A Victory After 17 Years

This is the first Christmas that I do not feel sad.

This is the first Christmas that I am not dreading.

This is the first Christmas that I might even be looking a little bit forward to this Sunday.

A Victory after 17 years.

Mama's death on Christmas Day 1994 seemed to forever change my view of the holidays.  But the writing I did last year to process the annual flashbacks for her 3 1/2 day coma leading up to her death on Christmas has seemed to help.  I don't have to relive those dark days at Dominican.  I have commemorated her life and her death in the best way I know how:  to write.

I think Mama would be proud.

I have lagged behind the others who seemed to move on much sooner than me.  Randy still confesses to feeling some melancholy during the season, but he still enjoys the moment and life and juggles his plans with us and the oodles of friends he needs to have a reunion with each time he is in town.

Rhonda has always made Christmas magical for her children.  Her boys are now grown, but her young daughter is only 10, and so their house still becomes Toyland this time of year.  Rhonda also has an ever growing collection of Christmas decorations from Christmas Angels to Black Santas to handcrafted wooden Santa decorations she finds around town in treasure shops.

Dad seemed to move on 11 years ago when he married into a very large family that has grown in numbers to include even more great grandkids.  Christmas is big with this family, and they now hold a huge party at the Club House at his mobile home park.  Last year, the party was held the day after Christmas, and I almost did not feel up to celebrating one extra day after already surviving the anniversary of my mother's death.

As I watched generations of my stepmother's family open up their gifts, I remember saying to myself:  "I can't be around so much happiness."  It was in that moment of revelation that I finally figured out why Christmas has been so hard for me for so many years.  Yes, it definitely has been hard to be around "so much happiness" when in my heart, I am mourning my mother all over again.

But I feel the annual mourning to be a little lighter this year and a little more happiness inching back in each day.

The holidays are approaching, and I am not dreading them.  I am not waiting for them to be over so I can breathe again.  I will get through with more smiles than tears this year.

A Victory after 17 years.

In Memory of Mama



In Spirit

The first anniversary of Mama's passing on Christmas Day 1994 was rapidly approaching, and the rest of the family decided to go to Disneyland.  Maybe the Magic Kingdom could magically wipe out their flashbacks of that sorrowful day.

But I instinctively knew I needed to stay home ~ that I was at risk for getting the holiday blues ~ and I did not want my young nephews to see me crying in front of Mickey Mouse.

So I relived all of our family traditions ~ all alone ~ in 1995.

First, I went off to mass at Resurrection Parish in Aptos.  I have never been good at using matches, and I fumbled around the candles trying to light a candle for my beloved mother. 

Mama always like to see the humor in our imperfect lives, and instead of sending out bragging types of Christmas letters, she would type of a laundry list of everything that had gone wrong that year from another car crash by my younger brother to their shock of my dating an older man at only age 18.

The signs of Mom's humor would soon fill my Christmas spent alone.

As the mass was getting underway, I suddenly heard a big swoosh and looked back to see a foot and a half flame spiking up from the little candle I had lit a few minutes ago.  No one else seemed to notice, but I knew it was a sign from Mom that she was here with me in spirit.  I did not want to douse the candle, so I decided to have a little chat with Mom.

"Okay, Mom," I laughed inside, "I see your sign.  Now just don't burn down the church!" 

The candle soon resumed its tiny flicker.

After church, I headed to Cafe Rio, her favorite beach side restaurant.  I sat alone at a tiny table, enjoying my Chicken Teriyaki and Sprite and peeking at the waves crashing along Seacliff Beach.

I then drove around town looking at all the beautiful Christmas lights just like we always did in Christmases Past with the entire family. 

I slept in my old room above the garage, looking out at the M & M Candy Christmas lights decorated in the shape of a tree that I could not bear to take down last year.  My clock radio played Christmas Carols in the background as I drifted in and out of sleep, remembering the woman who gave birth to me and who left my side on Christmas Day.

Christmas Day was peaceful and quiet, a day full of reflection and loaded with memories of Mom and Dad being young and all of us kids being so little.  I had invitations to visit Mom's cousins and my Great Aunt Pearlie in town, but I wanted to be alone this Christmas except for a few phone calls to Nanny, my aunt and uncle, and assorted cousins.

At just after 2 p.m., the phone rang.  My family was on the phone all the way from Disneyland.  I spoke to Dad, my brother Randy, my sister Rhonda, and her two sons, Josh and Cameron.  While juggling the phone, I opened up an extra gift they left me beneath the miniature tree we had in the living room because big trees were too sad for Dad then. 

As I hung up the phone, I remembered another call I received just after 2 p.m. on Christmas Day.  Dad had called me tearfully from Dominican at exactly the same time one year ago to tell me that our beloved mother had died. And in that bittersweet moment, I truly knew that Mom was there in spirit all over again ~ helping us stay connected as a family ~ despite the sadness we still felt ~ as we tried to carry on in the way she would have wanted ~ to enjoy holidays to the fullest ~ and to make Christmas magical for her beloved grandsons.

Sweet Mama Who Loved Christmas



There's a 90-year-old Woman Behind Her Eyes

"There's a 90-year-old woman behind her eyes," Grandma Runyan told Mom and Nanny as they watched me leave our table at the Food Circus and find some little old man ~ eating alone ~ plunking my three-year-old legs down at his table ~ and then having a little chat.

Forty-three years later, and I have not changed.

My Food Circus is now diners across Santa Cruz County, and each weekend, I find myself surrounded by little old men ~ some are widowed, some are divorced, and some are just eating alone while their wives are out with their friends.

I have become a regular at many diners in Santa Cruz, Scotts Valley, and Soquel.

And just like when I was three-years-old roaming around the Food Circus in Arden Fair Mall in Sacramento, I make new friends wherever I go and even know some of the gentlemen by first name.

There's Bob who seems to know all my ups and downs of sudden unemployment last summer ~ from updates on first interviews and temp jobs ~ to upcoming unemployment again.  Always asking about the job search and always willing to offer support.  He takes a break every morning from his own care-giving duties of his eldery parents, gaining respite through cheery little chats with the diner staff and regular patrons such as myself.

There's Railroad Randy whose wife is named Robin, and we always get a kick of how my name is Robin, and my brother name is Randy.  He usually reads the paper, but some days he is quite chatty, telling me about his volunteer railroad repair vacations in Wyoming.

There's a couple of fellows who I don't know very well but always greet with small talk about the weather or what they are eating, Joe and Robert, who I see when I come to the diner late in the morning instead of early.  Sweet little old men with glasses ~ quiet and polite.

