6 posts tagged “mom”
It isn't often that I write about the loss of my mother anymore. In the years after her death, writing was my part of my therapy. If not writing about her is any measure of having come to terms with her untimely passing, then I guess I'm doing okay. But, truthfully, I have my moments. They are not as frequent as they were in those early years after her death, but they still hit me every now and again, especially on those lonely drives home from work late at night.
My mother's death has been weighing heavily on my mind recently. My dear friend Jen lost her mom suddenly last week due to a massive heart attack, and it's strange how another's pain can bring back memories of your own. I've always said I don't know what would be worse: losing a loved one suddenly, without warning, or watching them die, slowly and tortuously. Both seem to suck equally. I guess the latter would give you some opportunity to say what needs to be said, but the pain of watching someone you love hurt, day after day, must be pure agony. Also agonizing is the shock and pain of losing someone suddenly. This I know, and it hurts to know someone I care about is going through that same pain right now with the loss of her mother.
My mother's loss has been the singlemost defining trauma of my life thus far. For those who may not be aware, my mother was murdered in a convenience store robbery in February 1994. Google "Mary Bratcher, Columbia, Missouri" or "Ernest Lee Johnson Missouri Death Row" and you'll find all you ever wanted to know about the case. Unfortunately, I don't care to rehash it here in this post. I've spent the last fourteen years trying to recover from it. Except I will add that you may come across a certain detail that my mother tried to flush the safe key down the toilet. Funny how this detail wasn't brought up by the defendant until the THIRD trial. It's a fucking lie. My mother was robbed the year before and would NEVER do anything so stupid to jeopardize her own life or the life of the two employees who died with her that night. She would have no reason to protect the measly $2,000 in the safe that the store took in that day. And, let's not forget that store she worked for, Casey's General Stores of Ankeny, Iowa, and how every store in their chain now has time lock safes, panic buttons and security cameras, none of which existed prior to this horrible tragedy. I suppose I should just shut up and be grateful that they offered to pay for her funeral.
As a result of her death, I am a motherless daughter. That label, above any other I might have ascertained from this horrific tragedy (e.g., crime victim, family member of a murder victim, etc.) is the one that has been most difficult to live with, and still is. The brutality of her death has been difficult, but more what has been more painful is the loss. Her absence from my life is what hurts the most. There has been so much that I have not been able to share with her, so much that I've wanted to say to her but couldn't, at least not in person. So many times I wanted her here, wanted the security and comfort of her presence, but felt the crushing grief when I would realize, yet again, that it was impossible for that to happen. You can' t help but feel abandoned, even as an adult. I know she left this earth through no fault of her own, and when I reconcile those facts in my mind, it leaves me feeling angry, bitter and alone.
Time, along with the love and support of my husband, family and my friends, has helped me to sustain. There was a time in those first two or three years after her death when I was so deep in grief that I could not even think for myself. In all honesty, I call those years my dark years, because I truly have very little recollection of them, at least not of anything other than the pain I was going through. It truly is a miracle that my husband (then boyfriend) is even still in my life after all the hell I put him through in those years after her death. I'd cling to him, then push him away, then cling, then push him away. He'd take care of me, he'd take care of everything, even packing my lunch for work and picking out my clothes, because I was so messed up that even the simplest of tasks were just beyond my comprehension. And when I'd gain a moment of strength, I'd push him away and resent him because I felt I should be able to manage this on my own. He was so confused, so hurt, and so worried. I'm sure it was tough for him, and looking back, I wouldn't have blamed him one bit if he would have given up on me and broke things off. But he didn't, and I love him all the more for sticking with me and seeing me through.
The other night I happened to get off of work early and spent some time laying with Katie in our bed and watching Ella Enchanted. I'm still not sure what triggered this, but she started crying. When I asked what was wrong, she said she just loved me so much and was scared that something was going to happen to me and that I would die. It broke my heart. I did my best to assure her that I would always be there for her, but I felt like I was lying to her.
We cannot control when we get to leave this earth, and we certainly can't control the wake of grief we leave in our departure. Queen Elizabeth once said "grief is the price we pay for love." Truer words never have been spoken, I believe. It pained me to know that I absolutely cannot control the pain my daughter would feel as a result of my departure from this earth. Surely, we have all the financial aspects of the what ifs in place, but it would be completely out of my control to mend my baby girl's broken heart should I pass unexpectedly. That tore me up. Having lived that pain, and knowing that it doesn't matter if your six years old or sixty, losing your mother hurts like hell.
