LOSING CHRISTINA

LOSING CHRISTINA

by Ruth Martinez on Sunday, May 22, 2011 at 12:13am

 

WARNING: FAMILY MEMBERS SHOULD PROBABLY NOT READ THIS BECAUSE IT CONTAINS SOME GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF "THAT MORNING."

Writing is the only way I know of that helps me process and release my emotions when they overwhelm me, and so I must write about losing Christina.


In some ways, I lost Christina long ago. She died just the other day at the young age of twenty-three, but her struggle with Life and her recurring bouts of sadness and despair began when she was an adolescent, entering her teen years. At first, it seemed like normal teenage angst. It will pass, I assured myself. Besides, our household and family life at the time was stressed and perhaps even dysfunctional. So I let it slide, often frustrated by her impulsivity and extreme emotions.


She said she felt unloved and felt that I treated her siblings better than I treated her. I remember one therapy session she had in particular. Her therapist called me into their session and asked me if I felt I treated all my children the same. I answered, "No. I do not treat them all the same. In fact, I cannot treat them all the same because they are all different and unique individuals of different ages; therefore, while I do not treat them the same, I believe I treat them equally and appropriately, based on who they are, taking their ages, levels of maturity, individual needs, and personalities into consideration." "Wow," she said, "Good answer."


It is no secret that Christina put those who loved her most through hell at times. She could be verbally vicious and emotionally volatile. Instead of accepting hugs, advice, and words of encouragement when she was distraught, she would lash out, push us away, or say such hateful, hurtful things that we would retreat and give up.


When Christina WAS in a good mood, I would often jump on the opportunity to encourage her to find a passion to attach herself to - a goal, a focus, a purpose. But there was always a sense of walking on eggshells because she could quickly and without warning interpret my advice or encouragement as "telling her what to do." She was extremely pessimistic, so the smallest bump in the road would be proof that the world was against her.


I hoped that when she became a mother she would be infused with the joy of being loved unconditionally by her son...and then by her daughter. While it is true that she loved her children deeply, they often saw her at her worst. She admitted to me on several occassions that she KNEW her moods were extreme, but that as much as she wanted to, and as much as she tried, she could not control her thought, emotions, or extreme behavior - they controlled her. And she hated that part of herself.  I encouraged her to lean upon the extended family in the household when she felt like that, but instead, she resented our "interference" with her parenting.


The morning she took her life was like no other morning and yet like any other morning. I could see she was in one of her "moods." But I also knew she had gotten into a huge argument with her sister the day before. She loved her sister. They had become very close over the past few years. So I was not surprised that she was both sad and angry. I was not surprised when she said, "I don't even want to be alive anymore," that morning...the last words she said to me. I had heard those sentiments from Christina countless times before.


Retreating to my room with her 3 year old daughter in my arms  after trying unsuccessfully to comfort her, I decided that I would call the Emergency Mental Health hotline to find out how to get an adult child admitted. Intuitively, I felt that perhaps this time, it was different. I worried that perhaps this time, she really would attempt to take her life. But then another voice in my head told me not to be so dramatic. She's done this before, I reminded myself. And the voice continued, "Just because you want to be a licensed counselor doesn't make you an expert Ruth. This is Christina we're talking about. She'll be fine."


Still, I decided that I would make that call as soon as Brian returned for work. I didn't want to make the call with Christina's daughter in the room with me. I didn't want Christina to hear me making the call. Brian would likely be home soon, I told myself, and then I'll call.


Brian DID return home that morning. Ada, Christina's daughter, greeted him. He held her. They chatted casually for a few minutes. I left my room to pour another cup of coffee. I guess I'll be making that call, I thought to myself. I returned to my room.


And that's when I heard Brian's yell: NOOOOO! Ada, RUN! Go!! Get out of here!!! COME HERE! COME HERE! HELP ME!!


I came running down the hall to the other end of the house to their room. Part of me already knew. And then I saw her, lifelessly hanging from the beam in their room, and Brian trying to lift her up to put slack in the rope.


Christina's brother, hearing the commotion came running. "Call 911" I yelled as I struggled to lift my daughter so Brian could release her from the noose. And it seemed it was a perfect noose. "How did she know how to do this?" I wondered. She was still warm, but lifeless. We couldn't release the tight grip of the rope. "Help us!" I yelled to Stone. The three of us struggled until finally the rope released her and she fell into my arms. I laid her on the couch behind us. She was so limp. Her lips and eyelids were cyanotic with visible petechiae in the whites of her eyes. The ligature mark around the front of her neck was incredibly deep and already purple. Her tongue was bluish, swollen, and protruding.