In Soquel at the Sunrise Cafe, there's assortment of strangers I meet when I squeeze between stools at the tiny counter.  A very elegant gentleman ~ all decked out in a fancy tweed suit coat and shiny, silver watch ~ and I recently discussed the difference between the comfort food here on a rainy day versus the "Plastic Parlor" offerings at Denny's.  I don't go to Denny's very often ever since they took out the counter.

And then there's Auntie Mames, my old favorite haunt in Scotts Valley.

I inched my way up to the counter this morning and carefully plopped myself down on the chunky stool between one man's jacket and another jovial gentlemen who reminded me of Santa.

All of a sudden, Santa looked at me with bemusement and sprinkled salt on my Santa Cruz Sentinel.

"What?  Don't you like what I am reading?!?" I asked half-seriously, half jokingly, looking down at the article about Black Friday.

Santa gave no answer.

Grabbing, the salt shaker, I chuckled, "Now I have to throw the salt over my left shoulder.  That's what my Mom used to say we had to do whenever we spilled salt." 

"Well, I toss it over my right shoulder because I am left-handed," he retorted. 

I giggled like a little girl.

"Next time, I''ll use sugar," he threatened with a gleam in his eye, pointing at the old-fashioned sugar holder. 

Still not sure what that crazy exhange with Santa was all about this morning, but I know the counter diner is less lonely whenever I show up.

I plunk my 46-year-old legs down on the stool and greet the little old men next to me.  I eat my eggs and have a friendly little chat.

And remember the little girl ~ who is now me all grown up ~ who left her family's table ~ all four generations of Runyan women ~ and sensing his aloneness, wandered over to the nearest widower ~ bringing a smile of amusement to his face ~ as I watched him eat ~ had a little chat ~ then heard Grandma Runyan in the distance ~ telling Mom and Nanny,

"There's a 90-year-old woman behind her eyes."

A Mother of Three

I feel the pull again.

The pull for another dog.

Ceci has been gone over three years now.

And the ache for my baby girl seems to get stronger as more time goes by ~

I never had human children.

But when I see a little dog's body, I see a human child in my eyes.

Little Itty Bitty ~ who I visit every week ~ curled up like a little Butter Ball in his blue doggie bed with dog bone decorations.  I stare at him in peaceful slumber and see a little boy instead of a dog.  I see the little boy I never had.

Little Lou then draws me near with his old wise eyes and worried ears.  I turn my attention to holding him close, remembering the dogs of my distant past.

I do not feel the same pull when I see the babies of strangers, friends, or family.  They are cute little beings, but I have never really felt the longing to have one.  And now at nearly 47 years old, I never will have one.

I saw a lady walking a medium-size, vanilla lab mix dog downtown last week.  I watched the doggie's legs trot swiftly beside her, and that movement of that doggie's legs filled me with a longing for a dog all over again.  I was drawn to the sweet dog's beautiful little body, and again I saw the dog as if he or she were a human child.

All dogs' eyes are soulful.  I look at nearly daily pictures of my doggie cousins on Facebook.  Sweet Buddy and Alex even have their own Facebook page!  And although I have only met them twice in my life, I feel a connection to their doggie souls from their daily antics posted on Facebook.  I feel the same closeness as I do to my human cousins, their doggie mothers, Maria and Denise.

This human connection to these animal souls brings out my maternal instincts in ways the possibility of having biological children never did.

I only felt my biological clock "tick" once.  My parents surprised me with a loan to go to New York, my childhood dream since I was 10 years old.  In the summer of '93, when I was 28 years old, I boarded a red eye plane and began living my dream from the moment I waved goodbye through the plane window to Mom and Dad in the San Francisco International Airport.

My one month journey was interrupted daily with the sight of New York City children.  I was enchanted by them as they played in Central Park or walked together in long parades down the streets during summer day camp outings.  I stopped and stared.  And cried.

I cried for the children I would never have.  I looked at their sweet faces and knew I would never be a mother.  I did not want to be a mother.  So I mourned the loss of the souls I would never bring into this earth.

The experience was life changing, and I never looked back or cried again at the sight of any children in California.  I accepted my choice and moved on.  I had two relationships with men who had children.  Some of their children were little, some were teenagers, some were young adults.  I never married any of those men, so I never became a stepmother either.

But suddenly in my forties, the pull to have a dog in my life got stronger and stronger.  I was blessed to be surrounded by dogs in my abusive relationship.  They, along with the cats, were my only saving grace.

And when the relationship finally ended, so did my contact with my precious animals.

Until I found Ceci.  She side-glanced at me with big round eyes, showing mostly the whites of her eyes, and thumped her tail excitedly at the sight of me peeking over the railing to see which dogs had been surrendered that day.

I did everything in my power to adopt her.  I did not stop to reconsider my decision when I found out she was already 12 years old.  She became the little girl I never had.  And for the first time in my life, I felt at peace with the decision I had made to not have children.  My daughter was my dog, and I was as happy and content as animals usually are on a daily basis.  My life did not need any extra trimmings.  I did not need to buy new things or take fun vacations.  My whole world ~ my whole routine ~ revolved around caring for her and my two cats, Lil' Red and Jack ("The Flying Cat").  I finally had my own family ~ my little fur family.

Sadly, my sweet little world would come crashing to an end with the sudden illness of Ceci one August morning when she woke me up having violent seizures.  It was my cousin Maria who convinced me I had to let her go ~ as the vet had wiped me of my savings in 48 hours in their only guidance of treating a brain tumor.

A few months later, Lil' Red died of old age.

My little family of three was now one.

Jack keeps me busy with all of his antics, but I long for more.

I look at the doggies wherever I go and see my future children.

I see the fur family that I long to recreate.

But that dream will have to wait.

And until then, I will pet those precious souls wherever I go.  I will hit the "Thumbs Up" button on Facebook for the hilarious pictures of my doggie cousins.  I will remember Ceci and Lil' Red and those precious 17 months we were all together with Baby Jack.

When life was pure and simple and sweet.

When I was a mother of three.   

Ceci at Sunrise

 



A Community of Compton Cousins

It's this time of year when I remember I never created a human family of my own to start traditions.

Since Mom's passing, my immediate family often ~ very often ~ celebrates holidays on other days of the year.  In the beginning, it was because Christmas was too sad to celebrate really big.  So we would meet up for a movie on Christmas Day and open up gifts on New Year's Day or some random day before Christmas.

Then the idea came that Rhonda should have the opportunity to create traditions with her own kids, so again the holidays got shifted around.

We do not celebrate Thanksgiving as an immediate family anymore.  That tradition ended five years ago.  I really miss getting together with my father, stepmother, sister, brother, nephews, and niece on Thanksgiving.  But I have learned to accept this change in my life.

Thank Goodness, I have Mom's cousins in town, or I guess I'd be like Randy with those Hungry Man T.V. Dinners when he had to work at the video store on Thanksgiving when we all piled up to Rio Linda to see Nanny.