I wish there was some sort of magic solution to grief, but there isn't. The passage of time helps, but you have to be kind to yourself in those early months, even years, after losing your mom. For me, being able to memorialize my mom through my art has helped. I created a few different scrapbook collages/montages in her honor. I wrote about her a lot. I did my time in therapy (after going through a couple of dud therapists before finding the right one). Whatever you have to do -- do it. Just don't hold it in.
That's my mom's senior portrait there in silhouette in the background. The foreground pic is of me, my brother and sister at my brother's wedding in 2004.
This is one I did with one of my favorite poems by e.e. cummings. It speaks to the relationship between mother and child. After all, we first learn how to love through our parents. (btw, I'm the fat bald baby in the middle pic)
My mother was murdered fourteen years ago today. February 13, 1994.
Technically, the attack that ended her life began between 11:00 p.m. and
12:00 a.m. on February 12th, but since she was not found until the wee hours
of the morning on the 13th, the 13th is her date of death. I often wonder
if I will ever be able to get through these dates, February 12 and 13th,
ever once without feeling that thick pang of sadness. It's been this way
for fourteen years now, so I seriously doubt it will ever happen. I don't
know if I'll ever be able to get through these days without being reminded
of all that has happened since that cold February night.
Last night at 11:25 p.m., I found myself transfixed, staring at the clock.
I stared at it until the numbers burned themselves into my retinas. I
wonder--did she die then? Is that when her killer entered the store and
began his vicious attack?
We had this nasty ice storm last night and although I tried to make my way
into work, when I slid through the first intersection and nearly rear-ended
another vehicle, I decided to turn around and head home. Ironically,
fourteen years ago our area had a really bad ice storm, so bad that my
sister and brother-in-law slipped and slid their way to my house to come and
get me after we got the awful news.
I've come to recognize over the years the myriad triggers that remind me of
the greatest trauma I've known in my life thus far. For a long time in the
years after her murder, I had a really hard time going into convenience
stores. My mother was the manager of a convenience store in Columbia,
Missouri, and she and two of her employees were brutally beaten to death
with a claw hammer by a crack addict. And then there are other triggers --
like ice storms, cold February nights, the St. Louis airport. Then there
are the weird things like time lock safes, panic buttons and security
cameras. Why these things? Because had the owners of the store she managed
installed any one or all of these devices, my mom might still be alive. She
just might. Surely they agree now--everyone of their stores has all three
of these devices installed on the premises. Of course, isn't that how it
always goes -- tragedy begets necessity.
I apologize if I sound rambly and crazy...that's kind of how I feel these
last couple of days...rambly and crazy. I've been walking around today in a
deep funk, wanting to just curl up on the couch under a thick blanket, and
just sleep. It's been cold and rainy here all day, so it would've been a
perfect day for it. In the days before my kids were born, I probably would
have done just that, but today, no can do. I had to get up and go, even if
I felt like I was pushing myself a bit to make it through. Katie had her
Valentine's party at school, so being head room mother, there was cupcakes
to be iced and and cheese and crackers to prepare and all that stuff. Kids
are good for times like this, that's for sure. I'm thankful to have them
here to push me through on days like this. If not for them, and my husband,
the pain might've eaten me alive over the years.
Which is why I don't want you to feel sorry for me after reading this.
Writing this is my emotional vomiting. You get it out and it feels better.
I am the person I am because of this tragedy. As much as it hurts to not
have her in my life, what's so awesome is that everything I am I owe to
her. The best thing about losing my mother is that it taught me the
importance of your influence on your child. The worst thing about losing my
mother is the loss of that influence on a daily basis. I'd give anything to
see her again, but I take comfort in knowing that she's up in heaven,
smiling down, and even chuckling at me in satisfaction when one of my kids
does the types of things I used to do as kid that would drive my mother
batty. Still, it would be pretty awesome to be able to witness her enjoying
her grandchildren. I know my kids would have been nuts about her. She just
had that way with kids, and I feel a loss for them at times knowing that
they won't get to experience her themselves.
Since the last installment, it was revealed by our pediatrician on Thursday
that J-man's mysterious fever was actually pneumonia. Yes. PNEUMONIA.
When the doc listened to his lungs and said "I think he's got something
going on down here in this lower left lung" you could have knocked me over
with a feather. His only symptoms were a stuffy nose and this low grade,
on/off fever. No coughing, no wheezing, nothing. He's on a heavy dose of
Augmentin. I highly recommend if your child ever has to be prescribed the
thick, nasty concoction, have your pharmacist flavor it. Prevents having to
wipe up gagged medicine after each dose.