I went to administer CPR, but Brian said he couldn't feel a pulse. I searched desperately for a pulse, did not detect any breath or heartbeat, and then it hit me: It's too late. She's dead...


I held her, hugged her, and cried. "Baby girl! Why??? Why did you DO this??"


Paramedics arrive and tell us to leave the room. "No," I tell them. That is my daughter. I will stay out of your way, but I will not leave.


Police arrived. I was informed our home was now a potential crime scene. I was ordered to leave the room. Again, I resisted. "They found a very weak pulse," the officer said. "Let the paramedics work on her."


A weak pulse?? I should have done CPR!! I should have given mouth-to-mouth resusitation!! Why did I give up so easily?!


They took her to the ER. It doesn't look good, the ER physician told me. We think she's brain-dead, they said. She was on life support.


The CT scan looked promising: No spinal fractures. Carotid arteries, in good shape. Still, unconscious, not breathing on her own. Don't get your hopes up.


She was moved to ICU. Still on life support. Family members began flocking to her bedside. When a family member would talk to her, Christina would shed a tear or two. Just a biological response. One of the staff members said she could hear us and we should talk to her; another said she was brain-dead and heard nothing.


A long day of holding her hand, calling her name, crying, begging her to wake up. Giving up hope, and yet hoping for miracles. Waiting for her father to arrive from Louisiana. Hoping he'd make it in time.
Twelve hours after taking her down from that beam the nurse came into the lounge where I thought I might try to sleep for an hour when her dad would likely arrive from O'Hare. "Ms. Stone, we need you to come to your daughter's room. There has been a change in her condition."
I practically ran to her room. "A nurse will be here in a moment to explain what has happened," her brother and I were told; but it was clear to me: She had flatlined.


I lost Christina - again - but this time, for good.


About an hour later, she was removed from the life support, cleaned up a bit, and I went to her bedside once more. Her color was now completely gone. She was quickly losing body heat. And I held her in my arms one last time and cried.

STRIVING TO BEAT THE ODDS

Molested at age eleven. Pregnant at fifteen. The odds were clearly against me.

No one said it directly to my face, but I knew. I overheard. And I internalized the grim predictions for my future: increased risk of suicide, likely to drop out of high school, potential runaway, prostitution and drug use, problem child, not likely to succeed, promiscuity.

At first, after being molested, I gave up and gave in. If that was what my life would now become, then bring it on. Why fight the statistical odds? Why make any effort to rise above or to accomplish anything of value? The odds were against me: Girls who are molested simply do not excel. I was damaged goods.

Then, as statistically predicted, I was pregnant at age fifteen. But, becoming a mother motivated me; I suddenly felt compelled to prove them all wrong. I could and would achieve great things.

I put my energies into being a good mom - proving I was not too young. I could do it. I could wake up in the middle of the night to change a diaper. I could find a man to love me. Get married. Clean a house. And I took the first offer that came along in my then-unconscious drive to beat the odds.

But, in my youth and inexperience, without any clue as to who I really was, I jumped into one bad relationship - and then another. By then, babies were coming ever other year or so. Still, I struggled to "do the right thing" in an effort to prove my worth. I joined the church. Now for sure I was doing things correctly.

Wrong.

More mistakes. More proof that the statistics were correct. More proof that I was destined to make one mistake after another. The ditch that was my life erroded into a pit so deep that it was swallowing me whole.

Still, I fought it, driven to prove that those dire predictions of eternal failure would not apply to me. So I began to claw my way up and out. Self-reflection, return to school, admit the church was wrong and walk away, admit my marriage was killing me and learned to stand up for myself. In essense, I began to focus on pursuing a dream. I would become something more than just a mom. I would get a degree. Become a teacher.

Wrong.

More mistakes. Allowed that bad marriage to slow me down and distract me from my goal. Put others ahead of me. Took too much time off from school: to resolve marital conflict, to focus on the kids, to help a sick husband. And the door to that dream closed.

No matter. I'm determined. Build a new dream. They're wrong, I tell you. Those statistics will not apply to me. I'll get a degree in psychology.

