I've heard it said that there is a reason for everything and I myself have often claimed that "everything is as it should be" as a sort of life-mantra to explain the rough spots in life; but this time, those cliches offer no comfort. How can this be a justifiable, "should-be," part of my life??
It will make me stronger, it's been said. Will it, really? And, aren't there better ways to gain emotional strength than losing a daughter to suicide?? What kind of sick logic is that?
Some have said that god will give you nothing that you can't handle. Really? And what about Christina? Wasn't she given more than she could handle??
While I believe that, in the end, I will survive, recover, heal from my grief and move on, I will also be forever changed. She has taken part of me with her. Is it a part of me that I can do without? What "part" of me has left with her? I'm not sure what that means, but know that some part of me feels...gone.
Then there is my irrational preoccupation with the paranormal as I desperately want to sense her presence. She can't be just...gone. I need some proof that she is still somewhere, still aware of us, still in existence, somewhere, somehow. I light candles, hoping to attract her spirit. I watch tv shows about ghosts and hauntings trying deperately to find some proof that what I want - a sign from her - is possible and not just wishful thinking.
I remember when my grandfather died and several weeks later, I "saw him" while at a restaurant. It was a very real, yet unreal experience. It's not that I rule out the paranormal. I've lived in two "haunted" houses and know that the unexplained happens. But while those two homes were apparently inhabited by something from the other side, it was more or less meaningless (and unnerving) because the ghosts were not mine but just some unknown remnant of the past. When I saw my grandfather at the restaurant, I got the impression he was saying, "I'm still around. Remember me like this. This is who I was." Will Christina do the same? Will she offer me some proof, some message, some tangible evidence that she is still "out there?"
I look at the collection of photos we have of her - lots of them - and she seems so strong, so self-confident, so beautiful; but then I get a flash of what she looked like when we found her, or how helpless and lifeless she appeared attached to all the life support equipment and I wonder: Why?? How could this be real? Why did this have to happen?? She had so much potential. So why didn't she see that?
I want to go to the cemetery; but then again, I know I am not ready. I can't. I simply cannot. I fear the emotions that still simmer just below the surface. Sure, I've cried. But I'm no where near being done with that. Not yet. Perhaps never will the tears be fully gone.
So why? Why?? How does tragedy fit in? Why do bad things have to happen? How do we rise above a tragic loss and accept it as something that "should be?" I feel confused, as if my acceptance of Life has been shattered. I feel somewhat bitter and jaded, as if I am building a wall or donning a coat of armor to protect myself from the harshness of Life. Help me Christina! What am I supposed to do from this point on? I want to honor you, to "be there" for your kids; yet I feel so empty now and so mortally wounded. How is what you did supposed to be something that will strengthen me when, right now, I feel weaker and more vulnerable than I've ever felt before. So, what? Where is the rhyme or reason? Where is the bigger picture that will explain it all? Why? How? And, where are you now??
Showing posts with label loss. Show all posts
Showing posts with label loss. Show all posts
Monday, June 13, 2011
Saturday, May 21, 2011
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.
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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