messing with those rabbits!"
As I trudged reluctantly up to the farmhouse, Grandma called after me, "And remember! The Easter Bunny's WATCHING YOU!"
I seriously doubted that.
Later that night, while Grandpa and Grandma were watching Hee-Haw, I snuck out to the bunnies nest. There they were, all snuggled up, so cute and cuddly! One of them opened his eye and winked at me, as if to say "It's ok, you can pick us up. Your grandma doesn't know what she's talking about, and we're not talking. Promise!"
I looked around the woods. I saw no mama bunny, but she could be hiding behind a tree, waiting to attack me.
There was nothing to do but just pick one up. I grabbed the baby bunny closest to me and picked him up ever so gently. He was so cute and soft. I named him Henry. Henry and I cuddled for close to an hour, until Grandma called me back to the house. I put Henry back in his nest, swore him to secrecy and promised to come back the next day.
The next day was Saturday, and I could hardly wait to finish breakfast and go visit Henry. I ultimately planned on sneaking him back to Peoria in my suitcase, but he and I would discuss that later. I had to take his wishes into consideration, after all. And a trailer court might not be the best place to raise a rabbit. Some crazy drunken neighbor might kill him and eat him for dinner one night. I had much thinking to do.
I ran to the woods, and stopped short. My brain seemed to be short-circuiting. There was Henry's nest. But where was Henry's brother/sister? And where was his mother? And why was Henry laying there alone, ever so stiff and motionless? Almost as if he were...GASP!!!
I was dimly aware that Henry had passed on, but I had to make an attempt to save him. I had seen CPR performed on Emergency! and I had the basics down. But my love for Henry only went so far. I ended up waving the copy of Little Women I had brought along to read to him in his face, hoping that the air I circulated would somehow make its way to his lungs, thus reviving him. No good, Henry was a goner.
I then turned my mind to the next problem at hand.
My Grandma Josephine was going to beat my ass.
Of this I had no doubt. She had never spanked me in my whole life, but I'd never killed anything before either. I felt bad for Henry, but I felt worse for myself. Because of the ass-beating I was sure to get. It never occured to me to just walk away and play dumb, which would have been the best solution, looking back.
But instead I scooped up Henry and took him to the house. Grandma heard me wailing before I even got to the front yard, and she met me on the porch.
Grandma: "Well. What have we here, Child?"
Me (sobbing): It's one of th-th-the bunnies I saw last night!"
Grandma: "Uh-huh, I see that. And he's dead, isn't he?"
Me: "YES!!!!"
Grandma: "Did you go and pick that bunny up after I told you not to?"
Me: "BWAAAAAAA!!!!!"
But the worst was yet to come. My Grandma didn't spank me. She did worse. MUCH WORSE.
Grandma: "Well. You know what you've gone and done, don't you?"
Me (whimpering): "No."
Grandma: "Well, you've gone and killed the EASTER BUNNY!!!"
Me: "NOOOOO!!!!"
Grandma: "That's right. Now, tomorrow morning, every little boy and girl in the entire world will NOT get their Easter baskets, all because of you. Not even in France."
Me: *sobbing*
Grandma: "Now. You wait right here, and don't bring that thing in the house. I'll be right back."
Ignoring the fact that my grandma had just called Henry a "thing", I pondered my situation. I hadn't believed in the Easter bunny since last year, when I found my Easter basket while searching for the Girl Scout cookies in my mom's closet. I knew my mom had put this year's basket in my suitcase, I'd checked the second she'd left me alone with it. So did this mean I wouldn't get my basket? The one my very own Mother had sent with me? The one she wanted me to have? This was serious. But not as serious as what was to come. Because my grandma had a surprise in store for me.
Grandma came out of the house, carrying a big silver spoon and a brown shoe box.
Grandma: "Well, it's only fitting that since you killed the Easter Bunny, you should be the one to bury him. So you take this box, and this spoon, and you dig him a nice grave out back. And don't you come back until you're done."
At this, she turned her back on me and slammed the screen door after her. I was left alone. With Henry, a big spoon, and a shoe box. I sighed and made my way to the backyard.
And so I buried Henry underneath an old oak tree, told him I was very sorry I'd killed him and promised not to touch and/or kill any more animals. This promise was actually held until the very unfortunate "baby chick stampede of 1975".
Now, about my grandma. My grandma Josephine totally ROCKED. Now that I'm older and wiser, I realize she had a great respect for life in all it's forms (she just didn't want it in her dining room). She may have been a wee bit harsh, but it's a lesson I never forgot.
Don't F*ck With Mother Nature.
_____________________________________________________
When I was little, my parents would ship me off to my grandparent's farm in Astoria for the week leading up to Easter, every year, without fail. It was cool because Mom would put me on the Greyhound bus and wave goodbye. I always used to fantasize that I'd end up in New York and possibly become a famous model or actress, known for my shiny hair and awesome dance moves. But no, I always ended up in Astoria, population 1,193.
I should let you know, many traumatic events occurred over the years during my Easter weeks on the farm. Like...LOTS. I got my first period, killed the Easter Bunny, and inadvertently cause the death of several baby chicks, to name a few.
I killed the Easter Bunny when I was 8 years old, which is a very impressionable age, my psychiatrist tells me. A time when great psychological good, or GREAT PSYCHOLOGICAL HARM can take place. It was a balmy April evening, as I recall. Two days before Easter, so I guess it would have been Good Friday.
My grandparents and I were finishing up our weenie roast, and I had just eaten the last of the toasted marshmallows (sugar was my crack). Euphoric from my sugar high, and momentarily distracted by a bird flying overhead, I wandered off and came upon a nest of two baby rabbits.