Got the Bachelor's degree. Not good enough. I'll get a master's degree and become a licensed counselor. A new dream! A goal! It's right there on the horizon! Oh and I'll be more than good at it. My professors tell me so! I'm a natural! It will be great!

Wrong!!

Funding not available. And I'm not getting any younger.

Throw in the towel. Give up. Give in. Admit failure. The odds were against me after all. I will remain working class. Blue collar...or worse. A ghetto grad. Just as predicted.

But hey, I like my redneck life...don't I??

TORN BETWEEN TWO LOVES

In a previous post in my Tarot blog, I addressed The Lovers card, my lesson card for the month of May that will help me with my year-long Tarot lesson related to the Wheel of Fortune card. I wrote: "the Wheel of Fortune may throw down sudden, unexpected twists of fate - for better or worse - it still remains up to me to determine how to respond to what Life offers." This facet of the Wheel and how the Lovers may relate is becoming all too clear.

Although it has not been officially confirmed yet, it appears that I may be without funding to pursue my Master's degree in counseling as planned. IF that is true, I will need to move on to Plan B - after grieving the loss of yet another dream.

And I DO have a Plan B, but at the moment, my heart is not wrapped around it.

I have often said that, had I known myself better when I was very young, I would have pursued a career as a funeral director, and my recent interest in the Green Funeral Movement is evidence of that innate interest. So, Plan B involves getting involved in the funeral industry. While I am qualified to work as a funeral attendant, I am thinking that I'd like to tweak that occupation to be more of a funeral planner. While I can envision myself working, in the traditional sense, as a funeral attendant, my vision takes that vocation and builds upon it.

The funeral industry is at a pivotal point. As the Baby Boomer generation approaches their demise, and as the desire and demand for more environmentally friendly funeral practices increases, our funeral rites will begin to evolve. Baby Boomers will want more personalized funerals; they generally do NOT want their grandmother's funeral. Rather than the typical, generic, formal, religious-based services, they are more likely to want a different ambience - one that reflects their lives, musically and aesthetically. I believe I can help orchestrate that. And for those who are more dedicated to not harming the Earth and wanting more Earth-friendly end-of-life care, I believe I can provide that too, with the help of qualified, professional morticians and funeral directors.

I DO have a vision, and while I believe I could certainly succeed in this role, currently, my heart is still fondly wrapped around the desire to be a licensed counselor. A fork in the road seems to be looming on my horizon. I may be torn between two loves and I may be called upon to make a choice.

MOTHER'S DAY: REFLECTIONS

 It's been no secret that as I've looked back over my life - especially now that all six of my children are grown, some with children of their own - that I feel a sense of regret that I had not done a better job as a mom. There are things I know now that I wish I had known back then.

I wish I had known that the most important skill a parent needs is patience. During infancy when the baby was waking every 2 hours round-the-clock, patience was needed, and I am pleased to say that I had it. Not that I wasn't exhausted; but nursing made it easy to snuggle up close to my baby and drift back to sleep as they nursed themselves into slumberous contentment. No, I'm talking about the patience that was required when I would hear, "Mom, I need to be wiped," for the millionth time - and always just as I sat down to eat or started a task. I'm talking about the patience that was required when the kids would say, "I spilled my milk," and the floor had just been washed. I'm thinking about my less-than-kind responses to the normal day-to-day occurrances that go along with having a house full of kids.

I wish I hadn't been in such a rush at the end of the day to get the kids in bed, but had instead read a few bedtime stories, cuddled a little bit longer, or simply looked into their eyes when saying goodnight.
I wish I had realized that a crabby child is often one who needs to be hugged - or put in water!! An unexpected tubby-time can eliminate the grumpies almost all of the time so much more effectively than a swat on the behind.

Speaking of swats: I regret ever hitting my children.

I wish I had realized who each of my children really were - and who they were destined to become, instead of just thinking of them collectively as "the kids."

I wish I had realized that one of my primary duties as a parent was to guide my children and that being a disciplinarian was way down on the list.

If only I had known that being a parent required that I relinquish a huge portion of myself for the sake of them, meaning, I wish I had spent less time talking on the phone, watching TV, or doing other self-indulging things, shushing them all the while. I'm am haunted by the echoes of my voice, "Shhh...go play. Be quiet. Go in your room." Instead, I wish I had hung up the phone, turned off the tv and said, "Come sit with me. Whatcha thinkin' about?"

