

# Best Forgotten

LL Brand

1st Edition Published by LLB Books, Canada

Copyright 2013 by C. Poulin

All Rights Reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher

ISBN 978-0-9878499-0-8

All names in this book have been changed in order to protect the privacy of said parties

# For Lynda

For never letting me forget who I am

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Prologue

April 2nd, 2011

Memory can be a funny thing, at times acting seemingly of its own accord. What we can recall one day, or even minute, can be gone the next and without any rhyme or reason as to why we have forgotten. Repetitious actions that we do on a daily basis, like brushing our teeth or making our bed, will usually be the first memory's to go as they are deemed insignificant to our mind and therefore pushed aside to make room for more important events. But what are memories though? Simply put, they are a recollection of past events based on our own personal experience. In other words, what I recall of a dinner out with friends will be somewhat different than what my friends remember due to my mind signaling out certain aspects, different than others, that seem worth remembering to me. When something substantial happens, or maybe we experience a traumatic event, our minds will automatically make room for these memories, as they will be considered necessary to store. What happens though when these influential memories that have helped dramatically in molding us to become who we are, and the ability to remember new ones is suddenly and without warning taken from us? We begin to lose ourselves. How can we not when we cannot recall who we are? I'm not talking about full blown amnesia but try imagining what it would be like to forget the birth of your child, the first year of your child's life, or even years and years of your own life. This is what has happened to me, as it has to so many others who have been given Electroconvulsive therapy (ECT) while being told that we would only suffer temporary short term memory loss.

Some recollections are hazy, where I can almost touch them but they are just out of reach, while others are so foreign to me that when others tell me of them, I only feel as if I am hearing about someone else's life. Another problem comes with what memories that we do retain becoming completely jumbled up within each other and we can no longer make sense out of any of them at all. It is a lifelong battle that we cannot win because there is absolutely no way for us to get our lost recollections back. Instead we are forced to go through life feeling only partly "here" or somewhat "ourselves" but with always knowing there are huge pieces missing. I "think" I used to be funny, making people laugh a lot. I "thought" I was considered quite intelligent at one time but now I'm not so sure. I have lost so many parts of what made me, me, that I now live as a ghost of my former self. Unfortunately for me, years after being put through numerous ECT treatments, and a victim of its effects, I also developed Meningitis which can have an effect on a person's ability to retain memories. These though are only two very small pieces of my story but are necessary for you to be aware of so you can fully understand my difficulties in writing this account down, but write it down I must. For I have been told that mine is one that needs to be told, a story worth the telling in order to show just how strong we humans can be and how much we can survive. To be fair though it will also show how difficult some lessons are to learn and how poor choices can seriously affect our lives and those of others as well as our futures. This is my story and in the telling it is my hope that not only will you have a fraction more understanding into the minds of those effected with mental illness, but also, maybe, as one of these extraordinary people, so will I.

My name is Laura Lee Brand, but most people just call me Lee. At the age of forty five I stand tall with my substantial five foot height and wear billowing clothes that used to fit my seventy pound overweight body. Since losing over sixty pounds I am somewhat prouder of how I look but nothing has ever managed to take away such obvious plainness I represent. My shoulder length, unstyled hair was once a beautiful shade of red, but now is dulled by age and appears almost brown, with many strings of white starting to invade. My face, which at one time had confused onlookers when they heard my children call me mom, thinking I too was one of the group of kids, now shows the ravages of time. Lines are now etched across my forehead, small X's live all along underneath my eyes and wrinkles surround my mouth due to years of being a smoker. No, I had never been one that would turn heads and it seems I would always remain instead one of the invisible people so easily forgotten or ignored.

Having suffered from mental illness since approximately the age of twelve, as a child I was diagnosed as suffering from Manic Depression, also known as Bipolar Disorder. By the age of sixteen, and with the change of doctors as I had "outgrown" my child psychiatrist, I was re-diagnosed as having a Severe Personality Disorder, with sociopathic traits. This analysis would stick with me until I once again changed doctors at around the age of twenty three. At this point I am unsure of what the current doctor deemed me as. Many years later however, at around the age of forty one, I was seen by two psychiatrists over the period of a few days. Both concurred that I did in fact have what had been coined as Borderline Personality Disorder, or BPD.

That being a very simplistic reference to my mental health over the last thirty years, now let me acquaint you with a small part of my 'normal' history. I was adopted as a baby, brought home to a family with one other child, a daughter eleven years older than I. At the age of nineteen I was married to a man eighteen years my senior and gave birth to our first of three children eleven months later. By the age of twenty three I had had my three children, two boys and a girl. My youngest child, at the age of three months, was diagnosed with Severe Spastic Quadraparetic Cerebral Palsy. I left my husband shortly after our sons diagnosis and began along the long, hard and unknown road of raising three children on my own. Seven years later I married for the second time. This would last only two years. From that point onward, I have been completely alone, without so much as a coffee date for a total of eleven years and counting...

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Chapter 1

I had a good upbringing in so much as I can remember. I was placed with a close, loving family when I was a baby and had an older sister who loved me, a father with an amazing sense of humour, and a mother who doted on our every move. There were trips to the mountains in the summer, with lots of hiking and trips back there in the winter for skiing. I was in Girl Guides and softball, with my dad coming to almost all my games and cheering me on. I was also blessed with the most amazing friend that I met at the age of six, Lynda. Always towering over me, by adulthood, Lynda stood six feet tall. Her thick dark brown hair, streaked with blond, was cut shoulder length. While neither one of us were startling beauty queens, Lynda was definitely the prettier of the two of us. With high cheekbones, deep, dark eyes that could look into your soul and naturally soft, tanned colored skin she turned heads wherever she went. We were inseparable until, at the age of twenty, she moved away to go to University. Yes, life was good when I was young, and I didn't have a worry in the world. I had my whole life ahead of me and a future that was only bound by my own limited imagination. The only downfalls of those years was that I had nightmares quite often that would drive me into my parents room at night and I suffered from Asthma, so would have attacks on and off. I became ill quite easily, getting colds and such that would turn into pneumonia, therefore I would end up in the hospital for days at a time.

What happened in my pre-teens to change all this happiness I cannot tell you, but change it did, and very dramatically, as to alter my life from that point on. My dreams and hopes for my future slowly fell away and became distant, faded memories. Surviving each and every day free of self-ridicule and loathing became a challenge and eventually an impossibility. Unable to understand what had transpired to create such a difference in their daughter, my parents did what any good parent would do, they took me to see a psychiatrist...

I was twelve years old, sitting in a waiting room, my mom and dad were both there. I hated it there and despised the doctor I was forced to see. They said he would help me understand my feelings better and teach me to control them too. I didn't want his help; I just wanted to be left alone. Looking across at my parents I almost snickered at what I saw. There's mom, face set in a proper lady's attitude pretending to be reading a magazine, acting as if everything is normal and this is where we are supposed to be. Then there is dad. Hands clasped, resting on his ample stomach, staring off into space and yet managing to look angry as hell, as if he is being extremely inconvenienced. As if this was my idea. Blinking, I changed my view to the only other occupant in the room, a boy of approximately sixteen years. He had light brown hair, short all around but with long bangs hanging down over his right eye. He was quite skinny and his face showed the signs of teenage years, being covered in blemishes. What's unique about him though was that he never looked up. Instead he sat with his head hanging down, arms crossed, resting on his knees and he rocked, up and down, up and down. I watched for quite some time to see if he would look up at me, blink, anything, but he didn't. He just stayed in that position, never faltering and forever rocking. Looking away, I realized that he was giving me the creeps and felt myself moving closer to my mom.

Dr. Kincaid, now there was a arrogant British ass I would never forget. He was tall, over six foot, white hair combed across the top of his head, overweight by a good sixty, seventy pounds and he always wore a sweater, no matter what time of year and it was almost always light blue in color. Sitting in his office was like being up on the stand during a murder trial. He sat on one side of the room, slightly off to the left, arms crossed across his chest and looked down his nose at us all, but most especially at me, making sure I knew who was in charge and boy did he have that look down pat. Even with his holier than thou attitude, he would still manage to make Mom and Dad feel as if everything they did was in line, perfect, acceptable, but for me, I was inconsiderate, idiotic, and just plain selfish. How dare I not think about how it made my parents feel when I looked in the mirror and saw only a loser. Who did I think I was writing about not really understanding who I was, or what I was, except that I was worthless and one the world could definitely do without? Or how did it reflect on my parents when others found out I had to see a psychiatrist? Did they even ever tell anyone, or was it just kept as a family secret? The ridiculous part of all this was at the end of each session, Dr. Kincaid would hand me a dollar, as if he was buying my agreement that should I ever take that step across the line and even talk about attempting suicide I would be coming to live under him on his unit at the hospital for an indefinite amount of time. What he obviously didn't realize was that to someone as depressed and terrified of life as I was, this meant absolutely nothing.

Even to this day, I have no idea what created such terror in me as I have of the dark, the unknown. I have had these hindrances since being a small child. So many nights I would wake up, paralyzed by my fear, calling out to my dad, begging him to allow me to come and sleep beside him. How many times did I try and get out of having to go downstairs to retrieve something for my mom, only to end up intentionally talking very loudly to her as I went down the stairs in order to cover any sounds I might not be able to place and to slightly alleviate my fright of what lay ahead. Usually, if not initially known, after some form of therapy, a person will discover what started a particular fear or unreasonable feeling albeit child abuse, an accident or possibly a death in the family. For me there has never been such a discovery and maybe that is why to this day I still am held hostage by these trepidations.

I have also been cursed with an incredible but unreasonable fear of confrontation. At the slightest hint of discord it creates such anxiety in me that it becomes difficult to function normally. My stomach ties up in knots so much so that it strangely feels empty, my hands begin to shake, and my mind becomes frozen so that I cannot seem to put two words together coherently.

Put these apprehensions together into one person, add hormonal changes, and depression and you have a very volatile teenager. By the age of fourteen I was so mentally unstable that Dr. Kincaid's warning was nothing more than a whisper in the wind.

I don't remember how, but one day, while riding the bus, I had ended up with a full bottle of Tylenol and a can of pop. Not thinking straight, or actually maybe I was, I ingested all the pills right in front of a friend of mine. Weirdly, she had just sat there and quietly watched me take each and every pill but afterwards she insisted I immediately go with her to the closest hospital. Where was her mind at, not trying to stop me? Had this question crossed my mind that day? Of course not. Only now, in hindsight, can I imagine how she felt about me after I had put my life in her hands.

I didn't get to leave the hospital that day; in fact, I wouldn't leave for many months. True to his word, Dr. Kincaid, with my parents' permission, had me admitted to his child psychiatric ward at the same hospital. It was a small unit, consisting of one hallway, approximately ten semi private rooms, a tiny kitchen, a gathering area, and nursing station. Let us not forget the single most important feature, the padded room. Yes, they really do exist and yes it was used, a lot. Seriously now, ask yourself, can you even fathom putting a child in a padded locked room, with only a tiny window in the door too far up for a child to see through, for any period of time, let alone an hour, or two, or even three? To them it was called the 'QT Room' and they needed very little excuse to utilize it. To us it was scary, plain and simple. Being put it a room like that, well it's sound proof, which only causes your ears to seem to ring so loud that you want to cover them with your hands to stop the incessant buzzing. And it's so isolated from the real world that you can't help but fear they will forget your there, or that you even exist. Sure they had a system, a chart that we would follow that was all based on our individual behaviour with possible rewards, but that had next to no effect, it was this room that ruled us, completely.

I would soon discover that my good doctor's way of treating me was to put me on a cocktail of medications that would change weekly, never allowing my body to adjust to the current ones. It was a time of rainbows and razorblades, whichever way my narcotized mind chose to go. One would think it shouldn't be hard to cooperate when you're so stoned your mind is numb, but you would be wrong. Being drugged up gave us courage to speak our minds, because it wasn't possible for us to reason that we should really shut up. We were given a pill cup full in the morning, and then again in the evening as the a.m. ones began to wear off, assuring that we would never have the actual ability to fight the harsh treatment we were fed day and night.

Harsh. Yes that is a good word to describe what we went through. I remember there was one boy there, about the age of ten, who most would call a nerd. He was as nice as he was homely, but he had one downfall that the nursing staff used against him constantly. For some unknown reason to me, this boy always walked hunched over, as if he was ninety years old. For the life of me though, I cannot see why this would be call for punishment, but it always was. Every single time he was caught walking this way, he was grabbed forcibly and pushed sternly into the QT room for an indefinite amount of time, varying on his reaction to being in there. Whether for attention, or maybe due to a deformity, or just pure laziness, I still cannot see how this could justify the treatment he suffered. He hated that room, just as much as we all did, so why, in God's name, would he continue to do something intentionally that would guarantee his return to those white padded walls? I don't know how much time in total he spent in there, but I do know it was a lot more than I. I was four years older and probably a hundred times tougher and I still shudder when I think of my time closed up in the QT room.

I really don't know what I did that was so terrible to Dr. Kincaid, but it really felt like he had it out for me. Every Friday, at around dinner time all the kids would go home for the weekend, giving them a piece of reality to help them get through the next week. Well, all the kids except me. I got sent to an adult psychiatric ward from Friday afternoon until Sunday evening, after supper. I have no idea why this was. Maybe it was my parents' choice to have me stay. Maybe it was Dr. Kincaid's. Neither party could have a clue the damage those weekends would do to me.

