I have been trying for more than eleven years to make sense of the premature birth and subsequent death of my son, Alexander. (I've already posted part of his story under 'I'm Bipolar and So Is He'.)
I truly believe that things happen for a reason but I still struggle to see how losing a son has anything to do with it. In reality, about 8 years ago, I figured it out.
My family was the epitome of dysfunctional. From a spectators point of view, our family appeared normal when in reality it was far from it. We took family vacations and attended a small church regularly. My three older brother's were athletes through and through so my parents were deeply involved in various sport booster clubs. My mom was a SAHM and our family was highly respected in our small island town community. It is what went on behind our house walls that nobody knew about. There was a lot of speculation (hush-hush) about why my mom left my dad 18 years, and five kids, into their marriage. Why one day, when my dad was at work, she packed up my sister and me in her brand new, baby blue, Chevy Nova and moved us to another city.
I remember the warm summer day in 1978 when my mom told me she was leaving my dad. I was eleven at the time. My mom, my little sister, and my three aunts were visiting my grandmother in northern Michigan. The fact that my mom, my sister and I were camping without my dad and brothers was not suspicious to me. My dad was a general contractor and it wasn't unusual for him to be away from home. My mom led me to a picnic table in the campground and told me to sit down. At the time I was thinking "I'm busted! I shaved my legs and she KNOWS!" Instead, to my blatant surprise, she told me that when we returned home to island town we would be packing our clothes and leaving my dad and two brother's, 15 and 13, behind. Earlier that year my oldest brother, 17, left high school and joined the Army.
She moved us all right. To a town even smaller (without the island) than the one she, my father and my family had grown up in. To a mobile home trailer with paper thin walls that rattled in the slightest of breezes. The new town had one stoplight, a bar and its own post office.
Our family built every house we ever lived in. About every four years we would spend our summer vacation knee deep in sawdust, pounding nails and erecting walls. The home we were leaving was almost brand new. We had moved into it the summer before. My sister and I shared a room and this was the first house I lived in where I remember having an active part in selecting paint, wallpaper and carpet for it. (Baby blue carpet/paint, blue flowered wallpaper.) Our curtains were custom made.
From a chocolate brown, four bedroom, 2,000 square foot home to a two bedroom trailer. From an island town where we knew everybody and everybody knew us to a trailer park where we knew no one. The only consolation, if you can call it that, was that my aunt, my mom's sister, and my cousins lived in a house at the bottom of the hill. To christen our new "home" that first day, I collapsed on a pile of blankets and sobbed my heart out. Shortly after that there was a knock on the door and several kids from the park offered to give me a tour of our new surroundings. I dried my eyes and took them up on the offer.
My mom had already lined up a job as a housekeeper in a hotel for next-to-nothing wages. I think she told me later that that job paid her something like $1.90 an hour. My dad wasn't paying child support but she managed to support the three of us on that pittance. Even now I stand in awe of her.
That fall I started sixth grade at the middle school in that tiny little town. My dad figured out where my mom had taken us and one day, while my sister and I were at school, he showed up and tried to choke my mom. He had told her repeatedly while they were dating and especially after they were married that if she ever left him he would kill her. He never bothered her like that after that.
I don't remember the frequency but I do remember my dad, driving his white pickup truck, would pick my sister and I up and take us for a visit to "his" house in the island town.
Three months later, over Christmas vacation and leaving my little sister behind, I moved back to island town. Back to my baby blue bedroom, back to the kids I grew up with. Right back into the lions den that was my home. I knew what to expect because it was familiar chaos. I hate my dad for what he did to my mom and my brother's. I hate my brother's for what they did to me.
In January, 1979, my oldest brother turned 18 and was given an honorable discharge under dishonorable circumstances from the Army. He went AWOL so they kicked him out. The military really frowns on that. I still have a letter he wrote to his commanding officer explaining what we now know to be ADD as his reason for going AWOL. He moved back into the chocolate brown house, into his black carpeted bedroom with a mural of a tropical island on the wall. He went to work for my dad as a carpenter. He fought regularly with my dad.
