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.
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.
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