First off let me start by saying that no child, no matter what age, whether they are six or even sixteen-year-old, should ever have to see and hear the things I did during those three days every week. Sure people might assume a teenager could handle it, being as they seem to think nothing can harm them and they rule the world, but they would be dead wrong. It was a complete eye opener for me into the world of the truly bizarre and deranged. Being from a middle class home in a good neighbourhood I had had no previous experience with the legitimately mentally ill. There are certain incidents that stand out for me as I found them extremely disturbing and which created my ideal stereotype of the insane. Before laying open some of these stories, I want you to know that after approximately four weekends on that adult unit, during my time there, I began to refuse to leave my room for any reason what so ever until it was time for me to return to the Child unit.

Close to the nurses' station, on this unit, there was a chalkboard off to one side of the hallway. On my first weekend there I was told by one of the staff that it was for the patients to write or draw anything they feel as long as we didn't use any cursing or sexual context. At first this didn't really appeal to me, but during my second day there, and after watching numerous patients walk up to it and randomly write things down, I got an inclination to do the same. For me, during those times, what was most important to my retaining my sanity was music. I listened to many different groups, but my favourites were Boston, Chris De Burg, and Iron Maiden. One song in particular seemed to stand out for me, although now in hindsight I'm sure it wasn't the best choice. Not really thinking about consequences though or what my words might mean to others, I approached the board and began to write the starting lyrics to the song. Within seconds of my finishing, and as I was walking away, I was startled into shock by the blood curdling screams of a female patient right behind me. Turning to see what was causing her to yell like that I was again stunned into silence and unable to move by what was transpiring within two feet of me. This woman, who was approximately forty five years old, was writhing around uncontrollably on the floor like an electrocuted snake. As she flung her body around, her hands tore at her head, pulling out huge chunks of dark, stringy hair and skin each time, leaving blood trails running down her arms and onto the floor. Her eyes were open so wide they appeared to be bulging right out of the sockets and spit was flying away from her face as she continued to howl and shriek sounding as if a dog was being torn apart by an angry bear. It took the nursing staff a good three minutes to get her sedated and under control, which during the whole time I stood within arm's reach of this tormented soul and yet I was completely helpless. By the time it was over I was shaking so badly it looked as if I had just developed Parkinson's disease. Tears quietly ran down my cheeks but I was incapable to even raise my hand to wipe them away. As they took her away to her room, I continued to stand there, staring straight ahead at the awful images still flying through my head. I really don't know how long I stood there, but eventually a very soft spoken, kind nurse came and helped me to my room, giving me sedation and leaving me to my own nightmares. Had those words been so bad as to bring on such a terrifying fit in a human being? I knew they had, but being young and naive I couldn't understand why as they were right out of the Holy Bible. The words? They go like this: "Woe to you oh earth and sea for the devil sends the beast with wrath because he knows the time is short. Let him who hath understanding reckon the number of the beast, for it is a human number, its number is six hundred and sixty-six."

I believe it was my fourth weekend on that same unit when another incident so traumatizing happened that I still feel as if it happened yesterday. After that first serious episode I had pretty much kept to myself during the three long days each week, only reading and listening to music in my room. I had seen many other strange things occur outside my doorway but had learned to squeeze my eyes shut and turn up my Discman. On this particular Saturday evening I decided it was quiet enough outside my room to venture out for a short time and stretch my legs. I wasn't allowed off the unit, but I could walk the halls like so many others did, day in and day out. The layout was very simple, it was a perfect L shaped hall with the entrance at the top of the L, the nursing station right at the bottom of the vertical line and a recreation room at the end of the corridor. After walking up and down the L three times I decided to go take a look at what was in the rec room, thinking of maybe finding a new book to read.

As I entered I saw immediately that I wasn't alone; there was a man standing at the pool table, cue in hand. He was about five foot ten inches tall, greasy brown hair that stuck to his head, a beer belly on him you could rest a plate on, and beady little eyes that seemed to look right into me. Turning away, somewhat nervous and creeped out, I intended to just ignore him and hurriedly go straight to the little three shelf, overfilled bookcase. My hope was to try and find something other than a romance novel and one that wasn't missing the first two chapters from misuse and age. As I began to cross the room he walked towards me, stopped just short of standing right in front of me and surprisingly quietly and politely asked me to play some pool with him. My immediate thought was "Oh God, why did I come in here?" but just as quickly, I realized that I was bored, and somewhat lonely, and he did seem to be alright despite his outward appearance. Shrugging my shoulders I looked up at him and said, "Sure, why not?" Apparently happy with my response, he smiled and began to rack up the balls, motioning for me to go ahead and break. For ten minutes or so we played in complete silence, other than the odd muttered, "Nice shot" or "Oh, too bad." Looking back now though, had I really been paying closer attention, I think I would have realized I was being watched, leered at and looked over head to toe.

As I lined up my next shot I heard the first real words come out of his mouth, and there was nothing quiet, or polite about them, in fact they sounded almost sinister in tone. "I know your type you know."

A little taken aback and a tad shaky, I asked "Oh? And what type would that be?"

I took my shot and missed.

Lining up his next shot, he says, "You know what type I mean."

"No, I don't actually." I move around the table to get ready for my next turn, but also putting a bit more distance between us. He takes his shot and sinks the cue ball, intentionally I believe.

Standing up he continues, "Yup, you're just that type alright, I knew it when you walked in." With the cue ball being pocketed I was forced to retrieve it and go to the head of the table, which just happened to be close to where he was standing. Feeling somewhat distressed, I turned my back on him, trembling slightly as I bent over to aim my cue and hearing the nerves in my own voice I said, "I really don't know what you're talking about." Taking a deep breath, I stood up slowly, and as I turned around I found myself staring right into those squinted, dark holes he called eyes. Quickly, before I could react, he took a final step forward pinning me tightly between him and the rail of the pool table. Standing that close to him, my senses were inundated with the stench of his sweat. His bad breath almost made me gag. Breathing thickly into my face he continued on, "You're just a slut. A slutty little whore like all them teenage girls." Now I was scared. Struggling to get away from him I pushed hard against his chest with my arms, using the pool table behind me as leverage, but it did no good, he was just too big. Becoming panicky, my voice almost gone with fear, I barely whispered, "Let Me Go!"

Sneering at me, spittle covering his lips, he rasped, "Why little whore? You got someone to go meet? Someone who's waiting for you?"

Unable to stop myself, my emotions on overdrive, tears started to flow down my cheeks. Unwilling to let this freak get the best of me I finally managed to choke out a scream, "Help! Someone help me please!" After what felt like minutes, but I'm sure was only seconds, I heard the clear footfall sound of people running towards us from the hallway.

When the three nurses came barrelling into the room they would find me still being restrained by this asshole with his arms on either side of me, holding me in place. The single male nurse rushed over immediately, grabbed the man's arms and pulled them away, meanwhile warning him of the consequences should he resist. Strangely enough he didn't fight them at all, but instead just stood there, staring me down and grinning like a Cheshire cat. Shuddering outwardly, I slowly reached behind me to the pool table and wrapped my fingers around the end of a cue stick. Lifting the stick off the table I brought it forward and raised it above my shoulder like a baseball bat, preparing to swing the end of it straight across his face, wiping the grin off it permanently. The stick shook in my hands like the cane of a palsied senior as I stood there, watching him, wanting nothing more than to take that swing, but knowing that I never would. The third nurse to enter the room came and stood in between us, pleading at me with her eyes speaking politely, but firmly to drop the cue. As the water left my eyes and my vision cleared I focused on her and saw that it was the same nurse who had helped me three weeks ago after the lady freaked out over my writing.

"Come on, Lee, put the cue stick down and let's get you to your room." Reaching out, she gently covered my clenched hands with hers and carefully, slowly helped me to loosen my grip and then release the stick to her. Once again I was led away and into my room by this amazingly kind nurse. After helping me change into my pyjamas, she tucked me into my bed, handed me an Ativan to take and told me a doctor would be in soon to make sure I was okay. I didn't want her to leave. I was terrified to be alone, but I knew she had a job to do and I wasn't the only patient. Instead of asking her to stay, I watched her leave, then continued to stare at the door, unable to tear my eyes away, too scared to look away or close them.

The doctor would come and go, letting me know what I already knew, that physically I was fine, but emotionally I needed to just calm down and allow myself to rest. That same nurse would come back to check up on me many times that night until I couldn't fight the drugs anymore and fell into a fitful sleep. I would see her every weekend after that happened and soon began to trust her more than anyone in that hospital. Weekend nights, when sleep just wouldn't come, she would take me off the unit for a walk and allow me to sit on a bench, having a smoke, just enjoying being away from hell, if only for a few minutes. I still remember her name and can still see her face. At one point, before I left for good, she had given me a photograph of herself and her husband, in order for me to remember her by. I carried it with me for years until one day, not knowing how it happened, I realized it was gone. If it wasn't for her though, I really don't think I would have made it through my time there without losing some part of my sanity. My incident with that man in the rec room did however affect me more than I had thought it could have. I began to worry constantly about how I appeared to others and would question my actions anytime I was around a male. Unknowingly I also believe this is where my distrust and fear of men started. It would root itself deep inside my consciousness, forever changing who I was to become.

During my stay in the hospital I would also meet two others who would play their roles in transforming me from a somewhat normal, albeit depressed teenager into a completely negative minded, anxiety ridden shell of a human being. One was another psychiatrist whom I was forced to see during the weekends and who would eventually replace Dr. Kincaid as my primary shrink, although I have no idea why. He is an Eating Disorder specialist and I did not have that problem. What I do know about him is that Dr. Parker was as "off" as his patients, in my humble, layman's opinion. A chain smoker the likes that I have never seen before or since; he would have up to three going at any given time, one in the ashtray, one in his hand and one hanging from his lips. As he would talk, the cigarette bouncing around with the formation of each word, smoke would rise up and into his eyes causing him to blink furiously. Sporting all one length, over the ears greasy black hair, and always wearing a rumpled, unbuttoned lab coat, he gave the impression of a true mad scientist. His idea of therapy was to ridicule, yell, and degrade you to tears on a regular basis and he had no qualms in kicking you out of his office if you didn't agree with him one hundred percent. Simply put, he is not a nice man and should not have been working with troubled minds that are already so precarious and full of self-doubt. Yes, there might be something to say for a doctor who is straightforward and honest about your condition but there is also a way to go about it and being downright mean and unprofessional is not it.

The other individual who seriously affected me was the Occupational Therapist. Two or three times every week a couple of us would be sent to his area of the hospital to participate in a purposeful activity to help us learn healthier ways to deal with our problems. His name was John Halbert and over the course of my stay on the child unit he would befriend my roommate and me. He was a bit different, but not in a bad way. Quite tall, well over six feet with a thin, tanned physique and short, well groomed black hair. He really wasn't that bad looking, at least for an older guy. He did however have one quality that couldn't be ignored and always distracted you from seeing him as he stood before you and that was his voice. I have no idea why, but for whatever reason John's vocal cords just didn't work right and sadly produced a very high pitched, almost squeaky sound when he spoke instead of the deep, masculine one we tend to associate with a male. Aside from our struggle to keep from giggling whenever he spoke, as kids seem to possess no tact, we grew to look forward to going to see him and all it entailed. Our time with John turned out to be a time of escape from the realities of the hospital. He was everything the rest of the staff was not. He was kind, funny, and generous. He treated us like human beings. He was nice. While we still had to partake in the activities, we were also allowed unlimited coffee, boundless conversation and as many smoke breaks as we desired. We quickly grew to like John, to trust him, to confide in him. Simply put, John was safe. What I couldn't have fathomed at that time was that one day that faith would be trampled over and torn apart like a dandelion in a field full of stampeding cows.

I remained on that child psychiatric ward for many months, never once leaving the hospital. I wasn't allowed visitors, except for once a week, on Thursday nights, family only, for a short time. I began to lose touch with my few close friends, and ended up withdrawing inside myself even more. I would finish my grade ten there, with thanks going to the teacher we were blessed with and his awesome sense of humour. Upon returning to high school, it would take a only a few days before I quit. Word had gone rampant around the school about where I had been the last year and the results were instantaneous. What seemed like everyone that knew me or of me had now labelled me as 'crazy.' I couldn't even walk down the halls without the whispered comments behind covered mouths accompanied by not so well covered up pointing in my direction. Or for those not so shy, there was the loud heckling, catcalling and outright jeering. A person can only take so much ridicule before responding and my way of dealing with it was to walk away and never look back. So, all those months of trying to learn to like myself and cope with life's troubles had been stamped out in a matter of days. I would forever remain stereotyped and this would, in the end, convince me too of my instability.

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Chapter 2

Trust is a type of confidence we learn early on in life. As we grow so does our understanding of the word, and its cause and effects. We learn to trust in our parents, to care for us, that they will not hurt us. We have a certainty we place in our teachers to treat us fairly and without prejudice. And hopefully we come to believe in the general good of people as a whole, and that everyone deserves our certitude when first we meet. But what happens when someone, a professional, takes advantage of that faith and abuses it in the most horrible way imaginable? Do we lose that basic trust in mankind? Yes we do, especially when it happens more than once.

Just over a year had passed after leaving the child psychiatric unit. I was sixteen having coffee with friends in a local restaurant when I realised the voice I had heard behind me was that of John. Being the only positive memory of my time of incarceration, I immediately went over to say hi, never wondering if it was appropriate or not. He was sitting up at the counter, with his back to me, chatting with the gentleman seated beside him so never saw me coming. Gently I placed my hand on his shoulder and quietly said hello. As he turned and recognized who had approached him, he smiled, and just as I remembered him, he was able to instantly put me at ease with his apparent interest in me and acceptance of who I was. Over the next couple of weeks I would see him at the same restaurant almost daily and we would spend at least thirty minutes just chatting about life. It became a time I would look forward to, having this person of such intelligence, integrity and liberal thinking interested in me, in my thoughts, my life. And quite quickly, as I had over a year ago, I came to trust him implicitly. I also know that along with this trust, deep down, I had developed a full on crush, but what girl wouldn't when such a man shows so much interest in them? Ah, the innocence of youth and how easily we give ourselves over to the fate of others. Our inherent need for acceptance, for attention and love from anyone can become such obstacles that they entirely block our view of reality and seem to disable our own built in warning signals. It was this lack of vision, this blindness of the obvious that allowed me to accept a ride from John one bitter, winter evening.