I realize I never created my own traditions as a single person.  The isolation, the aloneness, seems more pronounced this time of year.  And although I am a loner by heart and the isolation does not make me sad, I am simply so much more aware of how my life turned out ~ after nearly 47 years ~ during the last two months of the year.

I look around these four walls in my tiny studio and hear Bubbie describing her granddaugher, Izzie, to the matchmaker in my favorite movie "Crossing Delancey":

"She lives alone in a room, like a dog."  

I smile at how true that image is for me.

Randy is back in Hollywood for several years now, so he only randomly gets back to Santa Cruz for holidays.  But he has a circle of friends even wider than our extended family.  So he has built his own community of friends that are like family, and he always seems content.

Rhonda developed a community of women friends who are like a second family from her connection to the Walnut Ave Women's Center twenty years ago.  She now has to juggle all of her other plans with keeping up new traditions with them.

I am so grateful for Mom's cousins who have always extended a warm welcome to me every Thanksgiving and every Christmas that they are in town.  It is like Mom can sense my aloneness down here on Planet Earth and is now busy orchestrating my social scene way up in The Big Sky.

God Bless My Cousins, The Comptons, for always remembering me this time of year.

My time spent "alone in a room, like a dog" is only for a brief moment as I have something to look forward to each holiday.

My Community is My Cousins who my mother loved so dearly. 

Cousin Gregg always teasing me and embellishing stories of all "my antics" back in the day.

Cousin Barbi ~ so much like another mother ~ filling up her cozy beach home with all the scents of Thanksgiving.

Cousin Melody always giggling at all of my jokes.

And Cousin Joy ~ a sweet voice on the end of the phone line in Idaho ~ as we each take turns saying hello after dinner.

We need each other more than ever now that Great Aunt Pearlie and Nanny passed away during the last couple of years.  I believe I help them as much as they help me in filling up a room with some holiday cheer.

I am truly grateful.

I am truly blessed.

Chemotherapy Circle

Mom had her first chemotherapy appointment the day after Easter.

I always remember the date of that particular Easter ~ April 3,1994.  Really the last day before her cancer journey was in full swing.

We all joined Mom on that first day.  Dad, Rhonda, Randy, and I.  Yes, Middle Child Me ~ The Worrier ~ The Fretter ~ The Emotional One ~ who somehow showed such strength around a woman who clearly was terrified about what was about to happen.

Reclining chairs ~ all in a circle ~ and hanging I.V. bags just waiting to drip.  I squeezed in beside her as Dr. P started to hook up the tubes.  I noticed he never used gloves and that bothered me then.  Today it would not bother me now to know his human touch made my mother more at ease  ~ more than any risk of infection from her not feeling rubber fingers on her wrist.

Still, at the moment he inserted the needle, she bit her lip and started to sob.  

"Oh, My God!" she wailed.

"Oh, Mom, I'm so sorry.  I love you.  We're all here for you.  We'll help you through this," I whispered to her gently.

But she knew.  The nightmare had officially begun.  The poison that would try to kill the cancer would end up making her even sicker than she already was.  Yes, the nightmare had truly begun.

Once the tears had subsided, we made the aquaintance of another cancer patient, Dear Phyllis, Stage 4 Breast Cancer which had already spread to the bone.  She was tall like Mom with short, sassy hair and a mom to two 12-year-old daughters ~ her own daughter and the daughter of her husband Geoff.  Geoff worked at Union Grove Music downtown.  He was with Phyllis for part of her appointments.  When he left for work, Phyllis would talk up a storm with all of us ~ ever so cheerful and upbeat ~ that the time would pass more quickly with all of her good energy in the room. 

Phyllis was the light that we needed on one of the darkest days of our lives.

We would see Phyllis on each cycle of Mom's chemotherapy and get to know a little more about her husband and daughters.  Her husband was Jewish; she was Christian.  He had adopted her daughter after they got married.  I think I remember she was a school teacher.

On Mom's third cycle of chemotherapy, Phyllis told us that Dr. P was trying a new "Chemotherapy Cocktail" because all the other drugs had stopped working.  She said she was sleepy that morning from the Benadryl she had to take during the infusion.  Phyllis fell sound asleep and did not chat with us that session.  Her snoring soon took over where her chattiness had ended.

I felt that familar feeling come over me ~ that I knew the end was near ~ for Phyllis this time ~ I just knew this would be the last time we saw Phyllis.

And so the call came just before 9:30 a.m. a couple of days before Mom's next chemotherapy appointment.  Dr. P was calling to tell us Phyllis had died.  Mom was in the shower.  And through my tears, I wanted to desperately pound on the bathroom door and tell her that Phyllis was dead.

I paced the upstairs hallway ~ back and forth ~ listening to the sound of the water pouring out the shower ~ knowing Mom did not even have one single lock of her beautiful wavy hair to even wash anymore.

I wanted to tell Mom right away because in my heart, I knew my dear mother was next.  Next in line.

Next in line to fall asleep during her chemotherapy appointment.  To rapidly deteriorate.  And then to have us call people to tell them she had died.

I hugged Mom as she got out of the shower ~ towel on her head as if she still had hair ~ and broke that news that Dear Phyllis had died that morning.  Mom took it well, but of course she knew, too.

The Chemotherapy Circle had been broken.

One by one, the patients went to the hospital or went home to die.

No more chatting while poison was dripping into their veins.

Chatting like life would somehow still be okay despite all this madness.

No more Mom bringing the staff and the patients a basket full of snacks from Costco ~ little fruit rolls and Quaker Granola Bars.  Something to take the edge off during the long hours of poison infusion.

Because Mom could barely walk an inch the next time we took her to Dr. P's.  He took one look at her, ordered a wheelchair, and then had us take her to Dominican.  The end was here.  She was never coming back.

There would be no more chemotherapy.  Just pain control.

A different kind of drip.  The Morphine Drip.  Where she could push her little Jeopardy-like game button and give herself a jolt of drugs.  Swoosh the medicine right through her veins.  And make herself fall asleep within a few minutes. 

A Peaceful Snore to my ears.

"Be careful how you touch her

For she'll awaken

And sleep's the only freedom

that she knows ~"

From "Wildflower"



You Know My Name. Not My Story.

"You know my name. Not my story."

I saw the statement above on Facebook.

My blog has generated a few Facebook friends from across the miles ~ ladies who are survivors of domestic violence like me ~ kind souls I have never met but feel a kinship through this common bond of survival.

One of them shared the quote above, and the words really resonated with me.

I worked so hard to finally share my truth, but I feel that so many people in my life that I want to know this truth find it too emotional to read my words.  So my blog sits in cyberspace generating hits from strangers around the world, and I cannot even share my own story ~ even verbally ~ to some of the people I spent so many years hiding this truth from on a daily basis.