THEY WERE SOOOOO CUTE!!!! THEY WERE ALL BROWN AND FURRY AND, LIKE, SO SOFT AND THEIR EYES WEREN'T OPEN YET AND O.M.G!!!! I TOTALLY WANTED TO PICK ONE UP AND HUG IT AND SQUEEZE IT AND JUST LOVE IT FOREVER!!!!!
I quickly ran back and told my grandparents what I had discovered, and asked if I could have one of the bunnies. At that point my Grandma Josephine told me in her Very Serious Voice that I was not to touch the bunnies, EVER!!! Because if I did, their mother would know what I had done, and she would let them die. And then they would be dead. FOREVER. Because of me.
*GASP!* For realsies??
Me: "Can I just pet one?"
Grandma: "No!"
Me: "Please???"
Grandma: "NO!"
Me: "PUHLEEEAAAZZZZEEEE????"
Grandma: "I said no and I meant NO!! Now get up into the house right now, and I better not catch you messing with those rabbits!"
As I trudged reluctantly up to the farmhouse, Grandma called after me, "And remember! The Easter Bunny's WATCHING YOU!"
I seriously doubted that.
Later that night, while Grandpa and Grandma were watching Hee-Haw, I snuck out to the bunnies nest. There they were, all snuggled up, so cute and cuddly! One of them opened his eye and winked at me, as if to say "It's ok, you can pick us up. Your grandma doesn't know what she's talking about, and we're not talking. Promise!"
I looked around the woods. I saw no mama bunny, but she could be hiding behind a tree, waiting to attack me.
 |
| Shut up. I had a very vivid imagination. |
There was nothing to do but just pick one up. I grabbed the baby bunny closest to me and picked him up ever so gently. He was so cute and soft. I named him Henry. Henry and I cuddled for close to an hour, until Grandma called me back to the house. I put Henry back in his nest, swore him to secrecy and promised to come back the next day.
The next day was Saturday, and I could hardly wait to finish breakfast and go visit Henry. I ultimately planned on sneaking him back to Peoria in my suitcase, but he and I would discuss that later. I had to take his wishes into consideration, after all. And a trailer court might not be the best place to raise a rabbit. Some crazy drunken neighbor might kill him and eat him for dinner one night. I had much thinking to do.
I ran to the woods, and stopped short. My brain seemed to be short-circuiting. There was Henry's nest. But where was Henry's brother/sister? And where was his mother? And why was Henry laying there alone, ever so stiff and motionless? Almost as if he were...GASP!!!
I was dimly aware that Henry had passed on, but I had to make an attempt to save him. I had seen CPR performed on Emergency! and I had the basics down. But my love for Henry only went so far. I ended up waving the copy of Little Women I had brought along to read to him in his face, hoping that the air I circulated would somehow make its way to his lungs, thus reviving him. No good, Henry was a goner.
I then turned my mind to the next problem at hand.
My Grandma Josephine was going to beat my ass.
Of this I had no doubt. She had never spanked me in my whole life, but I'd never killed anything before either. I felt bad for Henry, but I felt worse for myself. Because of the ass-beating I was sure to get. It never occured to me to just walk away and play dumb, which would have been the best solution, looking back.
But instead I scooped up Henry and took him to the house. Grandma heard me wailing before I even got to the front yard, and she met me on the porch.
Grandma: "Well. What have we here, Child?"
Me (sobbing): It's one of th-th-the bunnies I saw last night!"
Grandma: "Uh-huh, I see that. And he's dead, isn't he?"
Me: "YES!!!!"
Grandma: "Did you go and pick that bunny up after I told you not to?"
Me: "BWAAAAAAA!!!!!"
But the worst was yet to come. My Grandma didn't spank me. She did worse. MUCH WORSE.
Grandma: "Well. You know what you've gone and done, don't you?"
Me (whimpering): "No."
Grandma: "Well, you've gone and killed the EASTER BUNNY!!!"
Me: "NOOOOO!!!!"
Grandma: "That's right. Now, tomorrow morning, every little boy and girl in the entire world will NOT get their Easter baskets, all because of you. Not even in France."
Me: *sobbing*
Grandma: "Now. You wait right here, and don't bring that thing in the house. I'll be right back."
Ignoring the fact that my grandma had just called Henry a "thing", I pondered my situation. I hadn't believed in the Easter bunny since last year, when I found my Easter basket while searching for the Girl Scout cookies in my mom's closet. I knew my mom had put this year's basket in my suitcase, I'd checked the second she'd left me alone with it. So did this mean I wouldn't get my basket? The one my very own Mother had sent with me? The one she wanted me to have? This was serious. But not as serious as what was to come. Because my grandma had a surprise in store for me.
Grandma came out of the house, carrying a big silver spoon and a brown shoe box.
Grandma: "Well, it's only fitting that since you killed the Easter Bunny, you should be the one to bury him. So you take this box, and this spoon, and you dig him a nice grave out back. And don't you come back until you're done."
At this, she turned her back on me and slammed the screen door after her. I was left alone. With Henry, a big spoon, and a shoe box. I sighed and made my way to the backyard.
And so I buried Henry underneath an old oak tree, told him I was very sorry I'd killed him and promised not to touch and/or kill any more animals. This promise was actually held until the very unfortunate "baby chick stampede of 1975".
Now, about my grandma. My grandma Josephine totally ROCKED. Now that I'm older and wiser, I realize she had a great respect for life in all it's forms (she just didn't want it in her dining room). She may have been a wee bit harsh, but it's a lesson I never forgot.
Don't F*ck With Mother Nature.
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