I felt no fear getting into John's vehicle, only an approval for his taste in transportation. For in the eighties owning a "Boogie Van" was still a sign of belief in a free world, free of restrictions, inhibitions as it had been in the sixties and seventies, maybe just a little less so as they were slowly going out of style. Still, once again he had strengthened my view of his apparent unconventional thinking. We chatted calmly, comfortable with each other's company as he headed towards my destination. The going was slow as the roads were covered in the icy remnants of an earlier snowstorm and as I felt more and more of the heat coming from the vent blowing directly at me, I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes, only intending to enjoy the warmth before going back out into the frigid night. I'm sure now that it was a number of different elements that allowed me to doze off that night...the heat, the comfort of the plush seat, the faith I had in my friendship with John. Waking with a start, blurry eyed and embarrassed, I sat straight up and began to apologize. As my eyes cleared though I soon realized not only was I nowhere near my stop, but I was no longer in the city, instead heading down some country road God only knows where.

I looked around frantically, trying to get some sort of bearings on where we were. Just as I was about to question John, we came to a stop at what appeared to be the end of a dead end road. I looked over at him, knowing I was showing the confusion and fear I was feeling all over my face and in my eyes, but I didn't care. If he was truly my friend, he would understand and have a good explanation for all this, then take me to meet Lynda. Instead of explaining anything though, he smiled at me as if nothing was amiss, moved to go into the back of the vehicle, and grabbed my wrist dragging me along with him. Initially he caught me off guard so I found myself allowing him to pull me away from my front seat. I mean seriously, this was John, he is my friend, I can trust him. Wrong. So awfully, terribly, horribly wrong. As he pulled me into the back, he swung me around like a rag doll, banging my head into the side of the van so hard I instantly felt myself getting dizzy and losing focus. Ignoring my cry of pain, he pushed me down onto the bed with so much force that it made me bounce up in the air for a mere second before I fell back into the blankets. Trying to move my shaken body, I attempted to haul myself up. That was when I heard the only words he would say that night to me, "Oh no you don't," and he pushed me back down. Climbing on top of me, he laid his body along top of mine, letting his whole weight fall into me, crushing me, taking my air away. Panic hit me like a flash of cold water in your face does, shocking you into an adrenalin rushed state. God knows I tried to move my legs, to be able to get him in the groin, or to move my hands, to lash at him with my nails, but it was all pointless. I wasted what energy I had doing everything I could to move, to get him off me, to hurt him and all the bastard did was lay there, holding me down and laughed repeatedly in his knowledge of my helplessness. Having no other recourse left to save me, I screamed, the most blood curdling, someone save me scream possible, but he only laughed louder, knowing there wasn't anyone within miles that would hear me. Still, on I screamed, not stopping until my throat was raw, my lungs compressed and emptied. My heart pounded through my chest, but what had been a hammering incessant beat had now turned into a slow throbbing troubled one that I could hear in my ears. With sweat pouring off me, showing the exertion I had used, and the terror I was entrapped within, I felt tears begin to slide down my cheeks, landing on the soft blanket lying underneath me. Now that he knew I was spent, and that I was his, he slowly took his time to remove my clothing, piece by piece, relishing in his victory as only an animal could.

I lost my virginity that night, leaving it along with a part of my soul behind as he finally dropped me off at a bus stop in town. He never threatened me if I should tell anyone, in fact he said not a word, but I guess he knew I never would. This man knew me as well as most people did, so he knew I was already broken inside and full of my own demons, why would I release another one into the real world? No, I knew as well as he did, I would never tell anyone. This was something I could never admit to having a part in. And I did feel I had played a part, a big one actually. After all, I had had a crush on him, had I not? So I must have unknowingly led him on but is this what I had wanted? Is this what I had dreamed of happening? No, oh my God no, but no one would see it that way. They would all see it as my own fault for spending time with him, "enticing" him. Yet I knew deep down, even with having a crush on him, I never did anything to lead him to believe that I wanted to go further than friendship. I had never hinted, nor acted in a sexual manner; that wasn't me at all. I was a tomboy, and a street kid. I didn't use my body to earn money, I didn't have any money. No, still I knew everyone would see it differently, they would believe it was my fault and God only knows, maybe they were right.

I never did meet Lynda that night, instead grabbing a bus back home. Later on I would make up some excuse why I never made it and Lynda would probably know it was a lie, but would accept it as she always did for me. I stopped going to that restaurant where I had been running into John all the time, finding instead another hangout where my friends and I could get away with paying for one coffee and drinking ten. I never saw him again, but I did have one incident that brought it all back as if it was yesterday.

Lynda and I were shopping in a big retail store in the mall, looking for makeup and clothes. Needing to cross the store we chose to shortcut it by going through the perfume section, even though it made our noses twitch and our eyes water. Half way across, as we passed by the men's cologne section, I stopped dead in my tracks. The smell that had halted me, tore at my insides making me feel ill. Shakily I looked around, trying to locate the fragrance as Lynda was questioning my obvious manic actions. Ignoring her I moved around until it was clear, and then walked straight ahead to a counter boasting a big display. There it was, right in front of me, advertising its "alluring" aroma with a picture of a half-dressed male. This was it. This was the scent of fear, the smell of defeat, the very essence of what had made me feel instantly sick to my stomach; this was the stench of John.

Chapter 3

Even after that incident, as a teenager, I would develop crushes on older men at least three more times. Why always the men, not the boys though, I still have no clear idea. One could argue I was searching for a father figure and maybe they would be right. First off, I was adopted. Does this play into it? I don't know, but growing up as a little girl I have only fond memories of my adoptive dad. He was funny, he was kind and soft spoken, never yelling and he was generous with all of us, as best as he could be. As good of a man that he was though, he was not perfect as we sometimes tend to see our fathers.

Dad had a drinking problem, as many men out of the Navy in the forties and fifties had. He was a Lamb's Navy Rum man which again wasn't surprising as rum was what the Navy served its men on the ships. He never became abusive though, not that I remember. He was a happy drunk, who tended to pass out on the floor, or outside our door where his friends would drop him off. Did this affect me in such a negative manner that I felt an unconscious need for a replacement figure? I am no professional but I would highly doubt it. At least not until I was a bit older.

I don't know when it started but at some point, in my life things changed for us all. I became hard to deal with, not being able to handle just normal life at home. Mom, not being able to deal with what I had become, turned to denial of all things that didn't fit into her perfect world in order to cope. Dad, on the other hand, turned into an ass. He went from being my friend, my confidant, my best supporter, to becoming my personal bully who had absolutely nothing nice to say to me and did things intentionally to hurt me mentally. Hence, from about the age of fifteen on, I could definitely see my need for a better, more understanding, kind father and it never changed until he was on his death bed twenty three years later.

Of the three other men that I developed a crush on, two would behave accordingly. One was a random guy who worked in a retail store where Lynda and I shopped frequently. The other was a gentleman I met in another city at a street church. Both of these gentlemen would become aware of my feelings, but also dealt with me properly, letting me down easy, explaining it could never happen, etc. I thank them both for their understanding and patience with a young confused girl and thinking of them still brings a smile to my face if not a little embarrassment.

I was not quite sixteen years old, and had nowhere to call home. After another one of the horrible mornings that Mom and I seemed destined to always have together, with Lynda standing in my entrance way waiting for me, mom ever so eloquently told me I was kicked out and to come at lunch to pick up my things. Slamming the door behind me, Lynda and I slowly made or way to school, shocked at what had just transpired. Lunchtime came and Lynda and I found ourselves back at my house ringing the doorbell because strangely the door was locked. After a few more tries and some banging on the door, we gave up and went to the next door neighbours to try calling. Mrs. Innes let us in and I tried calling home, but no one answered. Not knowing what else to do, I called my dad at work and told him I couldn't get in the house. After twenty minutes dad drove up and met us at the front door to our house. He was confused and worried as well because as far as he knew mom wasn't going anywhere that morning. As he unlocked the door and all three of us made our way in, we were met by my mother standing at the top of the landing, arms crossed and a rather snotty look on her face.

"Where have you been? Lee's been trying to get in?" Dad asked her, frustration clear in his voice.

"I was out," she replied.

"Where? Where were you?" I asked, getting just as flustered as my dad.

"I was at the Innes' next door, having coffee."

Lynda, Dad and I all looked at each other, but it was I who would speak first.

"Really Mom? Really? Cause that's where Lynda and I just came from. We've been there for over twenty minutes waiting for dad to come let us in."

Not having a clue what was going on, but obviously knowing something was amiss, he confronted mom.

"What's going on Doreen? Why are you lying about where you were?"

"I'm not," she said crossing her arms even tighter into herself.

Feeling exasperated and just wanting done with it, I told Dad what had happened this morning, ending of course with telling him how Mom had kicked me out and that I was just here to get some things.

"You kicked out Lee? Why?"

"I did not, but if she wants to leave, that's up to her."

"You did so!" I said, but someone else had my back as well, Lynda.

"You did kick her out Mrs. Brand. I was standing right here when you did and heard it all clearly including the part about her coming at lunch to get her stuff."

By this point you could tell Dad didn't know what to say or to whom, so I thought I'd just finish this off once and for all. Pushing past my mom I went into my room, threw random stuff into a backpack, clearly not thinking ahead of what I would really need, zipped it up, and walked back to the front entrance.

"I'm leaving now Mom, that's what you wanted, but I won't ever be back. Goodbye Dad."

With the finality in my voice so clear no one said a word as Lynda and I walked out the door and walked on as if nothing had just happened.

Lucky enough though a place had opened up in town to help kids like me; to give us a chance at a life without drugs, without abuse, without hatred and where we could safely and warmly spend the night and get a meal. I don't know how it's done now, but back then they had a few small bedrooms upstairs for those kids fortunate enough to get one. These were most likely given to teens who really had no hope of reconciling with their families and child welfare had nowhere for them to go. Sadly, kids reach a certain age, around fourteen, where no foster family wants to take them on; they just mean trouble if they're homeless. On my first stay there, as I would come and go over the next two years until I was eighteen, I was given a tiny room which I could call mine, at least for the time being. You didn't dare leave anything in there, but at least you knew at the end of the day, you had privacy and a warm bed to sleep in; that was as long as you got in by curfew otherwise you were sleeping outside that night and might lose your room the next day.

We weren't allowed to hang out there during the day, so we would go wherever our usual stomping grounds were because most of us had quit school. The idea of the shelter was to get us either back in school or working at least part time, but that didn't happen all that often. For me, my hangout of choice lately had been a mall out by where I had grown up. There the staff never kicked us out of the food court and we could spend pretty much all day between there and the adjoining arcade. It was warm and it was dry, what more could we ask for?

Around dinner time one night I was invited to a guy's place, close by, for a party. I didn't know him but I did know a lot of the kids going so I agreed to go and hang out for a while. When we arrived I soon realized that this was going to be some party. The kitchen table was covered in drugs, everything from pot, to acid, to coke. You had to buy what you wanted, but still, it was all right there, out in the open, just waiting for a buyer. Many kids were already pretty strung out, slouched on the floor, only the walls holding them up, eyes glossed over seeing nothing that we could see. Ignoring them, I approached the table slowly, stepping over people like they were nothing more than tree roots on a forest path. I stood there looking down at all the goods on the table, my sight closing in on the acid, which just happened to be my drug of choice; what better drug than one that intensified and distorted everything around you? I swallowed hard, and checked my pockets. Nothing, nada, I was broke, as usual. Sighing outwardly, I turned to move away, but a girl I knew stopped me and asked why I wasn't buying anything. I told her I had no cash and that I was just going to go back to the mall. She wasn't going to have any of that, so offered to loan me enough to get some acid. Not really considering how I would ever pay her back, I agreed and bought two hits. Taking them both right away while still at this guy's townhouse, I suddenly felt an intense urge to go for a walk. It was raining outside and when you're on acid, the rain takes on such a mystical guise, you don't want to miss it. I could walk for hours when I was high, and I seemed to be doing that again that night. I had no thoughts of my curfew at the shelter and the consequences of missing it; I just kept walking and being amazed by everything around me.

After walking in the pouring rain for what seemed like hours on end, I can only imagine what I looked like. I didn't carry an umbrella and didn't even have a proper jacket on other than a jean jacket. Having no idea what time it was, only that it was dark out, and not caring anyways because things were always much cooler in the dark when you're stoned I just continued on my merry way. Somewhere along my stroll a car pulled up beside me and honked its horn. As if awakening from a dream, I gave my head a bit of a shake to be able to focus and turned and stared at the vehicle, wondering what the hell someone would want with me. I couldn't see who was driving and so shrugging my shoulders I just turned away and continued to keep walking. The driver was persistent though, following me for a minute then finally parking and getting out. Through my blurred vision, and muddled brain I finally saw who had found me; it was one of the counsellors from the shelter; a man named Frank.

He told me to get into his car, and out of the rain, that I was going to get sick. I knew right away that he wasn't going to go away, so not really caring one way or the other I finally agreed, just to get him to shut up and leave me alone. He really was a nice guy, I just had no interest what so ever at that moment in time in what he had to say or wanted.

"What are you doing out in this storm Lee?"

"I dunno, walking"

"You're thoroughly soaked; you're going to get pneumonia."

"Meh, whatever."