I thought I had ended "My Silence on Domestic Violence" (to quote Dr. Phil), but have I really ended my silence if my truth is still unread even after a whole year of stories?

I carry this burden with me lately.

I think about printing out the blog and giving copies away at Christmas.  Would that be bizarre to give away stories about Mom's dying from lung cancer and my getting my head bashed into a wall a mere 9 years after her death?

But how else am I going to get people to know my truth?

The subject of domestic violence still seems forbidden to discuss face-to-face.  Is it simply too uncomfortable, or do people just simply do not want to know what happened to me?

I question it all.

Or maybe it does not matter that only a few family members and friends want to know my truth ~ and that the people that need to hear my words the most are those ladies that went through a similar ordeal and then became my friend on Facebook?

They know the real me even though we have never met.  They had the courage to survive, so they have the courage to read my story.

They know my story.

They lived my story.



A Kiss to the Sea and the Sun

It's starting a little earlier this year.

The inexplicable tears.

Until I realize later, they were for her.

How can it be that my sister and I will soon be the same age as she was when she died?

How is that possible?

Where did all those years go?

I wrote so much about Mom last Christmas that I really hope the season goes more smoothly this year.

I know I am thinking about her earlier this year because of Rhonda's surgery.  In just 10 days, my sister will have a tumor cut out of her leg.  99.9% certain is not cancer.

But I am suddenly getting more scared for her.  Going under the knife.  The anesthesia.  The lengthy recover period afterward.

I have been driving around Capitola and Soquel a lot these past two weeks.  And so, the flashbacks of my mother are centered around our early days spent discovering the neighboring towns of Aptos.  We are all young again.  Mom is younger than what I am today.  Rhonda's boys are babies and toddlers.  And although life had many difficulties even then, our world seemed so much simpler.  We hung out so much more often.  Little lunches at that old Mexican restaurant in Capitola Village ~ El Toro Bravo ~ followed by a shopping spree at Rainbow City Limit for James Dean pins and new stationery ~ Suzy's  Zoo with all the cute animals.

I find myself screaming out loud in Rhonda's old van ~ that she has generously let me borrow for two years ~ as I drive through the winding streets of Soquel and Capitola.

"Why, Mom, why?  Why did you have to leave us?" I wail like a wounded animal.

We need her back for this latest obstacle.  And I get so mad that the damn cigarettes claimed her life.

So I go from screaming and crying to misting up and smiling as the memories come flooding back to the good times of the 80s and early 90s exploring these quaint little towns.  The ocean is beautiful on these autumn days, and I spend my road trip blowing kisses to the sea where she now lives.  Her ashes scattered three miles out from her Beloved Boardwalk.

"Love you, Mom!"  I whisper out loud, blowing three kisses at a time.

Trying desperately to keep the spiritual connection alive in my heart and my soul ~ feeling her beside me in everything I do ~ a friend to rely on during every obstacle I face ~

And so, the memories of my mother's cancer journey are not what come to mind this time ~ no, it is of her alive and well and happy and full of energy and adventure and humor and hugs and kisses ~

"Miss You, Mom!"  I shout out at the next peek of the ocean as I continue my journey back Santa Cruz.  The sun is so bright it almost hurts my eyes.  I feel her warmth, her touch, her arms around me in my time of need.

I blow a kiss to the sea and the sun ~ 

Mist up and smile ~

And carry on ~

Deprivation

I was deprived of the most basic human needs during my four years with him.

Food.  Sleep.  Warmth.  Regular contact with the outside world ~ particularly my family.

He monitored my food intake ~ especially in public.

I walked past Marianne's Ice Cream the other day and flashed back to a visit we took there after his A.A. or N.A. meeting in Santa Cruz.  Everyone in the small group that joined us after the meeting was ordering either double scoops or sundaes.  But he made sure I only had one scoop.  And so I finished mine first and watched the others happily enjoying their dessert.  He made sure I knew his limit for me was because I was already fat ~ which I wasn't ~ but in his eyes, I should look like the scrawny, cocaine-addicted girlfriends of his past.  His exact reference.

Many nights I would be kept awake with all of his crazymaking.  The lengthy verbal confrontations of the most ugliest of kind.  Vulgar words.  Rehashing the past over and over again.  Making demands.  Over and over again.  All through the night.  Until nothing made sense anymore.  And until I was simply too tired to even care.

He made sure I was cold at night.  He would never let me sleep in anything warm.  I had to sleep in the way he saw fit.  And some nights in the Santa Cruz Mountains were very cold even with a little warmth from the wood stove.

He made sure I rarely saw my family.  Time spent with my family is a blur of sorts ~ with many holidays in the beginning only being spent with him.  I remember he chaired a Thursday evening A.A. meeting held at the youth center, and he came up with a "Just Desserts" theme for the meeting that fell on Thanksgiving night.

He was so happy to come up with this theme that he made posters to try to get more people to attend.  His young son and I followed him around Safeway on Thanksgiving Eve as he joyfully picked out dessert after dessert for the lavish spread.  The tears were trickling down my cheeks as I walked behind him knowing I would not see my family the next day.  I felt like I was in a trance following him around the bakery, quickly wiping away my tears in order to not get caught. 

I should be happy, I told myself, helping him prepare for this special meeting.  But even though his A.A. and N.A. meetings were my only consistent contact with the outside world ~ other than work ~ I was not a member, having never touched drugs or alcohol in my life ~ I was just a tag-along ~ only spending time in his world tucked away in the Santa Cruz Mountains.

But mostly I wanted my family in that moment.  I wanted my mother to be alive and for all of us to be younger again and celebrating Thanksgiving together at Nanny's ~ long before my life had become this nightmare.  Before I become so terribly isolated from the people who actually cared about me.  I wanted to turn back the clock to what seemed to me then as simpler times.

As I watched him putting pies, cakes, and cookies into the cart, I envisioned his reprimand when I reached for a treat tomorrow.

I could hear him scolding me, always using the word "fat" followed by the "b" word, the "c" word, or the "w" word.

Because abuse never took a holiday.

Deja vu and Comfort Food

"This feels like deja vu," Dad remarked as we sat in the Stanford Medical Center waiting room while Rhonda was meeting with the surgeon.

"I remember reading that deja vu means you might be uncomfortable in a situation and so you feel as if you have experienced something already as a way to feel more at ease," I rattled on as I studied the Better Homes and Garden design of this rich, long hallway full of separate waiting areas for each office.

"Everytime I am in a hospital, it always feels like deja vu," he added. 

Seems like our lives have been spent a lot in hospitals these past two decades.  From Mom's Cancer Year, to his step-father's ongoing battle with prostate cancer, to his mother's stroke, to losing first great-grandchild JaRon prematurely, to his heart problem last November, and now to his wife's chronic heart issues ~ hospital waiting rooms have become like a family room to us.

