I spent the next year of my life attending an intensive therapeutic program at the hospital. I had to take a leave of absence from work in order to participate in this program. Had I not agreed to do this my doctor would have had me committed for being a danger to myself and because I was in such dire straits. This left my daughter to become the adult the one that took care of paying the rent and other bills. She took over all of the household chores including making dinner for us each night. I was an empty shell of a person. At the end of my long therapeutic days I had nothing left in my for doing adult tasks. My daughter played the role of dutiful caretaker and she became like a mother to me. She would have to make sure I did not hurt myself or choke my my nightly dinner. I often fell asleep with food in my mouth. I noticed she looked at me differently, but it didn’t mean anything, as I could feel nothing anymore. I was completely and utterly numb. Even though her perception of me by now had been shattered she remained a good and faithful daughter to me.

After about of year in this role, apparently she had, had enough of this role change. She informed me she was moving out. This was like a sucker punch to the solar plexus. I was once again being left by someone who had claimed to love me. It had never occurred to me she would leave me. That she would move out, especially when I needed her so. She had always told me, she wanted to live with me forever. I couldn’t see at the time, no I understand it was because she was too young for her new role and it had been unfair of me to put her in that position. She was never meant to be my care-taker. I had done more damage to her heart that I ever realized.

Before I knew it, she was gone. I was faced with an empty nest and all the sadness that entailed. Whatever progress I had made, in my recovery and healing, I fell several steps back. I returned to work and continued to seek counseling. In my attempts to control the situation, I bought a condo minutes from where my daughter had moved to. I couldn’t stand to be far from my daughter even though she was only 20 minutes away. It may as well have been a thousand miles.

I began going to the church my daughter attended, she was involved with several ministries there. I faithfully attended the Friday Night Live service and the Saturday night, New Day Cafe service. The Friday night service was the one the lead pastor presented the sermon. After the service those that came would spend time “fellow shipping” (Church language for hangout), and we would eat deserts brought by the service attendees. The Saturday night service was a coffee house style setting, with small candle lit tables covered in table cloth. Cinnamon buns the size of a paper plate where made and sold at this New Day Cafe. Smoothies and coffee were also on the menu. The church had an associate pastor present the sermons on Saturday nights. I became a greeter for the Saturday night service. I made friends at the Divorce Care program they had and my life began to turn around.

On my birthday in October of 2001, my pastor from Saturday night, baptized me at the church wide beach baptism. I was set to start anew with my Lord and Savior. I joined a multitude of Bible studies to help me heal my hurts and teach me proper coping mechanisms and applying Biblical principles to ensure my success in my endeavor. Similar to my daughter, what I found to be truly valuable, truly helpful in my healing journey was God’s word and teaching or Bible studies on specific subjects. For instance, I did a Bible Study, called “Co-Dependent No More,” and “Search for Significance to help me over come my insecurity and my need of others. I also joined “Celebrate Recovery”, which is a Biblical program to help individuals overcome “Life’s Hurt’s, Habits and Hangups.” This applied not only to addiction, but fear, anxiety, depression, and all the issues I had struggled with my entire life.

I was hospitalized many times over the next couple of years. A day came and brought with it a moment I would come to regret like no other. I had a major blow up with both my kids. They had come to help out there dear ole mom, prepare to weather a hurricane that was coming through. Again in my attempts to control situation and people, I demanded my way. When they insisted on their course of action, instead of caving in to me. I screamed out words, I had only spoken to the men in my life when they upset me so. I told them to “get their shit and get out.” They did, I was alone and now preparing to face the approaching storm on my own. My daughter didn’t talk to me for two months. When she finally did, it was because I cornered her at church and forced it. She had been so hurt because of my words, whatever bond had been left between us had been cut. My words, had done that, my actions had done that. She informed me of her intent to move out of state to the mountains. Her move was going to be before Christmas. My world shattered. My daughter was leaving me, I had pushed her away and dealt the final blow to our relationship. She moved hundreds of miles away from me. I thought surely she would move back, but she never did

My daughter would call me, send me cards for holidays and my birthday. She would even send me long letters to help me heal from my life hurts. She made it clear she wanted our lives separate but she still loved me. Even though the person I was, was not the woman she had idolized as a child. She would come to visit, but we always ended up fighting. Everything would start out great. I invariably allowed my fears and other issues cause me to try to control and manipulate her. I tried to guilt trip her for visiting friends of hers and other family members. I never had enough time with her. I wanted her all to myself. I was jealous of the time she spent with others. This jealous caused more of a rift between her and myself.