"Do you realize what time it is? It's past midnight! You missed curfew. Where are you going to spend the night?"

"I'll find somewhere."

We sat in silence after that for a few minutes. The windows in his car were fogging up from all the moisture I had brought in with me and it created the most amazing piece of modern art to look at.

"Hey, Lee, kiddo, you still with me here?"

"Yea, I'm here."

"Look, I can't send you back out into this storm and I can't take you back to the shelter. It's totally locked up for the night. It's also too late for me to try and get you a room at the YWCA, so I'm gonna take you back to my place and set you up in my spare room. In the morning I'll take you to the shelter, okay?"

"Um, yea, okay, sure."

We drove only a couple of blocks and came to a big condo complex. Parking in the underground parking lot, he led me up to the fourth floor, where he and his daughter lived in an apartment. Right after entering he showed me where the bathroom was and handed me a t-shirt and sweats to put on. I think they must have belonged to his daughter because they sure weren't his. I changed rather slowly and then carrying my sopping clothes I came out looking for him. I found him in a bedroom where he was making a bed and I just stood there watching him, not sure what to say or do. Finally he noticed me, took my wet clothes and asked if I wanted anything to eat or drink. I shook my head no so he told me to go to bed and get some sleep; he would wake me in the morning. After he left the room, closing the door behind him, with only a moment's hesitation, I crawled into the bed and under the covers. It was then that I realized just how cold I was and that I had begun to shiver. Curling up in a ball, pulling the covers tight around me, I closed my eyes and fell almost instantly asleep.

You know that moment in time, when you're first waking up, there is that haze about you, that you're so sure you're still in a dream? That's exactly how I woke up the next morning, positive I must be dreaming and completely confused where this dream came from. As I very slowly started coming around, I had no idea where I was. My disorientation fully engulfed me, almost driving me back to sleep, to escape reality for a little while longer. Something was stopping me though, causing me to twitch and it was incessant in its annoyance. After a minute or so I could no longer ignore what was driving me crazy, I had to know what was bothering me, so I started to open my eyes. Blinking rapidly, I couldn't fathom what I was seeing. It didn't make sense at all. At first I was sure it was the drugs from the night before, but no, it couldn't be, it would have worn off by now. Closing them and then reopening didn't help; the image was still the same. Before me, sitting on the side of the bed, was Frank. He was dressed in only a long white housecoat and it was wide open. Giving my head a little shake, I again became aware of that annoying thing that was the initial cause of my waking, and it was still at it. Unable to stop, needing to know what the hell it was I looked away from him and down at myself. I was lying on my back, head on the pillow. Glancing down the length of where my body should be under the blankets, I found that instead of being covered up, the blankets were down to my knees. And that little twitch that had been driving me crazy, waking me up, and forcing me to open my tired, hung over eyes? It was Frank, his hands tracing my bared breasts, around and around, over and over.

Why the retelling of this makes me feel sicker to my stomach than the telling of John does, I don't really know. While John was almost evil in his approach, allowing me to fully experience the fear by just using brute strength and silence, Frank went about it a whole different way. He was gentle and quiet, whispering only that "It's okay Lee, its okay" or "Don't be scared, I won't hurt you." Did I fight it, try and get away? No. I couldn't. I was frozen in fear, stunned by the reality of what was happening while in my head the thought that kept coming back was "Oh God, not again, God no, make him stop, make him leave, please God, please." He didn't though, not until he was done and satisfied. I never moved once, laying there as if dead, but I guess I was really, wasn't I? The only sign that there had been any life in me at all were again those damn tears that flowed down my cheeks throughout it all. I can still feel him touching me, see his face over top of mine as he battered himself into me. And when he was spent, he rolled over, turned his back to me and went to sleep.

I have no clue how long I laid there, afraid to make a sound for fear of waking him and having it done to me again; an hour, maybe two. Eventually though I did move, getting up ever so softly, making my way out of the bedroom, shaking the whole time so badly I was sure I would wake him. Finding my clothes hanging over kitchen chairs, I made my way into his bathroom, closed and locked the door and stood there, staring at myself in the mirror. How dirty I felt, how humiliated. What kind of person just lays there and takes it without fighting back? God I was one disgusting human being. Just wanting to get away and be alone, because that was all I deserved, was to be completely alone, I dressed as quickly as one who has a terrible case of the shakes can and snuck out of the apartment.

Having nowhere else to go and needing clean clothes I found myself heading back to the shelter. When I arrived, I got the twenty questions on why I had missed curfew and did I know that this could possibly mean my losing my room? I mumbled something about missing a bus and the storm and how I had just stayed in a bus shelter to stay dry. They seemed to accept this, at least enough so that they allowed me another chance before taking away my room. Normally we weren't allowed inside during the day, but they agreed to let me go shower and change clothes as long as I was fast.

I have heard stories of women scrubbing themselves raw in a bath or shower after being the victim of a rape. That wasn't quite true in my case, but I did just stand there, still as a deer caught in the headlights, letting the water wash off any scent or place that he had touched, until the water grew cold and even then I stayed in as long as I could handle. Afterwards, I dressed in sweats and a sweatshirt, went into my room, laid down on my bed and fell fast asleep, the thought never crossing my mind that I was supposed to be leaving the building for the day.

I woke up sometime after dark, a little unsure of where I was at first. Then, as my mind came alive, the events of that morning came rushing back to me in a wave of disgrace. I rolled over and squeezed my eyes shut, not wanting to face the truth. As is the way though of someone overwhelmed, my mind became my worst enemy and I ended up getting up and going downstairs just to quiet my thoughts. When I got down to the main level I saw that the staff had changed so I must have slept a lot longer than I thought. No one said anything about my having stayed in all day and slept, so I didn't bring it up either. I was heading outside to have a smoke when one of the male staff members stopped me. He wanted to know where my jacket was, because it was pouring out again. I told him I didn't have one, but it was no big deal. He didn't seem to agree, and told me to go up to the coat room and he'd meet me up there in a minute. I was to look around at all the donated clothes for a jacket that would fit me. Sighing in annoyance, I made my way up the stairs.

The coat room was like the attic in the building, so it wasn't very big, had a low ceiling and was quite dark, even with a light on. Listening to music on my Discman I had my headphones on and turned up loud; I loved to block out all the noises of the world. I was half heartedly looking through the racks of clothes for a jacket, not really seeing any of them. As I reached to move some hangers down the rack I was suddenly grabbed from behind by someone, hands covering my breasts, squeezing hard, hot breath on my neck making my skin instantly crawl. Before I could even move to elbow my attacker, he had grabbed my waist and turned me around. The pressure of my heart beating fast and hard in fright had to have been able to be felt through my chest as my breaths came fast and shallow, almost daring to stop completely. Looking up, for he was taller than I, I came face to face with Frank as he lowered his head to mine to kiss my frigid mouth. Not even three seconds after he had started to kiss me, a new person emerged from within my battered soul. She was a stronger self, and she fought back, finally, not willing to be a victim again. Bringing up my knee I got him as hard as I could muster right in the nuts. As the breath rushed out of him and he started to fall I pushed him backwards, making him land hard on his ass. Almost growling, I stared at him for a second in disgust, wanting so much to hurt him more than he had hurt me. Clenching my fists though, I instead stepped over him, ran down the stairs, past the man who was supposed to have come upstairs in the first place and slammed through the front door.

I started running down the street, continuing until my lungs were about to burst. With my breath almost gone, my asthma threatening to suffocate me, I was eventually forced to stop. Reaching into my pocket I found my inhaler, took a couple quick puffs and did all I could to slow my breathing. I could never go back to the shelter, not now. I knew that beyond a shadow of a doubt. How would I ever be able to face any of the staff again without my anger, my embarrassment and my humility showing? In fact, I didn't think I could face anyone I knew again; wouldn't they be able to see the guilt written all over my face? No, I would have to leave, as soon as possible. But how? Where would I go? Somehow the thought of a girl I had known came to my mind and what she had offered me not that long ago. She had talked of a place where it was never very cold and it's beauty was unsurpassed; we would be engulfed deep within the thick green vegetation, endless flowers, the cool, clear waters, endless sunshine and cascades of tourists. Yes, that was what I needed. To get as far away as possible and bonus if it was somewhere warmer and so much more appealing than here. With my mind made up, I headed straight to this girl's house praying the whole while she would be home and still wanting to leave town.

I did leave town, the very next day actually. That adventure is a whole other story in itself, however I returned to my home town about a year later, and I did end up going back to the shelter. I remember very clearly walking back in there. Nothing had changed, except a few of the kids I saw were new and some appeared to have left. The staff though were all the same, including Frank although thankfully he wasn't on shift at that time. Many of the counsellors asked where I had been this last year, why I had just disappeared. One staff member, a woman, noted that I looked different, that something about me had changed and she was right. I wasn't the same person at all. I was cold now, having lost the ability to feel, at least for a time. I asked if I could spend a few nights until I got settled and was told I could. I would stay at the shelter until my eighteenth birthday, and then, having no choice, I would walk out the door for the very last time. Where I had been during that year that I had disappeared though was an adventure not everyone can say they have experience.

Chapter 4

My sister told me a story about a conversation she once had with a friend of hers. They were talking about their siblings, comparing families and some of the more bizarre things that had happened during their lives. After listening to her friend explain a specific event, my sister laughed and then decided it was her turn to make her friend smile.

"Well, you know, I have a sister who ran away and joined the circus" she had said as straight faced as she could muster.

Her friend immediately burst out laughing, commenting, "Yea, sure you did..." but as she looked at my sister, she slowly but surely found herself quieting.

"Oh my God, you're serious."

"Uh huh," she responded

"Wow, I didn't think people actually did that," she said stunned.

Well, they do, that wasn't quite what happened though, but it was close.

After the incident with Frank, as I had said, I left to go find a friend, Colleen, with the hopes of leaving town. Luckily I had run into her that evening at the bus stop as I was on my way to her house. She took me back to her place where we would spend the night, with her mom's permission, but the next morning we hit the highway, with our thumbs out.

The first ride we got took us almost the whole way to our destination, about fourteen hours away. It had been a fun drive that was spent entirely with the music blaring and the pot consistently passing back and forth, thanks to our driver. We got another ride almost immediately from two guys in their mid twenties, knockouts of course, who turned out to be local firefighters. The driver, a funny and very nice guy, offered us a place to spend the night. I was a little nervous about it but my worries turned out to be for nothing; he was a pure gentleman. In the morning, when we awoke to find ourselves alone, we left his place as we had found it, not touching a thing, and went off to finish the remainder of our trip.

We had made a deal that if we lost each other for some weird reason, Colleen and I would meet at a local street church. We were walking through a big department store, and it was really crowded, making it harder and harder to keep together. Colleen was leading and I had been going a bit slower as my asthma was acting up from all the walking we had done. Suddenly, as I had glanced up, I was shocked to realize that I couldn't see Colleen anymore. Jumping up and down, trying to see over people's heads, I looked in every direction, but it was no use, she was gone. I quickly made my way outside, looked around frantically and instantly started to panic. I was all alone, in a big city that I didn't know at all and I had no idea what to do.

Closing my eyes, taking a couple of deep breaths, I made myself calm down. I remembered where Colleen had said we should meet if this happened, so I began to ask random people if they knew where this street church was. After about five minutes I came across a woman who knew and thankfully she gave me clear, easy directions; in fact I hadn't been that far from it. I made my way over there and cautiously walked inside. I entered a dimly lit, rectangular room measuring approximately forty by fifteen feet that instantly gave me the impression of somewhere people would practice meditation. It was filled with old, well worn easy chairs and couches, accompanied by little tables interspersed all around. At the far end was a counter with jugs of juice, sandwiches and urns of coffee covering the surface. There were a few people scattered around, and some looked up as I entered the room. Not sure if I was even allowed in here, I sat down in the nearest chair, in a corner, and pretended to be looking through my purse, the only thing I had brought with me from home.

About ten minutes after I had sat down a gentleman with greying hair and a beard approached me, asking if I was hungry. I hadn't really thought of it, but now that he mentioned it, I realized I was starving haven't not eaten in two days. He told me to come with him and took me to the counter at the back where he told me to help myself to anything I liked. Still feeling very unsure of myself I quickly grabbed the first sandwich I could reach and poured a glass of what appeared to be orange juice then made my way back to my corner. After inhaling the food and not really having any other options, I remained in that chair for what seemed like eternity.

I knew it had been hours since I first lost Colleen because it was getting dark out and still I had not seen any sign of her. Looking towards the back of the room, I saw that some guys were cleaning up all the leftover food and drinks, readying to close up the church for the night. This made me anxious all over again and even more so since I had no clue where I would go from here. A few minutes later though a girl about my age approached me and asked if I had somewhere to spend the night. Not really knowing what to say, I just shook my head. She told me to come with her, that we would go to another street church where they served soup for supper and then we could talk. Glancing around hopelessly, I knew I was on my own, so nodding I rose and followed her outside.

We stayed at this other place for a couple of hours, drinking coffee and chatting intermittently. Her name was Janis and she had come here from even farther east than I had. She was a year older than I and had been in this city now for seven months. She told me about the home she lived at with an older lady and her son. The woman only took in girls who had nowhere else to go, and they could stay indefinitely, as long as they followed the rules and helped around the house. Janis phoned ahead and asked if I could come home that night and the woman said yes, as long as I could keep my mouth shut. You see, during this time, in this heavenly city, it was illegal to take in a street kid. Where the logic was in this, I had no idea. Shortly after Janis had made the call we left to go to this home for girls. Was I scared? Your damn rights I was.