But this time it was different.  This time it was Rhonda.  His sweet first born.  My older sister.  My surrogate mother in many ways since Mom's death.

This time it was Rhonda who has never had surgery in her life.  This time we knew it really could not be cancer, but could it?  Could she be one of the 2.5 in a million persons whose growth inside her leg was really cancer?  I refused to even go there, but hearing that she had to have a 14 1/2" incision just to clear out this large growth was still alarming.

I know my sister is scared.  Scared to go under the knife.  Scared of the pain during a four week recovery.  Scared of something going wrong.

There are no magazines in this sterile yet so richly decorated waiting area.  And so you just keep talking during the wait.

We talked about how close in age Rhonda and I are now to Mom's age when she died.  We talked about our fears for Rhonda and her kids.  I saw how I was possibly in denial that Rhonda could have cancer, but that Dad clearly envisioned the possibilty of losing his eldest daughter.

We talked about where we were going to eat afterward for lunch.  How he had given her two choices ~ The Cheesecake Factory or Harry's Hofbrau ~ as a way to have something to look forward to after the appointment.  Two restaurants that we rarely have to chance to visit.

Doctor said he was 99.9% certain that it's not cancer.  Just by the look on the cat scan.  Now we prepare for her surgery and recovery in two months. 

She gets to celebrate her 50th birthday next month without being on crutches.  Her youngest son and his fiance get to still take her to Cache Creek for a soul concert in early October.  And, oh, yes, she can cover up her gray hair once more before the big day.

But first it was off to Harry's.  For once good dose of comfort food.  Turkey and gravy, pastrami, potato salad, macaroni salad, pickles, and apple pie.

"We can order one turkey and one pastrami sandwich, Rhonda, and then we can each have a half of each, and Robin, I'll order you the senior turkey dinner which comes with two sides and a jello!" Dad described so joyfully during the car ride, making our mouths water with each mention of comfort food.

"Your mom always used to order the potato salad, and I would get the macaroni salad at Sam's Hof Brau in Sacramento," Dad remembered on the way over there,"so let's get one of each, too."

And in that moment, I remembered the woman who left us so long ago ~ who was once young and vibrant as my sister is today.  

I felt her presence in that fancy Stanford waiting room during Dad's deja vu moment, and I felt her presence now as we headed off to Harry's Hofbrau to be comforted by food and by memories of our family ~ with the man who has kept the family together for so many years ~ throughout so many hospital visits ~ and so many losses along the way.

And then I knew that deja vu was just another way of Mama saying "Hello from The Big Sky" ~ that "I am still here with you ~ through each of these hospital visits ~ with every bite of comfort food ~ with every struggle you are facing today ~ yes, I am still here as I have always been ~ loving you ~ comforting you ~"

Futile Attempt

There was only one moment.

My only attempt.

To break free.

The only moment came during a fit of rage.  Rage that went on for hours and hours.  To this day, I do not remember if the abuse had turned physical yet as it had as I entered my second year with him.

But the rage was there all four years.  Verbal abuse of the most vulgar kind.  Words that slammed me just as viciously as his fists.  Words that degraded me, humiliated me, stomped away any shred of me ~ those words I listened to every day for four years.

"Shut the f up!"

then

"Shut the f up you f-in ________________ (insert b word, c word, or w word)!"

then

"Shut the f up you fat, f-in  ________________  (insert b word, c word, or w word)!"

I can't really write those words down today without hearing his voice all over again shouting them directly to my face like a drill sergeant.

But in that moment ~ of fitful rage ~ I found the courage to run from him and try to leave with the clothes on my back just like I had heard other women having to do.

But I needed to take more than just me and the clothes on my back.

I need to get Lil' Red, my beloved orange marmalade tabby cat who had been with me for nearly 12 years now.  There was no way he would be left behind. 

He had his own room ~ a tiny sunroom with a sliding door to the main house that I would close abruptly each time the abuse started to drown out the drama as best as I could.  I would close the curtains and pray that Lil' Red would stay sleeping and not wake up during my ordeal.

This time I ran to Red's room, flung open the door, grabbed the cat carrier, scooped up my baby, and quickly pushed him inside his sanctuary from the chaos of this moment.

I fumbled for my purse and my car keys and headed toward the back door to the alley.

But suddenly there was the man ~ with his giant fists ~ grabbing the cat carrier away from my grip ~ and while yelling and screaming his vulgar words ~ he shook the carrier back and forth ~ not too hard at first ~ but threatening to shake harder and harder.

Shake, Shake, Shake!!!

"Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!  Give me back my baby! Let us go! Don't hurt my baby, please!!!" I pleaded with the man who would not stop yelling and shaking my baby's carrier back and forth.

I  knew what I had to do in that moment to protect my baby.

I bowed down ~ with my words ~ I gave in to the abuser and the abuse.

"Okay, I will not leave!  I'm not leaving!  I'm sorry!  Please don't hurt Lil' Red!"

He gave me back the carrier.  And left the sunroom.

I stayed with Lil' Red.  Took him out of the carrier.  Held him tight.  Told him I was so sorry. 

"I'm so sorry Lil' Red, my precious boy.  Mama's so sorry."

I slept in Lil' Red's sunroom that night.  Spooned with my boy.  Comforted my wonderful companion of nearly 12 years.  Told him I would try harder next time.  I would try to figure out another way to get us out of here.  I gave him my promise. 

On that night, the sunroom became our sanctuary, and I would retreat there for long nights after other episodes of abuse.

Three years later, I remembered my promise to my precious boy as I put him in his carrier, loaded him into my Toyota, looked over my shoulder as I backed up the car down the alley, and never looked back.

Prisoner

I always felt like a prisoner in my abusive relationship, starting from the moment I found it impossible to break free after everything changed on the ninth day of our being together.

Two years had now passed, and my head had been bashed into the wall only a week earlier.  Here I was back with him even though we now technically lived apart.  I did not recognize my own self then and how I could remain with the man who had so violently hurt me just seven days earlier.  My life was surreal ~ the abuse was surreal ~ and the ability to break free seemed infinitely out of reach.

It suddenly hit me ~ how much I was truly a prisoner of my own life with him ~ as we headed toward a shady park one late summer night ~ with our junk food from Jack in the Box, his new puppy Jack, and his now nearly 15-year-old son in tow.  The evening was abuse-free ~ but as I entered that dimly lit park after hours ~ planted myself at a picnic table ~ watched Little Jack run playfully through the grass ~ as I started to eat my greasy tacos, I suddenly felt like Elizabeth Smart with the ability to physically run away from her captor but without the mindset to even try. 