I retired from my job after 34 years. It was going to be time for me to live. I joined Bible Studies, singles groups, took my self to see plays and out to movies. I spent time with my mother and we would watch baseball games on television together. My mother was my best friend. We would talk on the phone almost everyday. I made a couple trips up north to visit my daughter and son. He too moved up to where my daughter was. He had married her roommate and they ended up having 3 precious children. I was a granny. My daughter was hell bent that I would be called, “granny nanny.” I told her I was NOT going to be granny nanny. My mother had been called Granny, and my mother’s mother had been called Granny. I should have taken it as the honor, it was meant to be.

January 2012, I got a call from my daughter kind of late at night. It was at a later time that she normally called me. I was usually in bed by that time of night. I was delighted to see her name come across my caller id. “Hey, pussycat! I’m not usually awake at this time, how did you know I was still up?” I joked. “Hi mom. Um, I need to tell you something. But first I need you to be sit down.” “Okay?…” I said as I sat down. “Buddy is in the hospital. He fell out of his hunting tree stand and landed on his head. I have been able to see him. His eyes are swollen shut and blood had come out of his nose and ears. The doctors do not know the extent his injuries. They have a lot of tests they need to run. We don’t have answers for awhile..” Her voice cracked, “They don’t know if he will wake up or not.”

I could not find my words. Before a word could breech my lips, a cry like that of a dying or wounded animal escaped my mouth. This could not be! Not my baby! Not by boy! Oh, God, not my boy! Jesus help me! Jesus help my son! Were the words I could not voice. “Mom, Mom. I’m sorry. I, I didn’t know how to tell you. There is no good way to deliver news like this.” She then told me how it came about that he had been found. She told me the words of the EMT who had said, if they had found him 5 minutes later, he would have been died. She told me about how the weather was warmer than usual and how my son’s brother-in-law, was the only one that knew where this tree stand was. She was trying to comfort me with the details of the small miracles God had performed in this tragedy. It should have given me hope, but I was beside myself. Nothing could comfort me or contain my hysterics.

I already berated myself for all the ways I had failed my children. How I wasn’t there for my son for as often as I had been for my daughter. (Mostly due to the fact, he lived with his dad.) I hated myself for not being as connected to my son as I had been to my daughter. Now it may be too late. I didn’t protect either of them from being abused. My poor son had suffered at the hand of my second husband and I felt powerless to stop it. Both of my children had been sexually abused by people I had trusted. I did not know what had happened to my son until long after it had happened to him. I failed to protect him. I failed to protect both of my precious children.

I had failed to let them both know how loved and cherished they were by me. I had spoken the words and written words in cards, but often times those good words because undone my by hurtful and anger filled words. One moment I was praising them, the next speaking curses over them. I was the worst mother ever. Now my son needed me and I could not get to him. He may not live long enough for me to tell him what joy he brought to my life. He may never truly believe how much I loved him. “Oh God help me, God Help my son!” I cried out, as I crumpled to the floor in my living room.

The next ten days were the longest days of my life. My daughter faithfully called, multiple times of day to update me. On the tenth day I got the call that my son had finally woken up. He was in a very agitated state and had to be restrained to the bed. He kept pulling out the tubes and his IV. He was trying to get out of there. He had what was called “white coat”syndrome, hospitals and doctors scared him to death. Oh, how frightened he must have felt.

The language center of his brain was damaged and words were all jumbled up. He couldn’t understand what had happened or what was going on. He was unable to talk for several more days. My daughter updated me with every new piece of information they were given. I wanted to fly up there, to be there. My daughter convinced me that I did not want to see what she was seeing and it would be better on me to not fly up there. I knew she was right. I would not have been able to handle it. It was one thing living with what my imagination had come up with, I would not have been able to handle the reality.

My son slowly recovered his ability to talk. His body slowly healed, but his brain had several damaged spots and he was never fully himself again.. It is hard to articulate what that means, but my boy was changed forever. During the year of his injury, my son became many different people. At one time he wanted to be a pastor. Another he wanted to be a caregiver and had found a new love for people. Unfortunately, those didn’t last long. One version of my son was a scary one, that spoke dark things and who frightened my daughter and daughter-in-law. A long time after his accident, my daughter came for a visit and she shared photos with me of my son. I cried anew with anguish over what had happened to him. I could see by the look in his eyes, that he was no longer the boy, the man I had known. It broke my heart. My daughter had been right, I would NOT have been able to handle seeing this if I had gone up there. My son was alive and that mean I still had time to tell him what he meant to me. I thank God for sparing his life. I could not have survived loosing him.