When we arrived I was met by a very heavyset woman of about fifty. She never smiled or showed any signs of being kind. I was instantly informed that I could only eat cereal in the morning, and had to be gone by nine am, and then couldn't return until nine pm. She told me I would be sleeping in the holiday trailer with two other girls, and that I had better make my way there now, it was late. Not feeling any better at all about my situation, I made my way back outside and knocked on the trailer door. A girl of about fourteen greeted me, told me to come in and then showed me where I would be sleeping. It was the bed that was made from the table and it was quite small but who was I to complain? Taking my shoes and socks off, pulling off my sweater, I crawled under the blanket and closed my eyes. Man what a trip this was. I was so frightened of what lay ahead for me and yet strangely I remained calm. I chalked up the weird emotions and lack of them as well to my life over the last few years. It wasn't as if I had led a normal life and if this is where it had led me, so be it. I would find a way to survive. Thinking about what I should do the next day and how I could find Colleen, I fell into a deep sleep.

For the second time in my life I was woken by someone touching me while I had been asleep. This time though it was two girls instead of one man. I sat up so fast I whacked my head on the light, and cursed so loud I was sure to wake the people asleep in the house. Checking to see if what I had just experienced was real or just a dream, I looked back behind me. Sure enough, on either side of me was a girl, naked from what I could tell, both smiling at me and almost giggling. One was the girl who had let me into the trailer, the other I had never seen before.

"What the hell?" I said, obviously pissed off.

"What's the problem? Come on, lay down and let's have some fun." This was the one I hadn't met before.

"Yea, come on, we all do it. And on Friday night, when the old lady is out, you'll get to meet Robby too," Blondie, whom I had met briefly earlier, said.

"Who the fuck is Robby?" was all I could say, totally stunned by what these girls were saying.

"You know, the old lady's son. He's alright, kinda cute and fun in bed. You'll like him. Now come on, lay down, I wanna party before morning."

"No, I...I don't think so. I just want to go to sleep." God, couldn't these girls just leave me alone?

The one I was just meeting spoke up first, "Whadya mean no? This isn't an option. If you want to live here, you put out like the rest of us." then the other added, I guess for confirmation, "Yea, we all gotta do our share, and if you're good tonight, tomorrow we'll show you where you can make some good cash. Now shut up already and lay down."

Whoa, what the hell had I gotten myself into? Scrambling out from underneath the blanket, I quickly reached for my sweater on the end of the bed, and began putting my shoes on.

"Look, sorry, I'm not into this shit. I'm just gonna go."

Blondie found this funny I guess because she was laughing when she replied, "Oh? And where the hell are you going to go? There isn't anywhere else except the street and you don't want to sleep out there, do you?"

"I'll be fine" I muttered with more bravado than I felt. Reaching for my purse I stood up and without so much as a glance back, I opened the trailer door and almost ran out and down the street. I had no idea where I was or where to go, just as long as it was away from there.

After that night, I would spend the next few months panhandling during the day, hoping to get enough for a meal, and sleep under a park bench at the harbour. The first night I spent there my sleep was interrupted by a police officer gently shaking me awake. He said he had to ask me a few questions. As it turned out the police had to check each street kid to make sure they were not wanted for any crimes, or that they were not listed as a runaway. Being that I wasn't either, he told me to have a good night, to be safe and left me to go back to my fitful dozing.

Lunch was spent at one street church and dinner at the other. One night, a couple of weeks after arriving in the city, I met a guy, about fifteen years older than I, that looked exactly like Dudley Moore. He really was the spitting image of him, right down to the accent. We chatted for a couple of hours and I found myself developing a crush on him almost instantly. Eventually, a few days later, I learned of his demons that he was continuously fighting and saw the results; his arms and chest were covered in hundreds of small, circular black marks and scars from where he had placed the lit cigarettes trying to burn out the evil. From this knowledge instead of becoming repulsed, I felt only concern, a need to make him better and was all that much more enamoured with him. After a few more days of our meeting for coffee and chatting, he told me about his fiancée, how deeply he loved her and that he wanted the two of us to meet. He also said he really liked me, that I was a good kid and that I should go home, where I belonged. I didn't take his advice about leaving but we did stay in touch and the three of us continued to have coffee quite regularly.

One downside of having to rely on street ministries for meals was that it usually meant you also had to put up with getting preached to on a daily basis. I didn't know what I believed in, but whatever it was I didn't want others pushing theirs on me. I did agree to go to a church one Sunday morning and it was one of the most emotionally messed up experiences I have ever encountered.

I sat quietly, not joining in the singing because I really didn't know the hymns, or feel comfortable singing in public. Then everyone got up and went towards the back and formed a line. Not knowing what else to do, I followed. I had no idea what we were doing until I got close to the end and was shocked that I was in a Holy Communion line. Was I even allowed to be doing this? I had no clue but I wasn't about to ask either. After accepting the wafer and the drink, I walked away and without any warning what so ever, I began to cry uncontrollably. I didn't even know why I was bawling but I couldn't seem to stop either. The next thing I knew some stranger was holding me as I shook from my sobbing until I was finally able to take some slow deep breaths and calm down. Realizing I was in someone's arms, a man, I quickly pulled away, searched for an exit and ran out the door of the church. That was the last time to this day that I have been to any kind of service. Just the thought of entering a church puts tears in my eyes, and the few times I have been, for funerals or weddings, I have always felt extremely uncomfortable and overly emotional.

About twelve weeks after arriving in the city, I met a guy eight years older than I who seemed pretty cool. If nothing else, his size, being six foot four and about two hundred and forty pounds, provided good protection for me. We began to hang out together all the time and after about a week, we decided it was time for a change of scenery. He told me he wanted to take me to meet his family who lived about two thousand miles away. This sounded like a great adventure and I was all for it. Having lived on the street now for a number of months, and after everything I had been through in my life, I was feeling more and more brave about things and had no fears in the long trip ahead with Will. I may not have been scared but I should have been smarter. What was I thinking, taking off from the only safety I knew? To go across the country with a guy I had only met a week ago was ludicrous and stupid and I would pay the price for my ignorance.

The first night on the road we spent under an overpass along the highway. It was cold, damp and full of bugs and garbage. Sadly I already missed my spot along the harbour, and my friends on the street. It had only taken me a day to realize I had made a mistake but I was too nervous to go back on my own. Hitchhiking was one thing when you were with a friend, but even back in the eighties it was dangerous to do so on your own, especially as a young girl.

From there we got a ride from a trucker who kept us with him for almost three days. His name was Ernie; he was about sixty years old and a real sweetheart. I had gotten sick, with an infection in both my eyes and in my chest. Generously, he gave me the bed in the sleeper to rest and recover for the whole time we were with him while he would sleep over the steering wheel. Whenever he stopped to eat, he would buy us both something, although most times I was too sick to handle much more than some soup. Probably what stood out the most with me though was the fact that he never tried to lay a hand on me. Reaching his destination, he dropped us at a truck stop, handing us twenty dollars to continue on with. He was definitely one of the kindest people I had met since leaving home months ago. I hope I will never forget him.

The next person to pick us up was a friendly guy with his German shepherd in a small car. I got to sit in the front, and Will was squished in the back seat with the dog. The dog looked vaguely familiar to me and it was no wonder as it turned out that it was actually one of a few who played the main role in a weekly television show. The owner showed us lots of tricks the dog could do, and they were a joy to travel with.

We carried on for another day or so, sleeping in the gutter alongside the road. A few times over the course of our trip so far Will had made me feel quite apprehensive. He had started to act more and more aggressively towards me, once actually slapping me for my supposed stupidity. I knew eventually that something really bad was going to happen if I didn't get away, but how I would ever do so was beyond me. He was smart, and had to have known what I was thinking, because he never left me alone, even standing right outside the bathroom door when I had to go. Without ever saying a word, he had made it clear that should I ever try and leave, if I didn't make it, the repercussions would be unthinkable.

Coming to a small town, it was Will's idea to go to the welfare office and ask for help. The people in the office were not overly friendly but did give us a room in a motel for one night and some meal tickets for a local restaurant. I tried calling my mom and dad from there, collect, but my dad refused the charges. I had only two others whom I felt I could call, one being my sister, the other Lynda. I tried my sister first, but I was nervous after the reaction I got from my dad. Thankfully my sister had a mind of her own because dad had told her not to accept any collect calls from me. I don't really recall what was said on either the call to my sister, nor the one to Lynda, except that I do know I was very sad after finishing talking to them both.

The next part of the trip that I recall we had ended up in a bit bigger town and I was in the hospital with asthma problems. They only kept me for a couple of days and Will was put up in a small motel, thanks to the local police. Back then things were so different; you would never find this kind of charity today. Once I was released, the police gave us each a bus ticket to the next biggest town which was actually where Wills family resided and our final destination. Will and I went to where the bus stop was and found it was a parking lot adjacent to a fried chicken place. Going inside, we asked if there was anything we could do to maybe earn a piece of chicken each and a drink. The woman there told us if we cleaned up her parking lot of all the garbage before the bus came she would make sure we had something to take with us on the trip. Taking a couple bags from her, we set out to make it the cleanest parking lot in town. When you are homeless, penniless, and starving, this kind of opportunity feels God sent and you do your very best to earn what you are being given. Will found a ten dollar bill buried in the dirt and then we argued on whether or not we should pay for the food we were getting after this job. I felt we should, as really, picking up some garbage wasn't much work, whereas he just out and out refused to give it to the lady. Once we were done though the woman seemed very appreciative and just before the bus arrived she gave us our earnings; a full bucket of chicken, two sub sandwiches and also two cans of pop each. Thanking her profusely I followed Will onto the bus, sat down and fell fast asleep before eating a bite.

Strangely I don't recall a lot of the time spent meeting Wills family. I think I met a brother and his grandmother. I know the house was small but neat and that we didn't stay there more than a couple of hours. At the time I wondered about why we had come all this way for such a short visit but now I'm pretty sure he really didn't care where we went, that he just wanted to go on the road and he wanted a little piece of ass along for the ride. When I inquired as to where we were going from there, he said he had always wanted to go as far east as possible. So, once again, we were standing on the side of a highway, thumbs stuck out, no money in our pockets and me at his mercy being too scared to do anything else but follow.

From this point on, over the next week or so, Will got exceedingly meaner. Sex started including getting roughed up, whether it be slaps to the face, bruises on my arms from him holding me down, or bite marks. I was starting to see that he must have a thing for control and that rape was something he would definitely get off on. Realistically that was what it had become every few days, rape because I definitely wasn't willing. There is something to be said though for learning the ability to disassociate. Everyone that does so has a different experience, a unique safe zone. Mine became nothing more than a box that I could curl up inside where no one could find me. I didn't take it as far as some people do, in that I never lost consciousness, but it did allow me to mentally leave to a place where I could avoid feeling anymore pain.

One night, when we were in a huge city, we were walking along a street, and it started to pour relentlessly along with thunder and lightning. Wanting to get out of the rain, we ran to an high rise building where we could see someone inside the lobby and banged on the door. I didn't really expect him to let us in. He was an older man, one whom I'm sure someone called grandpa, and Will was not what you would call pleasant looking. He was definitely much more of an intimidating sort, like that of a biker. Surprisingly though, the man did come to the door and let us come in out of the storm. He questioned us immediately, wanting to know where we were going, where we lived, and Will made sure to be the one who answered him. After he was satisfied with Wills answers, he took us into what would be the security office. He told me to sit down and relax, then took Will into what I presumed was a kitchen area, saying he would get us some coffee. They were gone quite a while, so I took off my jean jacket, hung it on the back of the chair and settled in. Sitting cross legged, as I always did, I began to rub my arms trying to get the chill out of my bones. Finally the two guys came back in the room with Will carrying his own coffee and the older gentleman carrying mine and his own. Handing me the cup, he smiled and walked around a bit. Will then sat down directly across from me and started watching me strangely, making the hair on the back of my neck start to prickle and my stomach tie up in knots. I had no idea why but I was suddenly terrified. I started to shake, not knowing if it was the cold or my nerves, but I sat my cup down on a little table beside my chair and wrapped my arms around my middle, feeling the need to protect myself.

As I looked over at Will, I suddenly felt someone's hands come from behind and grab at my breasts, squeezing them hard and hurting me. The shock on my face must have been very amusing because it made Bill laugh. As I went to jump up and out of the chair, Will looked me in the eye and growled, "Don't move." Knowing true fear at that moment, I almost pissed myself, feeling a trickle escape and wet my pants. Meanwhile the old man bent further over the back of my chair, took one of his hands and went lower, grabbing at my crotch as hard as he could, causing tears to come to my eyes from the jolt of pain this induced. The next thing I knew the old man had come around and was pulling me out of the chair, holding my arm with one hand, while he lowered his own pants with the other. I tried desperately to get away, straining and yanking at the hold he had on me, threatening to dislocate my shoulder, but I didn't care. Where this asshole got his strength from I had no idea, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get away. I looked over to Will for help, but instantly knew that was useless. He was just sitting there, smiling his sickly smile and watching, rubbing at his own crotch. Sitting down in the only easy chair in the room, my attacker yanked me towards him and instructed me to "get on." That's when I felt Wills huge paws on my shoulders, turning me around and forcing me to "sit" on this man properly. As the bastard moved his hips up and down, grinding painfully into me, Will forced himself into my mouth, gagging me, causing me to bite down. Not impressed, groaning loudly, he leaned back and slapped me straight across the face, almost knocking me out. It was at this point that I felt myself slipping away again, into my box, mentally curling up into a ball. I would feel no more, I would see no more and no one could find me.