Apparently, in the Army, he was part of a crew that built and subsequently blew up bridges. He hadn't been home long when he decided to show his friends how to make a bomb. It blew up in his face and singed his eyebrows and eyelashes. His face was slightly burned and he had difficulty opening his mouth so his girlfriend and I had him drinking from a baby bottle. Mostly because he let us. As much as I hate him, the picture in my head of that night still makes me laugh.
On the evening of March 28th, my oldest brother and my father had a huge fight over the use of the family car that night. My dad told him no, my brother insisted, punches flew. My brother landed the final punch to my father's eye, breaking his glasses before he slid behind the wheel of the car and drove away. The last words ever between father and son -- the jr. to his sr. -- were in anger.
Early in the morning of March 29th my dysfunctional family was flipped upside down. It was spring break and I had a girlfriend spending the night. Instead of sleeping in my baby blue bedroom, we slept on the family room floor in front of the stereo because we thought it was cool. I awoke in the wee hours of that Thursday morning to hushed voices coming from our kitchen. I peeked around the corner and after recognizing the faces of several adults peering back at me I went back to sleep. Everything was right in my dysfunctional little world.
Later I was awakened by my mom and dad. My mom? Here? With my dad? They walked me into our living room with the pale shades of blue carpeting. They sat me in the green chair in front of the bay window and knelt down in front of me. They had something to tell me. My brother was dead. I started to cry. They left me crying and staring out the window at the rain to go upstairs and tell the boys. Not long after that I woke my friend and told her what happened and she went home.
Later I would find out the details. At 1:30 that raining morning, after barhopping with friends, he slammed my dads car into a tree. In front of the church we grew up in. In front of the church he was baptised in. My dad had to drive to my mother's house and tell her. She fell apart in my father's arms, pounding on his chest.
We buried my brother five days later in the rain.
In 1999 I finally figured out why Alexander passed through my arms in 1995. In grieving his death, I finally grieved my life. All the abuse my father doled out to my mother and my brother's, all my abuse at the hands of my brothers. I finally let it all go.
Time does not heal the pain. Instead, the pain of losing Alexander has become a comfortable ache. He will forever be my angel-baby.
I truly believe that things happen for a reason but I still struggle to see how losing a son has anything to do with it. In reality, about 8 years ago, I figured it out.
My family was the epitome of dysfunctional. From a spectators point of view, our family appeared normal when in reality it was far from it. We took family vacations and attended a small church regularly. My three older brother's were athletes through and through so my parents were deeply involved in various sport booster clubs. My mom was a SAHM and our family was highly respected in our small island town community. It is what went on behind our house walls that nobody knew about. There was a lot of speculation (hush-hush) about why my mom left my dad 18 years, and five kids, into their marriage. Why one day, when my dad was at work, she packed up my sister and me in her brand new, baby blue, Chevy Nova and moved us to another city.
I remember the warm summer day in 1978 when my mom told me she was leaving my dad. I was eleven at the time. My mom, my little sister, and my three aunts were visiting my grandmother in northern Michigan. The fact that my mom, my sister and I were camping without my dad and brothers was not suspicious to me. My dad was a general contractor and it wasn't unusual for him to be away from home. My mom led me to a picnic table in the campground and told me to sit down. At the time I was thinking "I'm busted! I shaved my legs and she KNOWS!" Instead, to my blatant surprise, she told me that when we returned home to island town we would be packing our clothes and leaving my dad and two brother's, 15 and 13, behind. Earlier that year my oldest brother, 17, left high school and joined the Army.
She moved us all right. To a town even smaller (without the island) than the one she, my father and my family had grown up in. To a mobile home trailer with paper thin walls that rattled in the slightest of breezes. The new town had one stoplight, a bar and its own post office.
Our family built every house we ever lived in. About every four years we would spend our summer vacation knee deep in sawdust, pounding nails and erecting walls. The home we were leaving was almost brand new. We had moved into it the summer before. My sister and I shared a room and this was the first house I lived in where I remember having an active part in selecting paint, wallpaper and carpet for it. (Baby blue carpet/paint, blue flowered wallpaper.) Our curtains were custom made.