Saturday evening, the hubster and I ventured into the city to meet up with
my two girlie friends, Kristi and Krissy (of my Vox 'hood, Yo) and Krissy's
sweet, adorable, handsome fiance (Hi Andrew!) to celebrate Kristi's last
day of class at our alma mater. We met up at Maggiano's, and had a blast.
The food was amazing, the conversation was, in a word, diverse and, at
times, gut-splitting hysterical. I was so touched and surprised when I was
presented with a gift card from my girlies for my birthday to Calumet
Photo. It was such a surprise and just so special, because I had not really
mentioned my visit to Calumet other than here on my blog, and they read it
and remembered. I just love them both to pieces, and while I'm glad to be
done with school, I miss our Saturday lunches at Yonny's and all the fun we
used to have cracking each other up.
Sunday we took the kids to pick apples at a local farm. I have pics which). Pics at the end. I think
I'll post later (I'm bloggin mobile, so I can't put pics in
Jonathan got the biggest kick of actually being able to pick apples off a
tree. Part of me thinks his little brain was surprised to learn that they
aren't born in cute cellophane bags at our local produce store. He really
got in to picking apples. And apples did we pick. We picked up some
Gala's, some Macs, a few Granny Smiths and a few Red Delicious for good
measure. We spent a good hour roaming the farm's vast orchard and were so
impressed with the sheer variety we had at our disposal. We even grabbed a
few pears (not sure of the species -- maybe Bosc?) just cuz they were there
and available. At 70 cents a pound, you couldn't beat the value. And Miss
Katie, my little diva, expressed her newfound affinity for a particular
species of apple, the Gala. The only problem is that it happens to be MY
favorite as well, but I'll eat others if there is no recourse otherwise.
She, on the other hand, she's thinking the ONLY apple she likes is a Gala.
But, she hasn't been able to discern which is which just yet. She picked a
Red Delicious out of the box yesterday morning and said "Mom is this one of
dem Gallery apples?" "Sure is!!!" Eh, what she don't know won't hurt her,
right?
As far as my Mom's case goes, I've come to terms with some things. And that
being it is out of my control. One of my sweet commenters posted a
suggestion that I let my mother's positive energy flow (in so many words,
can't directly quote at the moment). And I've been taking that suggestion
to heart, and it has been helping. My mother was such a wonderful,
positive, sweet person. My mother taught me many things in the 20 years I
had her with me on this earth. The most important thing she imparted was
the ability to love and be loved. She was an accepting person. She didn't
hold grudges. She was down to earth and could talk to anyone just about
anywhere. All of those wonderful qualities are the things that make me,
well, ME. They are my strengths, and I feel very very fortunate to have
learned those things from her in the short time she was on this earth.
I remember during the first trial, one of her regular customers who
frequented her store took the time to sit in during one of the many days of
testimony. During a recess, she approached myself and my sister and
introduced herself. She really needed no introduction, because she pointed
to me and said "And you're Carley" and then to my sister "And you're
Lorrie, with those pretty blue eyes. Your momma talked about you girls so
much I felt like know you like you was my own." She then went on to tell us
how much she missed her, how she would visit the store almost every day, and
how my mother had befriended her. And then she started crying. It then
became apparent that my mother, in her own special, small way, touched so
many lives. I still remember that moment, and I carry that with me as part
of her legacy. The legacy of her warmth, her acceptance of others, her
compassion, her kindness, her honesty, and her sincerity. Those are the
qualities that she imparted to me and my brother and sister, and I really
hold those dear to my heart and realize that I have a duty to keep her
memory alive by exercising those qualities as much as humanly possible.
The world really lost a special person that awful night in February 2004. I
know I've continued to feel her loss every day, and I'm reminded also every
day that I have a duty to uphold. My mother never owned a home, never had a
new car and never had much of anything. Her sole wealth in this world was
us three kids. And I will endeavor to protect and further her legacy as
long as I have breath in my body.
In other, less serious news, JT is on Oprah today. I can't wait to see his
hotness himself, even if I have to tolerate an hour of Oprah and her
condescending eye blinking.
Apple Picking:
Bless me Blogfather, for I have sinned. It has been almost an entire week since my last post.
Things have been hectic the last few days. Since the last installment, we've managed to get the children acclimated with their respective schools, attended two parties this weekend (one engagement, one birthday), dealt with our first back to school illness (Jonathan -- mysterious 48 hour fever) and I've managed to get myself officially addicted to Justin Timberlake. How's that for a hodgepodge of happenings at casa de la amazonmama?
And in the background of all of the above, the threatening resurfacing of 14 long years of pain relating to my mother's brutal murder. We recently learned that her killer has filed his post-conviction death penalty relief appeal, and oral argument was held on September 5th before the Missouri Supreme Court. It is not like I didn't know this was going to happen. The problem is I'm just so fucking tired of it all.