By the time we reached the coast I was deathly ill. I couldn't breathe properly and when I did it hurt like Hell. I had a fever that wouldn't go away and was beginning to get really dizzy. Probably from frustration with my inability to hardly move anymore, Will took me to the local hospital where they admitted me right away for pneumonia. While I was there, I was visited by the hospitals pastor, a do gooder who was bound and determined to get me back home to my parents, where I belonged. I don't know if he ever talked to my father, but I think he did. What I do know is that he offered me a bus ticket home, but he did so right in front of Will. What an idiot. Of course I had to say no, with Will standing right there, glaring me down from behind the pastors back. Not seeing Will though and having no clue what was going on, he wouldn't give up and I finally had to get mad and tell him to leave me the hell alone. The next day Will told me I was checking out, that I was well enough to go on, and away we went, against the doctor's orders. He said he had gotten us a job on a farm, where we would have our own little house to live in. Oh lovely. As we exited the hospital, a man of about fifty happened to pull up at the entrance in an old van. Will went over to him right away and requested a ride to the downtown area, and also asked for directions to get to this farm. The guy agreed right away to give us a ride so in we got, not knowing this man would become our boss for the next few months.

The man's name was Al Markham and along with his brother they ran a carnival that he urged us to join. He went on and on about how it was one great big family and how we could make some decent cash. Will didn't seem convinced, but before he could argue, I accepted the man's offer excitedly, knowing this was a much safer life for me than alone on a farm with Will. So, without much ado, we officially became "carnies" and grew to know the life of one and all it entailed.

I came to really love the people I worked with, especially my direct boss and his wife. They owned a few "joints" in the carnival, including mine. A joint is booth that you will find all up and down the midway. Mine was the old 'get the baseball in the milk can game' that most people find impossible to do. At the time I was the youngest on the crew and therefore elicited the attention of everyone. Will and I didn't have our own trailer but instead slept in a little pup tent that we would put up near the rest of the trailers. A few months after joining, one night, somewhere around three am, I was woken from a deep sleep. There was an obviously drunk mob of fellow carnies not far away, cat calling Will. There were cries of anger, saying, "We know what you're doing to Lee." or, "You're not gonna hurt her anymore, Will." This went on for a couple of minutes and I couldn't believe Will hadn't woke up. All of a sudden, I felt myself curling into a ball as one does when surprised with fear, eyes scrunched closed, hands covering my head as a huge explosion broke through the night right on top of me.

When all was quiet again, I slowly unwrapped my arms from my head and opened my eyes. Will was trying to move beside me, but he kept falling back down unable to keep his balance. I couldn't imagine what was wrong with him at first until I saw the blood running down his arm and at the same time noticing that our tent had been torn to shreds. Finally Will managed to rip his way out of what was left of our tent and tried to stand. I crawled out from underneath him and stood, looking in his direction. He was holding the side of his head, near his ear, and was rapidly blinking his eyes, trying to focus. From behind me came four fellow carnies that grabbed me by the arms and pulled me away from Will, heading in the direction of the motel next door where my immediate boss was staying.

Shawn opened the door obviously mad at being woken. When he saw the group of us standing there he insisted on knowing what was going on. Someone pushed me from behind, into the room, and then everyone rushed in, all talking at once, except me. After a couple of shouts to quiet people down, Shawn got the story from one guy who appeared to be much more sober than the rest. In absolute stunned silence, I sat and listened to his account of what had happened.

Over the course of a few weeks, different people had heard my whimpers in the dark when Will would come after me. Finally, on this particular night, they had all got together for a few drinks to decide what should be done. Of course, as will usually happen when a bunch of people join forces to combat something and alcohol is involved, things turned bad. Back in those days Coke bottles were made of thick glass and were very heavy, especially the one litre ones. Someone, and strangely no one would fess up who, had thrown a full one at our tent in the hopes of hitting Will. Thank God they had not gotten me, but in the same breath, they could have killed either of us. Instead, it had hit Wills head, exploded into hundreds of glass shards which proceeded to shred our little tent and cut Wills ear and head. Surprisingly I had walked away with nothing more than a ringing in my ears.

Shawn's wife took me into the adjoining room they kept to ask if the accusations against Will were true. At first I was going to deny it all, terrified of the repercussions, but something in this woman's eyes told me to have faith in her, so I nodded yes and broke down in tears. I don't remember how much I sputtered out that night, but it must have been enough to convince her I was being honest. Not wanting me to have to go back out there, Shawn and his wife gave me the room next to theirs. First thing in the morning, after Shawn talked to Al, the owner, Will was fired and sent on his way. Thankfully the last time I would ever have to see him had been the night before as he stumbled around, bleeding, trying not to collapse and I pray I never see him again.

It was time. I didn't really understand why, I couldn't find any logic in my decision, but I knew it was right. It had been so long. Was I sixteen or seventeen? I no longer recall, but what I do remember is that call to my father, asking for money to return home. How hard it had been to pick up the phone and dial. Hesitation seemed to still my hand, leaving it shaking, hovering over the cradle. Maybe it was more a feeling of fear, knowing he would have every right to say no. After all, I had just disappeared months ago, absorbed by a side of society that my family had no real understanding of. Living on the street, being what they would classify as a hobo, becoming a carnie, these were all foreign, unnecessary and simply stupid, selfish decisions made by me, against my family. I knew this for certain. How could I not when, as I said, he had ordered my sister to not take my calls? Standing there at the phone booth, alone on a quiet street corner in the small, picturesque downtown section of Truro, Nova Scotia, I looked around. It really was enchanting here. Such history embedded in every direction you looked and what seemed to be a society of the most fun loving, caring people I had ever met. But, no matter how much I was captivated by the atmosphere and adored the humanity, I also realized just how desolate I really was. Swallowing the lump that had somehow managed to lodge itself in my throat, I forced myself to look away from the beauty and to focus on the trial ahead. Taking a deep breath, putting away all sense of pride, allowing myself to acknowledge some of the guilt I did feel, I inserted my coin.

The call didn't last long, five minutes at the most. All my steeled determination to not crack went right out the window as soon as my dad accepted the charges. Through the tears and choking I managed a strained, hoarse whisper asking for his help. Whether it was my obvious distress that broke through his heart strings or just an act of ethics, I don't know, but he did agree to wire me enough money for a bus ticket home; a hundred and forty six dollars which would give me five very long days of travel to get me back out west. I would leave the next day, a journey that would essentially be as though time stood still. The bus may have been moving, we were passing through miles and miles of endless fields and no name towns, but for those of us passengers, the only actuality, was inside that bus.

As most bus riders will attest to, there isn't a lot of room nor is there really any way to get comfortable on a Greyhound. Hence I had fallen asleep with my head leaning against the window and as luck would have it my seat was right where the frame for that particular window was. I would find out afterwards what had happened, what had woke me so suddenly. With the aid of the driver rounding a corner too sharply, the bus jumped up onto the curb and then came slamming down again, obviously throwing me around like a rag doll. Being able to sleep does have it benefits for long, boring trips, but also hinders you from having the ability to brace yourself. My head must have jerked left, and then hammered against the window frame not only waking me instantly, but causing a slew of explicates to escape my usually quiet vocals. Now, you must understand, not only did I have no clue that anyone was beside me as I had slept through the stop in Montreal but I especially didn't know there was a nun, in her habit, sitting there looking at me calmly, as if to say, oh, your awake! Never, in my life, even to this day, have I been so embarrassed. Knowing I had just given George Carlin a run for his money, loud enough I'm sure for even the back row to hear how was I now to face this faultless human being? Silently pleading for mercy, if there was any to be found for someone as shameful as myself, I turned her way to try and proclaim idiocy and beg forgiveness. Amazingly she just smiled at me, patted my arm, and shaking her head said, "No Engli." Hallelujah! God Bless her soul, she hadn't understood a word! Unable to control my relief from showing, I smiled back and turned to look out the window. Being young and lacking wisdom, it wouldn't be until quite a few years later that I realized she might not have actually understood what I said, but I'm sure she could deduce the gist of it. Either way, however, I thank God for her understanding the asininity of youth.

The rest of the trip was somewhat uneventful, if you can exclude drunk soldiers partying the night away, a sick child travelling alone to see her father, or forty-degree temperatures on a bus with broken-down air conditioning. I had learned after one sleepless night, from the suggestion of one of the hung-over soldiers, that my tiny frame could fit up top where the travelers usually stored their carryon baggage. With his help of being the lookout for the bus driver while I climbed up every night, I slept quite well for the remainder of my journey. Shortly after arriving back home, I was standing outside watching for my father's car. At the time I hadn't really considered that my being gone for close to year, and a four and a half day bus ride would have changed my appearance unusually much, but I guess it must have. As I stood at the curb, scared and excited at the same time, I watched my father circle around the block and drive right by me three times. I distinctly remember trying to convince myself that he was too busy concentrating on his driving, or maybe his glasses were as dirty as they had always been in my childhood. Either way, I know I completely ignored any possibility that he actually didn't recognize me. I mean, come on, how do you not know your own child? And yet, I saw him look right at me, and then past me, as if I was completely transparent! On his fourth drive by, I managed to pretty much jump out in front of him, and calmly wave my arm as if I was flagging down a taxi. Unsure of myself now, but not really understanding why, I smiled nervously and opened the door. When I got into his car, instead of tears, hugs, and the emotions one would expect from a reunited father and daughter, there was indifference, uncertainty and a wall one could almost reach out and touch, built up between us. How had nothing changed in all this time? The drive home was quiet, too quiet. It only increased my discomfort and had me questioning my sanity on choosing to come home. I had been lost in my own thoughts, wondering, hoping that it was just me that was feeling so apprehensive when Dad's voice pulled me back to reality. As we turned the last corner onto our block he informed me that my sister was at his house and that they hadn't told her I was coming home.

Walking inside that house, seeing my mom standing at the top of the landing, was surreal. I had come so far, been through so much and yet, here I was right back where I had started. With Dad standing behind me and Mom in front I looked from one to the other and realized that their view of me had not changed. I could see the disappointment in their eyes and began to feel the condemnation tearing into me. Not able to face either one any longer, I muttered a hello at my mom and walked past her into the house, looking for my sister. Looking through the window into the backyard I found her and as I opened the door, she naturally turned to see who was coming out. It was in her eyes, at that moment, that I would find acceptance and caring that had been so clearly missing in my parents. The shocked look on her face, and the smile she offered was so incredibly genuine that it obscured all the negativity I had been feeling since getting into my father's car. Unable to get a clear, tangible thought in her head due to the surprise I had just presented her with, she blurted out, "I'm pregnant!" Both laughing, we settled down in the yard and spent the next hour or so catching up on each other's lives. I told her of places I had seen, people I had met but kept silent of all the adversities. As we rose to go inside, she noticed my jean jacket for the first time. Asking me to turn slowly, she inspected and attempted to interpret all that it had to show. Torn and frayed at the cuffs and collar, faded to an almost white, it was the epitome of my life. Taking up almost the whole back was a cartoon caricature of the owner of the Carnival I had worked for, with a headline reading, Party Till You Puke. No one here would ever understand the joke behind the words but for me it represented the man and the ideal behind his crew perfectly. Surrounding the parody were well wishes and signatures of many of the Carnivals troupe; a chance for me to never forget some of the most amazing people I would ever meet. Taking up the arms of the jacket were tributes to my favorite musicians and bands, the likes of Led Zeppelin, ACDC, Peter Gabriel and Chris DeBurg to name a few. The front had been done before I left home, almost a year prior. This too was a reminder, but not of where I had been but of where I had come from. Done for me by friends there were phrases and memories that would always bring a smile to my face when I was feeling homesick. I really don't think my sister recognized the significance the jacket held for me, nor did she appreciate some of the colorful language, but really, that didn't matter. Shortly after we went back inside my sister left to go home to her husband, leaving me alone with Mom and Dad. The tension in the air immediately rose to such intensity that I found I was searching for any place I could go to get away, to escape. Pleading dirtiness after five days on a bus, I threw my jacket on a chair and practically ran into the bathroom, shutting and locking the door. After a few attempts at deep breathing to calm my nerves, I realized I had to use this short reprieve to find the courage to step back through the door, face my parents and try and make things right. Thirty minutes later I was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a soda and trying to engage in small talk with the two people on Earth I was most uncomfortable with and yet whom I needed more than anyone.

Our idle talk was nothing more than stressed polite communication the likes of what you would find during a divorce mediation. I was getting ...antsy, to say the least. Staring straight ahead, or down at my pop can, I found myself beginning to answer almost mechanically anything my parents chose to ask. I guess I was confused more than anything. I had expected questions about how I was, where I had been, had I been safe throughout my journeys? Instead I got how was your shower? Did you and your sister have a good chat? It's warm out, isn't it? Nothing and I mean zilch was asked about my life over the last year. Didn't they care? Weren't they the least bit curious? And to top it off, any attempts I made to ask of their lives since I had last seen them was met with one word, broad answers like fine or busy. I didn't get it and in my perplexity I could not find a way to turn this conversation around in order to help us all. Sighing deeply, I felt myself slowly closing off in order to avoid the pain I was most assuredly now beginning to feel. To think I had seen myself coming home and being able to make things right between my parents and I. What a fool. What an utter and complete idiot I had been. It was time to leave. Asking to use the phone, I got up and called Lynda. Due to 'Caller I.D.' technology not yet been discovered I was able to convince her that I was still in Nova Scotia. Through normal teen chitchat I found out she was taking the next bus to go downtown to the movies. Pleading lack of funds, I promised to call soon and said goodbye. At least this was going the way I had hoped. Surprising Lynda had been one of my biggest focal points during the last five days and I couldn't wait! If I timed it just right she wouldn't see me walking to the bus stop, but I would be there waiting when she arrived. Feeling somewhat mollified I went back into the kitchen to let my parents know I was going out. They knew how close Lynda and I were so I didn't think it would surprise them that I was going to see her so soon after arriving. Problem was, when I entered the kitchen, my parents were gone. Standing there for a minute I realized I could hear people talking in whispers which I assumed was Mom and Dad. Then I caught a third voice, one I recognized but couldn't quite place. Walking around the table I came to stand facing the front door and then I saw him. As our eyes met I knew immediately that there was going to be trouble and that it somehow involved me.