The park was scary at night, and I remember seeing evidence of homeless living in the bushes.  The park was next to an apartment housing complex known for drug dealing.   I was more scared of the park than of him in that moment.  Why did he bring us here this late summer night?  Could we have not just eaten in the restaurant or even in the car?  Why had we driven 7 miles from Felton in the first place just for fast food?

Over and over in my head, I kept remembering young kidnap victim Elizabeth Smart going from park to park with her captors ~ shrouded under a veil ~ only mine was imaginary ~ my veil was my ability to be a good actress in public ~ to keep my secret hidden ~ so the abuse stayed hidden from family and from strangers.

I wanted to leave in that moment ~ knowing how viciously this man had attacked me just seven days earlier ~ how I had just spent three days recovering in a motel in Watsonville ~ how he chose where to move me down the alley to Bob's house ~ just so he could know where I lived ~ and still have his way with me ~ all while seemingly following "the rules" of the restraining order put on him by the sheriff ~as we began our journey together to get the case dropped.

Where was the little girl who ran for school president? Who sang in the choir? Who starred in the school play? Where was the little girl who dreamed of becoming a writer just like Jo did in "Little Women"?  Where did she go?

Why was she here in this park late at night with her captor and his son? Watching the most beautiful minature dachshund prance around so happily.  She could not find happiness in that moment because any shred of happiness was destroyed with every bashing to her head just seven days earlier.

She was lost along the way, but no one knew she was missing.

The Eleventh Hour

My last day of work is Monday.  And all along I keep thinking they are going to save me at the eleventh hour ~ just like they did for the other lady in my department whose layoff end date was June 30th.

But as I pack up my desk and download my files, I realize that it's really over.  It's over and done with ~ my time spent here ~ it's finally over ~ the two month limbo has come to an end ~ and I really have to leave.

But just now I realized that I have been saved in a different way at the eleventh hour.  I had a fleeting scare last night that I might be next on my ex's list of whom to stalk.  The fleeting scare kept me up half the night with insomnia.  Realizing I was farther up the food chain of his most recent exes, I suddenly realized that there will never be a threat of him contacting me at work anymore.  I never gave him my personal line at this office, and although he once admitted to calling the front desk and talking to my colleague about some random university subject when I was not the one to answer the main line.  But in the back of my head, I wondered if he could walk in the door one day or follow me home after work.

Now I am gone, and he will never know where I work or where I live.  How freeing.

The first thing everyone said to me when I got laid off is now I should become a writer.  My writing has been put on hold this spring and summer with this layoff ordeal.  But halfway through the ordeal, I kept envisioning myself reading my stories to other women in need.  To help them see that it is possible to finally get free.  It may take months and even years, but freedom is within reach.

I see myself reading to another type of audience who can also donate money to help victims and survivors of domestic violence.  I want the benefactors to see the face of a woman who succeeded after utilizing the services of the Walnut Ave Women's Center.  That I got out and that enough time has passed that I can finally share my story in the way my sister once did to help the Center.  I envision a fundraiser with me as the guest speaker.

I see myself standing at the podium.  I hear my voice reading "August 22, 2003" and "Yes, Sir" and trying not to break down from tears from reliving the darkest days of my life.

The Eleventh Hour will come on Monday, and my job will not be saved. 
 
But I will be saved in ways I never imagined were possible. 

Uncensored

Double take

A familiar look, hand gesture, the same full head of gray hair ~ even the same style of shirt he wore.  Seeing a man of the same age from the back of his head ~ in the distance ~ and doing a double take to see if it is really him.  Could it really be him?

Creeping by slowly, studying every mannerism, every voice inflection as I inspect the man in the distance ~ now getting closer ~ as I approach from the side.

Waving his hands, he rants and raves at the other guy in the parking lot of my local donut shop.

Yes, it could be him, I think.  That is how he used to wave his hands to make a point ~ to be dramatic ~ to be important ~ to seem smarter than other people.

But this guy seems drunk or on drugs, and I am hoping my ex is still clean and sober after being released from jail nearly four months ago.

Why would my ex being sitting on the parking chock in the parking space ~ waving his hands dramatically ~ not really making any sense to me ~ as I approach?

I squint through my eight-year-old prescription on my beat-up eyeglasses and keep thinking it could really be him.  It has finally happened, I think.  I will finally come fact-to-face with my abuser after years, or will I simply bolt away to my destination of a greasy meal at Denny's?

I would like to come face-to-face with my abuser and ask him point-blank for the $5000 he extorted from me back in 2003.  I could really use that money now ~ now that I have been laid off from my job.

But I will never see that money for as long as I live, and that money is living proof that I survived four years of abuse.  That money is a symbol of my strength to survive.  So, no, I do not really need that money that bad if it meant coming face-to-face with the man who abused me for four years.

I creep slowly past, listening to every deranged word from the gray-haired man's mouth and finally realize it is not him like I thought it could be. 

Just another drunk to dodge on my way to Denny's.

Tsunami Warning

There was a time when I began to hide my whole world from my father when it came to the abuse I was experiencing.

Dad stood by when I moved out of my tiny cabin-style studio in Ben Lomond ~ in my first attempt to end my destructive relationship ~ a mere nine months before I ended up moving in with my abuser.  I had to get out of the Santa Cruz Mountains in order to break free from the man who had begun to destroy my life in a short six months.

So the day after my 37th birthday, he stood watch in the van while I packed up the rest of my stuff.  My nephew Cameron and his friend Nick had already came for the furniture days before my final visit. 

I had not even really been living in the mountain studio for a couple of months having already rented another studio near the university the previous November shortly after I drove myself to the E.R. on Halloween night.  Looking back, this was my first attempt at some sort of safety plan ~ securing some secret housing that would wait for me until I could sneak away completely.

But The Bad Man soon found out where I lived, and he began to come by at all hours of the night, tapping on my windows with his motorcycle keys, calling out my name, begging me to let him in ~ just this once, he would plead.

And sometimes I did let him in just to not wake the landlords in the house next door.  Other times, I would stay as quiet as I could behind those four walls ~ like Anne Frank in the Attic Apartment ~ waiting for him to finally leave ~ and then I would call the police to make an incident report.

He wore me down after four months of stalking turned to wooing, and then he began another four months of fighting with me about his wanting me to move in with him and my wanting to remain alone.  I remember Karen at Walnut Ave Women's Center telling me that once I did move in with him it would be very hard to leave. 

But I gave in to stop the fighting ~ the main topic of our arguments ~ that I did not want to live with him.  I gave in, and I did not want to tell my father.

And so I called Quicksilver.  A local voicemail service where I could set up a Santa Cruz phone number so my dad could stay in touch with me and never find out that I moved back to the Santa Cruz Mountains.  Three more years of secrets began on the day I acquired my secret voicemail number that I still have to this day.