So, on this Mother's Day Weekend, I want to tell my children, now adults, that I love them and that if I could do it all over again, knowing what I know now, things would be different. I would have been nicer, more patient, more loving. And I would have demanded the very best for them, insisting on a better neighborhood, a better school district, and better healthcare than we had. I would have simply been there, by their side, as a guide to the world, and I would have known then that my primary job as their mother was to help them become who they already were and who they were destined to be and I would have NEVER allowed my personal life to interfere with my relationship with them.

In the end, I wonder if my children had more patience with me than I had with them.


ADDENDUM: Upon further reflection, there is one other vital role that a mother must play. She must be her child's advocate. Each one of my children needed me to advocate for them and I failed. I needed to be their voice and to act on their behalf, even when it meant standing up to authority. A child's voice is so often hushed, or worse: not believed or validated. I wish now that I had stood up for my children when they had been assaulted (as a few of them had been). I wish I had been their representative when they needed more: more food, more medical intervention, more educational services, more love and acceptance. I wish I had reported the pastor's wife who had physically beat my son and ridiculed him in front of his peers when he was still just a preschooler. I wish I had insisted on proper medical care when I had a suicidal adolescent. I wish I had taken the steps necessary to ensure my children had a quality school to attend. And I wish that I had advocated on behalf of two of my daughters when they had been sexually abused. Instead, I was too broken, too scared, too weak, or too immature to be the caring, loving, assertive and even aggressive advocating adult they needed, and for these errors on my part, I will always feel deep regret, sadness, and shame.

Yes, there were times when I was a good mom; but sometimes my past errors cast deep shadows over the accomplishments.

RAMBLING RUMINATING DYSFUNCTIONAL THOUGHTS

I keep hearing this thought running through my head, and although I remind myself that I can't believe everything my brain tells me, still the thought reverberates, recyles, and repeats itself: "You're just never happy no matter what, are you?"

Probably not. Not with the choices I've made. Not with the life I have created. And no matter how diligently I have struggled to recreate, to re-align, and to restore what should have been, I am left with the consequences of the foundation upon which I am forced to build.

I've discovered that the older I get, the more like myself I become. Great. Self-realization. But what does that mean?? It means that, had I known myself better when I was still a teen and a young adult, I would have understood just how important solitude is for maintaining my sanity.

Of course, it could be argued that the life I so very much wanted when I was younger - domestic bliss, chronic motherhood, the white picket fence, and Betty Crocker status - is exactly what has triggered this insane, perpetual, driving need for being alone. Years of tending to the needs of so many others and being on round-the-clock call and standby has left me tapped and reveling in the luxury of basking in my quiet aloneness. But either way, here I am, still surrounded by multitudes of needs, demands, and the endless tasks associated with caring for others. Either way, quite frankly, I am overwhelmed and feel the urge to run.

Another rambling thought that keeps regurgitating into the forefront of my consciousness: "We all know you are delusional." A direct quote from my youngest daughter. On the surface, very untrue. Yet, the words linger, tormenting me, poking at me, as if to say..."Well, might there be some truth to that??" As I plan to work on my Master's degree in Counseling, I have questioned myself. My brain argues, "Who are you kidding? Just give up these goals; you know you're way too old to be doing this! You've missed the boat and you'll never catch up! Admit it!"

And then I see myself working the check-out at Sterk's or Aldi's.

Still, I scold myself - my random, intrusive thoughts - for being so mean, so critical, so negative. I remind myself that I can do it. Remember, I tell myself, the mantra of your younger mommy years; "You can have it all, just not all at once!"

"Live authentically," I urge myself, "even when that means putting the coffee on at two in the morning and writing compulsively in an effort to purge these thoughts and desperately seeking catharsis." I hear my mother's voice responding to my pre-schoolish "I can't do it!" with "You can do it if you try," but no re-assuring hugs come with it.  

"Consequences..." my brain retorts. "You can't change the life you forged. These are the consequences of the choices - and mistakes - you made!" How can I argue that??

So, for the next few hours I will be inclined to feel at home in the still of the night, and although I am visibly alone, my rambling, ruminating, dysfuctional thoughts will likely continue to invade my space and play tricks with my logic, applying Socratic Method with skill as it attempts to manipulate my self-confidence, errode my general happiness, and tempt me toward defeat. And mom's voice retorts, "Don't believe everything your brain tells you!"