Worse yet, I had to go and be a masochist and locate the appellant's brief and the state's brief and relive the whole mess all over again. And with it, all the pain and anger I've managed to suppress over the last 14 years has reemerged. Mostly due to the ludicrous arguments raised by said appellant in his brief. Such as certain autopsy and crime scene photos, which were especially wanton, vile and heinous, should not have been shown to the jury because doing so would prejudice the defendant. And these photos in question are, indeed, gruesome. One in question depicted my mother with a four inch gaping wound in her skull, and others of brain matter and shards of skull and bone strewn about the restroom floor where she and two other employees were savagely beaten with a claw hammer, and many others.
Yes. These photos PREJUDICED the appellant. The appellant -- the same piece of shit, motherfucker, crackhead who performed the savage beatings on the precious, LOVED people who were depicted in those same photos. And why? So he could take the money he stole from the store to buy crack and get high.
And fourteen years later, we're still hearing about his rights and his problems. I'm fucking over it.
Obviously, emotions are particularly high right now, and I have not yet been able to channel them. But I've got some things going on that I'm working through, and it hasn't been easy. But I'll be alright.
Like everyone else, I have been held transfixed by the media coverage of the massacre at Virginia Tech this week. I have so many questions and so many thoughts and feelings. And, unfortunately, a painful reminder of my life.
Most who read this blog know my history. My mother was brutally murdered in February 1994. She was the manager of a convenience store in Columbia, Missouri. Late one Saturday night, she and two employees were closing the store for the evening when a man entered the store demanding money.
This man was a frequent customer of the store and was addicted to crack cocaine. Through the course of the day he visited the store six times and asked the day staff many questions -- like who was going to be in to work that night, what time they closed, etc.
He had planned and executed his crime in a most monstrous fashion. He ordered my mother to empty the register and the safe. He then forced my mother and a female employee into the store's restroom. The other male employee was in the walk-in cooler. He then brutally attacked my mother and the other employee, beating them with a claw hammer until their faces were unrecognizable. So much so the police initially suspected they had been shot at close range with a shotgun. The male employee was shot in the cheek and then also beaten. Why didn't he just shoot them, you ask? That was because the clip of the gun he was carrying didn't work properly, so the gun had to be manually reloaded for each round. I suspect he disabled the male employee and then killed my mother and the other female employee, then went back to finish off the male employee. No one really knows the exact sequence of events.
When I hear about people whose lives are affected by violent crime, it is difficult to not recall my own pain and anguish of losing my mother. I think of those poor victim's families, who are now left with such a horrible void in their lives. In the years ahead, they will struggle to somehow repair their lives, just like me and my family. I think of all the pain they have yet to endure. The tears they have left to be shed. The grief that will remain with them for the rest of their lives.
Closure is a made up word. There is no closure when someone is ripped from your life so suddenly and senselessly. Closure seems to imply that there is some point in time where you wake up and the pain is gone. The truth is it never, ever goes away. No matter how much time passes, it is always there. It will change you. Sometimes the changes are good and sometimes those changes are bad. It will redefine you and change how you function.
There were times in the last thirteen years when I thought the pain would eat me alive. And the pain I experienced was so much more than simple grief. It was deep sadness. It was anger. It was a longing for the security of having my mother in my life. It was confusion and frustration. It was impatience. It was deep hatred.
I'm certain those whose lives have been forever changed by the actions of this man will feel all of the above and more as they continue on with their lives. They will be plagued by questions for which there will be no answers. They will be tortued by mental images of what their loved one might have looked like when they were killed. There will be some who will need to immerse themselves in the details of the massacre, while others who will vainly try to insulate themselves from all the media coverage, in the hope that they can somehow mourn in peace. When I saw that NBC released the videos that Seung Cho sent to them, I was outraged for the families. All I could think about was how I couldn't even stand the sight of my mother's killer -- still can't -- and here everywhere they turn it is there, right up in their faces. It sickened me to think of some poor mother whose son was killed, having to sit through those videos -- videos that do nothing to answer ANY questions as to why he chose to do what he did. The network's decision to show those videos was completely and totally self-serving. We all knew this man was seriously mentally ill. Did we need to see video evidence of that fact NOW? How does showing these videos help the victims of this tragedy in any way?
I am not saying to NEVER show these videos. But some discretion and consideration would not be out of line. Obviously, in this day of in-your-face-down-your-throat media coverage, discretion is a mere afterthought. Worse yet, how many copycat psychos are out there waiting and lurking, their psychotic rage fueled and energized by what they are seeing. It scares me like nothing else.