Dad would leave me messages about family get-togethers.  And I would call him back from work.  He would send me cards to the old apartment, and I would get them a week later with the yellow forwarding address sticker on them.  I did not think ahead to how I would handle the situation with the mail once the year ran out for forwarding.

The secret voicemail then became the only weapon I had against my abuser from finding other ways to contact me once we finally broke up three years later.

I had changed my home phone number multiple times during our on-and-off relationship that I was not about to give him my phone number once I was finally free.  So I kept paying the $45 quarterly bill to give him only one way to contact me.  He would leave me long, lengthy messages at times ~ always wanting to see me again ~ using the animals as ways to get me to miss the dogs and cats ~ telling me they missed me and did not understand why I did not visit.  I made a copy of each of the messages, especially if they were abusive ~ always with the notion that one day I may need to finally file my own restraining order on him ~ and not just one that cops had automatically placed on him the night he bashed my head into the wall.

Last summer, the voice mails stopped.  And I started having nightly dreams and daily flashbacks about him.  I instinctively knew that something was wrong.  I emailed his sponser and found out my ex was finally in jail but not for any charges of domestic violence.  The whole idea of him finally being in jail really caused me to tap into those horrible four years I spent with him and to all the heartbreaking years of verbal abuse that escalated into physical violence ~ so much of which I had blocked out simply to get through another day.

For six months, I processed those flashbacks.  By the third month, I knew I had to continue writing about my experience.  The blog I had started to honor my mother at Christmas immediately transitioned to include stories of domestic violence.  All the titles in my head from all those years together were typed up and out in a frenzy of writing for four months all with the idea that he would be locked up for 2 years.  When I heard his release date had been bumped up to February and that his sentence was reduced to six months, I began counting down to that day in February and wondering just how long it would take him to contact me.  Maybe I should have had Vegas take bets.

"You have one unheard message," informed the familar voice to my voicemail service of 9 years.  And there he was on the other line ~ same as he ever was ~ as if another marriage and domestic violence and being locked up for drugs had not even happened since his last message to me ~

There he was warning me about the tsunami.  Asking me to check on his grown son who was staying in the old house in Felton.

I felt nothing inside at the sound of his familiar voice. 

There was no pain.  No sadness.  No fear. 

  

Uncensored

Stage Four

The Cancer Year has already begun.  Mom's story technically starts in January 1994 with two months of misdiagnosis and treatments for conditions that did not actually exist.

But to me, Her Cancer Year officially starts on March 9, 1994.  And so every March, I do relive those last moments as each anniversary unfolds ~ not in a morbid way or even a sad way ~ but in such a way for a person who has a calendar in her head and remembers key days of the week, days of the month, and days of the year.

We had been waiting for the call.  And the call came just shortly before I had to leave for work.  I remember Mom and Dad huddled together using the same hand-held phone.  Two words: lung cancer.  Words that shattered our world in a single breath.

Looking back, I wish there would have been some way for me to cancel my shift.  I did call the video store to at least ask if the morning shift person could stay a little longer.  We all worked shifts alone, and she could not stay longer.  I did not want to leave my mother or my father.  But they did not want me to lose my job.

So I left for work in a daze.  Drove 14 miles to Scotts Valley.  Started my shift at 4.  And cried between customers the whole night. 

I was wearing my favorite windbreaker ~ the torquoise one she and Dad had bought me for my trip to New York the previous summer ~ tears streaming so fast that the sleeves were saturated with sadness ~ really knowing this was the end ~ we had not even gone over concrete details and treatment plans with her doctor yet ~ still more tests ~ but I knew ~ I just knew ~ this was the end of life as I knew it ~ and at 29 years old, I knew right then that I was about to lose my mother.

I endured the six hour shift and came home after 10 p.m. later that evening.  Mom was already asleep.  Started the next day on automatic pilot with a new found strength that I never knew was within me.  Began a series of appointments with her and Dad.  Went to the cancer resource library and brought home books.  Really should not have brought home books as the information only scared her more ~ she thought she was going to have to have surgery based on the information in those books ~ she envisioned being cut open and having a lung removed ~ she studied diagrams and read information on other types of lung cancer.

She had been having pain in her back and in her ribs for two months which originally started the whole series of testing and missed diagnosis back in January.

After her official diagnosis of lung cancer in March, I went with her to the dressing room for the X-rays at Dominican, and she came out of the X-ray room all excited. 

"It's only a broken rib!" she exclaimed joyously, ''I broke a rib on the exercise machine.  That's what is causing the extra pain!"

For a fleeting moment of perhaps a few days, we thought she could really still be Stage One.  And during that moment, the situation seemed manageable, bearable, and slightly less scary.

But it was me who looked the doctor right in the eye at our next appointment and asked him what stage was my dear mother's cancer.

"Stage 4," he answered point blank.

Silence broken by winces of shock and then tears.  The three of us huddled in his little office, taping the whole conversation to fully comprehend all that he was saying later.

Any remaining hopes and dreams I had for my mother were crushed with two single words ~ Stage Four.

And so it turned out that the rib had broken from the lung cancer spreading to the bone. 

Both chemotherapy and radiation now were the plan.  And she dived right in as if the world still held all her hopes and dreams.  She believed in the 5% survival rate given to Stage 4 lung cancer patients.  She had to believe if not for herself then for her husband of nearly 34 years, her three grown children, and her two beloved grandsons.

Her Cancer Year had officially begun.  We packed our fears into our bags and traveled with her throughout this journey into this unknown world ~

Stage Four ~

Lie after Lie after Lie

People may wonder how these domestic violence cases often get dropped.  I can tell you why.

First, I was forced to make payments for the lawyer and the bail money.  One day, I even dropped a check by the lawyer's office on Water Street and handed a check for $1000 directly to the receptionist.  Nearly half my pay before taxes.  I wonder what that receptionist thought of a domestic violence victim bringing in a check to her batterer's lawyer.  Something tells me I was not the first.

Then came the district attorney.  He needed a letter of explanation.  Of why I was changing my story.  A detailed explanation.  All typed up and fancy.  I wonder if I still have that word document on an old computer file somewhere after I left my old office.

Good thing I am a good writer.  Good thing I took acting all through elementary, junior high, and high school.  Because I sure gave the performance of my life that day in the county building.  Oh yes, I was a very good actress.

I had practice with Good Cop/Bad Cop two years earlier.  But this time the District Attorney was mostly All Bad Cop.

He was all over me that November Day in 2003.

Why was I changing my story?  Am I telling the truth?  How could the head bashing not be domestic violence?  What really happened that night?

I need that word document to remember how clever I was to create a scene where I was the crazy one ~ out of control ~ that the head bashing was an accident  ~ only a mere accident ~ all three blows to my head ~ only an accident, yes, an accident ~ all because I was out of control that night of August 22, 2003.