Dr. Dolny was not just a neighbour. He was also our family physician and he never came to visit, not socially anyways. Therefore his being here and the look in his eyes, a look of compassion, instantly put me on guard. Having their backs to me, Mom and Dad hadn't seemed to notice my presence and were continuing to ask Dr. Dolny questions. I watched on in horror as he answered their last inquiry with a statement I would never forget, even in its simplicity; "Yes, we have a bed for her." Along with the shock his words brought to me I felt my stomach drop at once, as if I had just jumped off a twenty story building. Control was slipping away, threatening to drive me down into my internal sanctuary and I couldn't seem to stop it. My eyes were squeezed shut as I fought to take charge of my failing emotions but I must have gasped out loud because suddenly I could feel that prickling on my skin that one gets when being watched. Taking a deep breath I slowly opened my eyes to find them all looking at me, watching me, as they too had a realization; I knew what they were talking about, what they had been planning since my phone call to dad five days ago. Of course I knew, yet how had I not seen it coming? They were going to put me away again, lock me up in some mental institution. Why? That's easy, because they knew no other way to deal with my instability within my mind, my heart and my soul. Because then they could look themselves in the mirror at night and tell themselves they had done something albeit it really didn't matter whether or not it was a good thing, just that it was something. And because then they wouldn't have to face me, face it on a day to day basis. No, if I was committed then it was just like I was away, maybe on a holiday, or off at school. Either way, with me out of the picture, they wouldn't have to deal with the reality of my illness and all it entailed. The more these thoughts flew through my mind at breakneck speeds, the more my emotions changed from despair to anger. My hands started to shake almost uncontrollably until I forced them into fists and jammed them into my pockets. Panic had set in, good and strong, and it alone was controlling my every move. I had to get out, get away, as far as possible and as fast as I could. My eyes darted around, looking for my belongings and my breathing became faster and faster. I was getting dizzy, my mouth was dry, and I knew if I didn't get a grip I would either have an asthma attack or pass out. I spotted my knapsack, right where I had left it, just inside the living room on the floor. As I stepped forward to grab it with my left hand, I reached back over the chair with my right, to grab my jean jacket.

Sensing my motive, both my parents started talking at once. It was all babble to me though as my mind was elsewhere, mainly, where the hell was my jacket? Ignoring them all, I turned to look back at the chair, thinking it must have fallen onto the seat, or maybe the floor. Dropping my knapsack, I began to search in earnest. It had to be here somewhere! I know I threw it in this direction as I ran to the bathroom but where the hell is it? All my frustration and perplexing did me no good, it was nowhere in sight. I looked to my mom for an answer, thinking she must have moved it, but instead of offering an explanation, she looked at my father. Now why would she look at him? He doesn't clean, tidy up, nothing, unless it's his garage. Watching my dad as he put on his 'serious' look, I began to think back over the afternoon. I had thrown it here, I knew that for sure, but was it still here when I came out of the bathroom? I couldn't be certain. Entering the kitchen I had noticed my father was nowhere in sight. Asking Mom where he had gone I got the simple reply, "Outside." I had offered to go get him, ask him to come in and chat, but mom had insisted he would be right in so there was no need. When he came in...oh my God, that was it! I had noticed it, but brushed it off to 'just Dad doing Dad stuff in his garage.' I looked at him now, staring directly into his eyes, willing him with every ounce of my soul to admit ignorance in what I was about to ask. "Dad, where's my jean jacket?" Glaring right back at me, without missing a beat, he said, "It's gone." Gone?! What does he mean exactly by "gone?" "Gone where Dad? Where is it? I want my jacket please!" Again, without so much as a blink he replied, "It's gone, forget it, it was horrendous garbage anyway." Not believing what I was hearing, not allowing it to register, I pushed farther. "Dad, what the hell did you do with my jacket? I want it back, now, please!" Without even realizing it I had begun to cry; silent, lonely drops ran down my cheeks unchecked. Unwillingly I finally admitted to what my mind had already processed a few minutes ago; when my father had come in from outside that one seemingly insignificant entity I had noticed was the distinct smell of smoke. Looking at him now, standing there so in control, so sure of himself, and my mother, so defiant and so righteous and I wondered, not for the last time, who are these people? What kind of person can treat their own child like this and still stand tall?

The tears were now flowing uncontrollably. I didn't care; let them see my hurt, my pain. Grabbing my backpack I pushed through them blindly, ignoring their protests and grunts. I was nothing less than a battering ram, forcing, impacting anything or anyone who stood in my way. I was propelled by sheer emotions that I couldn't even begin to understand or pinpoint. One word stood out for me, took shape, gained substance and it was simply, escape. As I found myself outside, I started to run. Through the wind in my ears and the pounding in my head I thought I could hear them calling to me. I ran on, gaining speed as if the devil himself were on my tail. I ignored my lungs as they screamed for me to stop, threatening to collapse if I didn't heed the warning signs of an oncoming asthma attack. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered but this flight from oppression. As I increased the distance between freedom and confinement the stress on my body began forcing me to acknowledge it; my stomach became queasy, my vision was blurred and I realized my surroundings were starting to spin. I needed to focus. Giving my head a shake, wiping the water from my eyes, I looked ahead for clarity. As the answer came to me, my eyes scanned ahead, searching, pleading. In the last instant they found their mark. Just rounding the corner ahead was Lynda. She was on her way to the bus stop and if I could just hold on a bit longer, keep up the pace, I might be able to catch her. Gasping for air I drove myself forward. I knew I was actually slowing but refused to give up. As I came stumbling around the last bend I saw the bus stopped and just glimpsed Lynda boarding. I yelled, or at least in my mind I did. My throat was so dry and I had such little air I'm not sure I managed more than a rasp of wheezing breath that no one could have possibly heard. As the bus started to pull out I reached with all that I had left and smacked the back corner of the bus as hard as I could. I thought I had failed; he didn't seem to have noticed. As I fell to the ground I suddenly heard the tell tale sound of squealing when a driver has slammed on their brakes. I'll never know whether someone on the bus had heard me slap it and told the driver or if he had finally seen me, but he had stopped. Straining to breathe I slowly got up and made my way to the door. As it opened I looked up at the driver and knew the relief had to have shown on my face because he smiled, nodded and motioned me to board. Standing in front of him and all the passengers, I scrambled to try and find my change. At that moment I realized how I must look; red, swollen eyes, cheeks wet from tears still spilling down, gasping for air, I can only imagine what went through their minds. Obviously it was bad because the driver chose to take pity on me, waving me through. Smiling my gratitude, I finally looked up. Scanning the passengers it only took a moment for me to find Lynda. She was sitting near the back and I could see she was absorbed in searching her purse for something. Taking a deep breath I slowly walked towards her, arriving at her side unnoticed. Looking down at her I felt all the agony of the last few hours fall away. I knew now, finally, I was among family. Smiling quietly I bent over and whispered, "Is this seat taken?

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Chapter 5

At times I wonder, "Do 'normal' people ever think about or get that compelling feeling to just...end it all?" Thinking back over my last thirty some odd years it's funny what I can and cannot, or maybe even choose not to remember. One thing that is pretty clear though, are the times that I actually attempted, or seriously considered letting go. Over time I have heard many people, some professionals, say that if a person truly desires to end their life, they will. Period. They add that otherwise the 'attempt' and or the 'talk' is really just a call for help. Speaking purely from experience in regards to this 'taboo' topic, I've determined this to be true.  
Discussions of mental illness and suicide are often considered in bad taste or taboo. There are still so many out there who feel that mental illness should be kept a secret, hidden away like the 'lepers' of the past. What we have is not contagious. It cannot directly hurt others, but is so incredibly misunderstood, and such a remarkably vague subject, that the only ones who seem to have any understanding is the doctors we are treated by. I tend to question their knowledge at times as their diagnosis can change quite regularly. Maybe, for this reason, the fact that I have had to conceal my own feelings for so long, that I can see it now as a time to 'let go' of our stigma which has been put onto ourselves by mankind as a whole. Sometimes though the truth is not only hard to admit, and face head on, but can also be rather embarrassing; not just for ourselves, but for the people around us, who love us, care for us and who want to protect us. Here, as best as I can recall, is my personal fight with the demons we so quietly and secretly managed to label: Suicidal Tendencies.  
I can recall, as a young teen, I learned rather quickly that talk of suicide raised not only eyebrows, but red flags for those around me. Did I ever use this to what some might unabashedly call my advantage? Yes, I believe, I did. Not in a way that I feel should be looked down on though. When things would get wonky in my mind, when I could no longer see the forest for the trees, when the word 'cope' held no more meaning to me than just another 'four letter word' then yes, I would mention to a friend or a counsellor that I was having suicidal thoughts. The hope being that maybe they could, for once, understand what I clearly could not. I wanted to understand my uncontrollable, muddled, random thoughts that alone, I could find no way to make sense of. These thoughts brought on an astronomical amount of anxiety which was beginning to possess my every waking moment. A call for help? I'd say so, most definitely. Who wouldn't cry out at so obvious an invasion and loss of control over one's mind? Did I ever reach the point of no return though? Yes, a couple of times actually.

By the time I was almost eighteen I had not been living at home for over two years. As I mentioned earlier, I did eventually end up going back to the shelter for teens. I didn't have my own room at this time. In fact, few did now. Instead, I occupied a couch in a room full of similar couches and mattresses' along with their current inhabitants. After spending the last two years basically all alone, being alienated by my all my peers at school, with the exception of one friend, Lynda, having been through all the abuse and unable to find a happy medium with my family, I was ready to give up, to end it all.

On this particular day, I really had not 'thought' about suicide at all, but was just going about things normally as I would any other day. Having been born with Asthma, one thing I had to do quite regularly, as I did this day, was to make sure I had enough meds; one of them was a pill called Theo-Dur, my daily dosage was six hundred milligrams. Because I didn't have a fixed address or a reliable way to get around, my accommodating and caring pharmacist had given me two hundred of these pills to save me the trouble of having to return soon for more. Later that evening, after spending my typical couple of hours in a coffee shop, bullshitting with other non-desirables such as myself, I returned to the shelter to assure myself a place to sleep. Here it was now done on a first come, first serve basis and having spent many cold, wet nights outside, I tried very hard to get one of the hard sought after spots. Having succeeded, I went in to find the best of the worst choices to sleep on and to see if anyone I knew was around. Seeing a familiar face, I went over and grabbed the couch next to his so we could chat until the warmth of the building took over and lulled us to sleep. Soon after sitting down I found myself getting up again and heading to the small kitchen in search of a drink. Scoring a can of 7Up from the fridge, I calmly, quietly and with no outward signs of anxiety, slipped away into the girls' washroom. There, without even consciously considering what I was doing, I proceeded to ingest the bottle of pills, sometimes swallowing a handful at a time. Throwing away the empty can of pop, pocketing the empty bottle of pills, I walked back to my couch, said goodnight to those close by, closed my eyes and went to sleep.

I remember very little of that night from that point on, and what I do is just quick flashes of what may or may not be real. I can kind of recall an ambulance parked outside the shelter but my view of it is off and unbalanced. Another flicker of a memory is that I am on a gurney, in an emergency department, laying on my side and continuously throwing up kidney pans full of what looked like blood. And lastly, my only other recollection is of me waking up in an unrecognizable hospital room, with my father standing on one side of the bed and a unknown doctor on the other. They don't notice I was awake, but instead continue to have their conversation of which I only hear one sentence said by the doctor, "Right now Mr. Brand, I really don't know what else we can do for her." Maybe it was the shock of the statement, or just a random coincidence but I was gone again after that, into the world of oblivion. I have no idea how long it was before I woke up for good, but wake up I did. I was informed by the doctor on call that I was in ICU and one lucky girl to be alive. He said that my heart rate had been so radical, going from a few beats per minute to up over two hundred and then back down again and that they had had a very hard time getting it under control. Shortly after, my father came to see me and having to know, I asked if he had, in fact, had that conversation with a doctor. He was quite shocked when I asked, as it was true, he said, it had happened.

I had done what I set out to do. To this day no one knows why or how my bodied rallied. But it did, and here I am. Many times over the last nearly thirty years, since that day, I have questioned why I didn't die. I have been almost what you could call saddened by the fact that I didn't do it somewhere else, somewhere more private, so that when the convulsions and arrhythmia kicked in, I would have been alone.

Only one other person came to visit me during my time in the ICU and that was my best friend, Lynda. Normally they only allowed family, but I believe my father had told them she was my sister. Really, she might as well have been as we had known each other since the age of six. When I was transferred from ICU to a normal room, again Lynda was there, like she always seemed to be for me. As we sat and chatted a familiar but unwanted face showed itself in my doorway; Dr. Parker. With a very stern, angry look he said only two words, "You're mine," and then he was gone. Lynda and I looked at each other, unsure what to make of that and ultimately choose to ignore it. I fell asleep shortly after this and Lynda left to go home. When I woke up the next morning, I was on the adult psychiatric ward, the very same one where I spent my weekends three years prior. I guess my body was still exhausted from fighting to live because I had not awoken at all while I was moved to another part of the hospital. Now I guess I had no choice but to heed what Dr. Parker had said.