From a chocolate brown, four bedroom, 2,000 square foot home to a two bedroom trailer. From an island town where we knew everybody and everybody knew us to a trailer park where we knew no one. The only consolation, if you can call it that, was that my aunt, my mom's sister, and my cousins lived in a house at the bottom of the hill. To christen our new "home" that first day, I collapsed on a pile of blankets and sobbed my heart out. Shortly after that there was a knock on the door and several kids from the park offered to give me a tour of our new surroundings. I dried my eyes and took them up on the offer.
My mom had already lined up a job as a housekeeper in a hotel for next-to-nothing wages. I think she told me later that that job paid her something like $1.90 an hour. My dad wasn't paying child support but she managed to support the three of us on that pittance. Even now I stand in awe of her.
That fall I started sixth grade at the middle school in that tiny little town. My dad figured out where my mom had taken us and one day, while my sister and I were at school, he showed up and tried to choke my mom. He had told her repeatedly while they were dating and especially after they were married that if she ever left him he would kill her. He never bothered her like that after that.
I don't remember the frequency but I do remember my dad, driving his white pickup truck, would pick my sister and I up and take us for a visit to "his" house in the island town.
Three months later, over Christmas vacation and leaving my little sister behind, I moved back to island town. Back to my baby blue bedroom, back to the kids I grew up with. Right back into the lions den that was my home. I knew what to expect because it was familiar chaos. I hate my dad for what he did to my mom and my brother's. I hate my brother's for what they did to me.
In January, 1979, my oldest brother turned 18 and was given an honorable discharge under dishonorable circumstances from the Army. He went AWOL so they kicked him out. The military really frowns on that. I still have a letter he wrote to his commanding officer explaining what we now know to be ADD as his reason for going AWOL. He moved back into the chocolate brown house, into his black carpeted bedroom with a mural of a tropical island on the wall. He went to work for my dad as a carpenter. He fought regularly with my dad.
Apparently, in the Army, he was part of a crew that built and subsequently blew up bridges. He hadn't been home long when he decided to show his friends how to make a bomb. It blew up in his face and singed his eyebrows and eyelashes. His face was slightly burned and he had difficulty opening his mouth so his girlfriend and I had him drinking from a baby bottle. Mostly because he let us. As much as I hate him, the picture in my head of that night still makes me laugh.
On the evening of March 28th, my oldest brother and my father had a huge fight over the use of the family car that night. My dad told him no, my brother insisted, punches flew. My brother landed the final punch to my father's eye, breaking his glasses before he slid behind the wheel of the car and drove away. The last words ever between father and son -- the jr. to his sr. -- were in anger.
Early in the morning of March 29th my dysfunctional family was flipped upside down. It was spring break and I had a girlfriend spending the night. Instead of sleeping in my baby blue bedroom, we slept on the family room floor in front of the stereo because we thought it was cool. I awoke in the wee hours of that Thursday morning to hushed voices coming from our kitchen. I peeked around the corner and after recognizing the faces of several adults peering back at me I went back to sleep. Everything was right in my dysfunctional little world.
Later I was awakened by my mom and dad. My mom? Here? With my dad? They walked me into our living room with the pale shades of blue carpeting. They sat me in the green chair in front of the bay window and knelt down in front of me. They had something to tell me. My brother was dead. I started to cry. They left me crying and staring out the window at the rain to go upstairs and tell the boys. Not long after that I woke my friend and told her what happened and she went home.
Later I would find out the details. At 1:30 that raining morning, after barhopping with friends, he slammed my dads car into a tree. In front of the church we grew up in. In front of the church he was baptised in. My dad had to drive to my mother's house and tell her. She fell apart in my father's arms, pounding on his chest.
We buried my brother five days later in the rain.
In 1999 I finally figured out why Alexander passed through my arms in 1995. In grieving his death, I finally grieved my life. All the abuse my father doled out to my mother and my brother's, all my abuse at the hands of my brothers. I finally let it all go.
Time does not heal the pain. Instead, the pain of losing Alexander has become a comfortable ache. He will forever be my angel-baby.
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