I rounded up a freaky psychiatrist ~ the one who prescribed Zoloft in my fourth attempt to handle the anxiety of domestic violence ~ told him to write a note saying I could have a bad reaction from missing a dose ~ that I was out of contol ~ yes, just missing one dose caused it ~ yes, missing a dose could make me feel out of control ~ enough to have someone accidentally bash my head into a wall when trying to restrain me.

So there it was.  A psychiatrist agreeing to write such a note ~ all for the price of another $100 visit ~ note written and attached to word document taking it all back ~ it never happened the way I said it happened ~ No, Mr. D.A., it never happened.

"What about the 911 call?" he asked.

Because 911 does not lie.

"I don't know why I called 911.  Must have been the missed dose of my medication making me think something bad was happening to me.  Yes, I forgot to take my Zoloft that day."

Over and over again.  Lie and lie after lie.

"I forgot to take my Zoloft that day.  He was not trying to hurt me.  He was trying to help me.  He thought I was hysterical.  Oh, yes, and that's why he kept throwing water all over me.  I was definitely hysterical."

"Did he make you say this to me?" he demanded.

"No," I looked him straight in the eye, emotionless, as if I were the one who should have been on trial.

Over and over again.  Lie after lie after lie.

"No, nothing happened.  Nothing happened.  Nothing happened.  It was all my fault.  I was hysterical."

He looked me in the eye and knew I was lying.  Now just as emotionless as me.

He bowed down and dropped the case.

Wiped the blood off his hands.

And said goodbye.

August 22, 2003

Thursday started out with warm Felton sunshine peeking through the redwood trees.  

But soon a dark cloud of fear took a hold me of me, and I knew something bad was going to happen that beautiful summer day.  

Before I left for work, we got word that she was loose.  That she "escaped" ~ walked right out of the Sunflower House in downtown Santa Cruz ~ in violation of her probation to finish an alcohol and drug treatment program.

I knew it was just a matter of time ~ minutes ~ hours ~ before our lives crossed again ~ as she always came back ~ to the place where all her troubles began again after a few failed attempts at sobriety.

She was his housemate when I met him.  A single mother and young baby from the midwest.  Out to California to begin a new life ~ after drugs and alcohol had destroyed her life back in Arkansas.

Naturally, I befriended her as I did all of the newcomers from his A.A. and N.A. programs.  Even though I had never touched drugs and alcohol in my 36 1/2 years, these newcomers and old-timers alike were practically the only consistent connection to the outside world I had during my time spent in the Santa Cruz Mountains.

I went to work and came back by 6 p.m.  Still no word from her.  Where is she? I wondered.  Would she come here to hide?  Would she turn herself in?  Would the police come looking for her here?  As they had been called so many times before when she lived here in 2001-2002. 

I went to bed and could not sleep, wondering if she had made her way to San Lorenzo Valley yet.  Or maybe she had finally skipped town all together ~ since technically she was a fugitive again ~ there was a warrant out for her arrest ~ all because she gave up trying to get clean and sober as mandated by the courts.  I wondered what drugs she had found before she found us.

I suddenly sprang up in bed, awakened by the sound of pounding on the heavy green door in the master bedroom.

"Stella! Stella! Stella! Let me in! Let me in!" she demanded.

I recognized the sound of her voice.  I knew it was her.  I recognized the sound of drugs and alcohol in her voice as well. 

I screamed back, "No! No! No! I can't let you in ~ the police are looking for you."

"Let me in! Let me in!," she pleaded again, "Stella, let me in!"

"I won't! I can't! I can't do it!" I shouted back through the heavy door that separated us.

He came at me from behind.  Grabbed me on each side of my head.  And with a force beyond anything I had ever felt before ~ slammed my head into the heavy wood.

Slam! Slam! Slam!

Over and over again.  Instead of the door being slammed in her face, my head was being slammed into the knotty pine.  I spun around and felt the abrupt splash of ice cold water on my face.  

Over and over again.  Water being thrown all over me. 

He's finally going to do it, I thought to myself, he's finally going to kill me.  It's finally happening.  The kind of abuse I always feared would happen.  The life-threatening kind.

I wanted my mother in that moment.  To protect me from this man.  Keep me alive, just this once, Mama, I prayed.  Mama, I love you.  I need you here.  Watch over me, Mama.  Mama!

God, are you there?  Are you with me?  God, please help me, God.  Please help me now.  I have to get away.  I have to find my way out of this room, God.  Can you hear me, God?  God, keep me safe.  Dear Lord, please spare me.

I somehow made my way to the kitchen away from him ~ my head was pounding ~ I could not turn my neck ~ fumbled for the phone in the dining room in the dark ~ Where was he? Why had he not followed me in there? I found the phone ~ the same one he used to do all his motorcycle business ~ I thought of all those calls he made to sell those motorcycles as I dialed those numbers I could never dial before ~ 911 ~ I found myself back in the kitchen  ~ looking out the bay windows ~ he was outside on the driveway as the sheriff drove up ~ I watched at what I had done ~ bringing the sheriffs to our doorstep at 3:30 in the morning ~ what had I done?

I thought, "Oh, My God.  I finally did it.  I finally called 911."

And where was she now?  Nowhere in sight.  Where had she gone?

There were two sheriffs.  One to talk with him.  And one to talk with me.  

A sheriff probably just slightly younger than me.  A boyish face.  Kind eyes.  He examined my head.  Could find not any open cuts.  I told him I could not turn my head.  

"Why are you all wet?" he asked delicately.

"He would not stop throwing water all over me," I answered weakly.  I told him I was not hysterical.  That I was only trying to tell the woman with a warrant out her arrest that she could not hide at our place.  

He talked with me about my wound.  He called it a "closed head injury" ~ asked if I wanted an ambulance.  I told him, "No."

"I have to take your picture, " he informed me, "Water can also be used as a weapon."  He explained that heavy water can be used to block vision and keep someone from escaping the episode of abuse.  He took out the polaroid camera.  And snapped away.

Snap! Snap! Snap!

He let me look at the images.  Of me.  Twenty minutes after having my head bashed into a wall and then being showered with water.  I looked at my eyes in that sorrowful picture.  Full of fear and fatigue.  My hair and clothes matted and damp with water.

No visual bruises.

No, they were hidden beneath my long brown hair.  

How convenient.  Bruises hidden so my secret stayed hidden.

Except from the kind officer who took my picture and let me see it.  

Let me see The Face of Abuse.  

A Harrowing Reminder of What Lie Ahead.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dedicated to the Santa Cruz County Sheriff's Office, the 911 dispatcher who took my call and stayed on the line until help arrived, and the kind officer who showed such tenderness and compassion during the darkest moment of my life.  Thank you for saving my life.