I am so thankful this week is almost over. It has definitely been one for the books. You need only read the posts from the last week to see why.
To add to the frustration, our dryer is now broken. This is the used Neptune dryer we bought from a friend of ours. It truly is not a disaster, as we have our old dryer in our shed, so if we are unable to fix the Neptune (which I LOVE), we can schlep the old Kenmore back in and hook it up. Shawn is going to endeavor to get the part he thinks is broken and try to fix it himself. I have the utmost faith in his ability.
Today the kids are doing MUCH better. Although she probably could have went in, I kept Katie home from school. She also missed her dance class again. Jonathan slept very well last night and is back to his job of torturing his sister and being generally naughty. They were well enough to trek with me to the laundromat so I could dry the wet sheets that had been sitting in the washer overnight.
Let me preface this by saying a couple things: First, I am not a picky gal, but I am a sheet snob. I like them butter soft and 400 thread count or higher. I don't buy expensive make-up or hair products or get my nails done, but I do like to have nice sheets. Think I'm crazy? Find out yourself. Go buy yourself a good set of sheets from Overstock or eBay (400 or 600 thread count) and trust me, you will never-ever sleep on those percale bed-in-a-bag POS burlap sacks ever again.
Secondly, although my husband and I have no formal prenuptial agreement, I made him swear an oath that I would not ever have to go to the laundromat. Ever. I vehemently despise the laundromat and all things associated with it. The other part of that oath was that we would never live in a home that had wheels. So far, he's been true to his word on both conditions. Our home has a real foundation, and each time one of our laundry appliances broke, he either fixed or replaced them swiftly.
Faced with the possibility that my prized 600-thread count egyptian cotton sheets would develop mold growth if they were not dried in a reasonable amount of time, and having no where to hang them up, I voluntarily nullified the no laundromat pact and schlepped the sheets to get them dry, with kids in tow. In the rain. (Yeah, I love my sheets that much).
Here's why I hate the laundromat: I grew up in a laundromat. No, seriously, I did. From the time I was in elementary school almost through high school, my mother never owned a washer or a dryer. We would go every other week on Sunday to the laundromat to wash our clothes. If something needed to be washed in the interim, you handwashed it and hung it up, praying it would dry by morning. It. SUCKED. I hated, hated HATED going to the laundromat. My brother would often manage to escape the biweekly washfest by having the social life I lacked. So often it was me and mom, there at old Riley's laundromat in Moberly, Missouri. Ugh, that place gave me the creeps. I was always afraid that a rat or a mouse or some other critter was going to come running out.
Having not been in a laundromat in a long, long time, I had thought (or hoped) that perhaps that they would have cleaned up their image somewhat. They haven't. Turns out there must be some unwritten laws about laundromats somewhere that probably go something like this:
- change machines must NEVER work
- the walls must be either paneled in the ugliest color paneling available or painted the most drab, putrid color. And NEVER EVER wash the walls.
- All signage must be handwritten in magic marker by someone who didn't quite make it past 3rd grade language arts. Abuse of the possessive must ALWAYS occur, e.g., quarter's instead of quarters, jean's instead of jeans, you get the idea.
- Floors are only swept once every three years, such that the patrons have to perform amazing acrobatic feats to prevent their clean laundry from hitting said floor.
Surprisingly, this rant has a poignant ending, y'all. Contrary to what you might be thinking, I actually did enjoy being at the laundromat today. Walking in there, smelling that familiar smell of laundry detergent mixed with lint, the whir of the machines, the clicking of pant zippers inside the dryers. It brought me back, right back to those hours spent with my mom, doing laundry at the laundromat. Oh, the memories. We'd sit while the wash would spin and talk. She worked a lot of hours, so laundromat time was quality time.
My mom was very particular about her laundry, especially the folding. I sucked back then at folding, so I was always delegated the sheets and towels to fold, being that no one had to wear them to school or work the next day. She'd buy me a soda and a snack out of the vending machines, and we'd sit there at the orange formica folding tables, waiting for the loads to finish so we could put them in the dryer. She would smoke her cigarettes and either work on her schedules for work, or she'd have one of her puzzle books or she'd pay bills. And we'd talk. About everything. School, her job, the family. The future. Good, good stuff (minus getting admonished for folding the shirts the wrong way).
Being there today made my heart wince a little. Being there flooded me with the reminder of the mother that I lost. Yet, the memories remain. What I once hated has now become a piece of nostalgia, a touchstone, a reminder of my beloved mother. I felt close to her there, and that provided me such tremendous comfort. And that comfort was very welcome after this hellacious week.