Getting up out of bed, I put on a house coat and wandered out into the hall. I thought I would feel something being back here, maybe fear, or anger, anything, but I felt nothing. Mind you, I wasn't the same young, innocent and naive girl that I had been back then. This time I almost went looking for trouble, almost daring anyone to confront me. If someone walked by that wasn't quite right in the head, instead of scurrying off to the other side of the hall, or running back to my room, I walked straight on by, as if not really noticing them at all. I did, however, notice that nothing had changed here what so ever. The walls were still trying hard to show their light green color through all the dirt and grime covering them from years of neglect. The floors appeared clean, being the standard off white square tiles, but on further inspection you would find that thick, almost shiny black tar that lines the baseboards of so many older, run down buildings. The same, cracked Arborite still covered the small kitchen counters and I don't think even the toaster or kettle had been replaced. Carrying on, I entered the rec room and just stood there and looked around. Here, there had been a small change. The pool table was gone, with nothing having replaced it. I figured too many times people must have used the cue sticks in the same fashion as I had thought to. Otherwise the room remained the same, the same worn down vinyl covered turquoise chairs, the brown peeling, overstuffed bookcases still stood and I even think the books were all still there as they had been. "Man, when are they gonna tear down this fossil of a building and throw out all this junk?" I wondered and carried on back to my room.

Lynda showed up later that night, shocked to find where I was now residing. We tried to get them to allow me to go out for coffee with her, but to no avail. Dr. Parker had left strict instructions that I was not to leave the hospital. Frustrated, but not into arguing with the staff, I suggested we just go to the cafeteria. One thing I noted during this short break was that since I had "woken up" Lynda and I had never discussed how I had ended up there in the first place. We skirted the subject like pros, always finding something completely different to talk about. It was as if we were in silent agreement that the subject was taboo. This understanding that she had for me, this willingness to still accept me as a friend, would never leave my mind after my realization that night, always reminding me what a real, true friend was.

A few days after arriving on the unit, I was in one of my short meetings with Dr. Parker, one that all patients had to have with him, each day, to look at our progress or regression. I don't recall if I had said something to him to have pissed him off or if he was just being the ass that he so habitually was, but there were five words he said that I can still hear him saying, clear as day, "Because, you really are crazy." Wow, what an intellectual, inspiring statement. Now, I was pretty sure my diagnosis was that I had manic depression, but I had no idea they had recoined it as crazy. I was speechless. Really. What do you actually say to something like that? I know I never did respond, but instead choose to just stand up and walk out of the little room. Now, I was pissed.

Having just been told I was insane, I didn't quite know how to react. A part of me instantly dropped into a complete mental downward spiral threatening to swallow me up forever. Another piece of me though, a small, struggling piece knew the only thing that was going to save me now was if I got out of here and away from this doctor. Unfortunately being that I was on a locked unit, I wasn't going far. Even if I did use the excuse of going to the confectionary, and then just left it would do me no good as they would only call the police to have me returned. No, I needed him to release me. Earlier that day I had overheard a couple other patients talking as they were discussing the fact that no doctors now came in during the weekends anymore, unless it was an emergency. Realizing that it was a Friday, I knew I wasn't likely to see Dr. Parker again until Monday. Knowing this I slowly felt an idea forming in my head that might just work. Yes, after this he would have no choice but to kick me out.

I emerged from my room about thirty minutes after Dr. Parker had left the unit, dressed as if I was going outside, and holding my arm out as if I was being pulled by a big dog on the end of a leash. Walking up to the nursing station I did my very best to convince them that I must take Max outside so he could, you know, do his 'business.' Even though the nurses never agreed to let me leave, which I knew they wouldn't, they did find this whole thing initially rather amusing, seeing it simply as some sort of diversion I had thought up to battle away the boredom. We all may have known I was faking it, but what none of the staff expected was for me to carry this on and through the whole weekend and to the degree that I did.

For the next two and a half days Max and I were inseparable. Where I walked, he came along too, pulling a bit ahead of me at times, causing me to jerk forward. Sometimes, being the dog he was, he would chase other patients, or staff, wanting to play or simply smell them like only a dog could do. Not wanting to embarrass the current target of Maxs' attention, apologizing profusely, I would very sternly pull him away, meanwhile explaining to him how that was not another dog and he should stop acting improperly and sniffing their behinds! Twice a day Max would make me aware that he was hungry by sitting down near the entrance to the kitchen, refusing to move and whining continuously. Again I would quite seriously, and somewhat loudly explain to him that this was unacceptable behaviour. Then I would proceed to try and teach him which cupboard his food was in and how to take me to it and show me it, letting me know it was time for him to be fed. Of course, along with eating comes the unpleasant need to use the 'bathroom.' Since the staff refused to let us go outside, Max learned quite quickly to use the corner of the nursing station and the floor of the rec room. Each time he used one of these areas though, I would gather up the appropriate cleaning supplies and proceed to clean the area till there were no signs Max had ever been there. After all, I didn't want them to make me get rid of him because I wasn't looking after him or his needs.

During these interesting few days many of the staff would ask me to stop with the acting, saying it had become annoying, a nuisance and frankly they were tired of it. Never once though did I admit to playing anything, instead asking them if they had some kind of sight problem that they couldn't see the dog sitting right in front of them drooling on their shoe?

Finally, Monday morning came and I grew somewhat anxious about the reaction I was quite obviously going to get from the good doctor. I knew he would hear all about my escapades during the staff meeting they held every morning, which is exactly what I wanted anyhow. I sincerely hoped they would elaborate on all aspects of my becoming a pet owner during his absence. After a wait of a couple of hours I was granted an audience with the all powerful Dr. Parker. Taking a deep, calming breath, I strolled into the little meeting room as if nothing unusual was going on.

Sitting directly across from this man was intimidating in itself, but try doing it when he isn't saying a word, but is just staring right into your eyes, willing you to break. That was exactly what he had been doing since I walked in and sat down. More than five minutes had to have passed and still not a thing was said. I knew I couldn't last much longer under his brutal glare, so I gave in, being the first one to speak.

"Why are you just staring at me?"

"I'm trying to decide what to do with you." he responded.

I thought about this for a minute, willing myself to find that right answer. I had gone to a lot of trouble to get myself kicked out and didn't want to blow it now. Before I could come up with anything though, he asked, "Why did you do it?"

"Because you said I was crazy."

"Yes, I did. So?"

"So, now that we both know this to be true, I have quite clearly proven it, you can let me leave this place."

"Why would I do that?"

"Well, obviously there is nothing more you can do for me, so it's time to say goodbye. It's over Dr. Parker, we are done. I am going home."

With that I stood up, and on quivering legs, I walked out of the room, and back to my own room to begin packing up my stuff.

He did let me go that day, releasing me to no one's care but my own. This in itself was unusual, but I think he was as tired of me as I was of him. I would not see him or any other psychiatrist over the next six years, managing to stay relatively stable in my own skin. Life has a way though of bringing back the past to mess with the present and at the age of twenty four it did just that.

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Chapter 6

I used to enjoy going to local little cafes for coffee. I'm what you would call a people watcher. Finding a quiet table off to one side, I'd sit with my back to a wall, and just...watch. I never stared long enough at any one person to make them uncomfortable; I wasn't like that. I have just always been fascinated by what makes people tick and what better way than to observe them unknowingly where their actions and reactions will not be biased in any way? Do I judge the ones I see? Yes, sometimes, for me it's unavoidable. But I am only referring to the ones who are quite obviously abusive, or have holier than thou attitudes. People who show themselves in a negative light in public can only be so many times worse in private. Otherwise though, I do not have a prejudiced bone in my body. I believe we are all born equal and therefore deserve to be treated as such. It is what we become as adults that sets us apart. So no, I don't see what I was doing as a form of nosiness, I really couldn't care less what they were doing there or what they were talking about. It's more a curiosity on how people behave and the differences between each individual. But as I said, I used to be a people watcher. No longer can I bring myself to go to these shops, no longer can I sit back and be an observer because now all it brings with it is more pain than I can bear. Why, you might be wondering, should it bring suffering? Well, because, at the time of this writing, it will be very close to eleven years since I have been without a partner, in fact it has also been eleven years since I even had so much as a date and it hurts beyond belief now when seeing all these happy couples.

There are reasons I'm alone, that I've stayed sequestered all these years. Good reasons. But it doesn't make the loneliness any easier to handle. In fact, quite the opposite. You see, I do believe I have always been alone, that I have never loved, or been loved, and that I shall remain so until the day I die. Now, ask yourself this, "What would that do to your self esteem and desire to carry on with life if you too felt this at the age of forty five?" When I was a teen, I never desired a life of solitude and abstinence but it is what I was dealt and what I have chosen for the last eleven years and the next however many I have left. I once had a doctor tell me, after hearing my history, that it was good I was all alone and that I should stay that way. Let me tell you, it's one thing for me to decide to do so, but it is a whole other ballgame when someone else told me to do so as well. Again, I had found a doctor that in less than two hours was able to kick me as I fell down. Life is grand, isn't it?

Who knew that something as simple as calling a cab could have such an effect on your future? Well, I sure didn't expect it, but that's exactly what happened. I had been at a friend's place overnight, looking after him as he was quite sick. In the morning I called a cab to take me home even though I knew I didn't have enough money for the whole fare. I had a little bachelor suite about a twenty minute drive away that was all my own, and I was currently taking accounting classes at a local college. Not wanting to miss class, I was in a big hurry to get home, get changed and catch a bus downtown. When the cab arrived, I told the driver that I only had seven dollars, so if he could take me in the direction of my home, as far as that would get me, that would be great. We started chatting and before I knew it we were almost at my place and the meter read ten dollars and fifty cents. I didn't know what to say because I had pre warned him that I only had the seven dollars, but he saved me from having to come up with an answer to my dilemma. Knowing the city like taxi drivers do, he offered to get me home if I would agree to buy him a coffee at the donut shop across the street from my apartment. I knew it meant I was going to miss class, but I realized I had already pretty much sealed that deal when I had agreed to go to my friend's place the night before. I was a little unsure, but the idea of owing this guy money and having to walk the rest of the way in a minus twenty five deep freeze didn't appeal to me at all, so after a short hesitation, I agreed.

We sat at that donut shop for over three hours that morning, just talking, telling each other a bit about our lives. His name was Peter and he was thirty six years old, literally twice my age. Adopted out of an orphanage as a baby, Peter had no siblings, his father was dead and his mom lived on the other side of the country. He had been married before and had a son who was five years old. He usually drove trucks for a living, but had decided to take a break and drive cab for the winter. I inquired about his tattoos, and he admitted to being in prison at one time. He said that at the age of eighteen his girlfriend at the time had been raped by two guys in a local gang. Peter, having been in the Rebels, had had a lot of connections, he said, so all he had to do was make a few calls and within three days he had found the two men. Walking into the bar where they hung out, Peter shot them both, wounding them, and then had gone home, called the police, telling them what he had done and had waited for them to come and get him. This was the story he gave me. Did I believe him at the time? I think I did, I was pretty naïve. But ask me today if I do and I can honestly say no, I don't believe that's why he was in prison. I have seen his criminal record and there is nothing in it regarding that on there what so ever. Either way though, it didn't scare me away when he told me all this. Maybe because I saw it as an honest admission or possibly because it made him seem somewhat dangerous and I had never met a true bad boy before.

Peter and I spent the next three weeks together whenever he wasn't driving his taxi. Regardless of what others thought, I kept seeing him against all their advice, especially Lynda's. I know they all figured I had gone off my rocker, but I was too caught up in the idea of having attracted an older man and that I wasn't alone anymore. My parents also didn't appreciate the fact that Peter and I were pretty much living together, so after only twenty three days of knowing each other, we eloped. It had never occurred to me, until many, many years later that what they really didn't approve of was Peter, not the idea of us living in sin.

Just before I had met Peter, I had taken a young girl in off the street. She was too young to live at the shelter, being only fourteen and she refused to go home. I told her as long as she continued to go to school, she could stay with me for a short while. Her name was Tammy and I trusted her. That was my first mistake. My second mistake was ever thinking that a man Pete's age who would marry a young girl like me, would ever be satisfied with having only me.

A few days after marrying Peter I woke up in the morning to find Tammy beside me in my bed and Peter on the other side of her. They were both fast asleep. Waking them up, quite angry I might add, Peter told me he had told her to lay down on the bed instead of on the couch to get a good night's sleep for once. After a lot of arguing, I finally gave in, believing them both that nothing had happened between the two of them. I was just being paranoid.

Returning home from class one day I fell fast asleep on my bed as soon as I walked in the door. I had been staying up too late every night lately so I wasn't getting enough sleep, and I was exhausted. Some noise woke me a few hours later. It wasn't a scary sound, but was loud enough to fully awaken me almost immediately. Sitting up in bed I tried to identify what I was hearing, but giving up after a minute or so, I got up to investigate. My suite had a hard plastic folding wall that you could use to separate the bedroom area from the rest of the apartment. I kept it closed when I was sleeping, and only opened it enough to get through when I wasn't. Noticing that it was open a little, I was strangely propelled to hide somewhat behind the wall. Did I have mice? What if it was someone robbing me? Would they attack me? Should I call the police? Having all these thoughts run through my mind within seconds, I finally just took a deep breath and peeked around the edge of the wall through the opening.

What I saw took almost a full minute to register because it was not what I had expected to find at all. There was no one robbing me, I didn't have mice, but I did have rodents, big ones. There, in my living room, on my couch, were Peter and Tammy, half naked, hands all over each other. Never had I come across two people having sex before but this was disgusting and God only knows how far they had gone. Almost throwing myself out of my bedroom, I went at them like an animal, nails raking any skin they could find, screaming and cursing the likes of which I had never done in my life. Peter finally managed to pull me off and wrap his arms around me, holding me in place, while Tammy ran into the bathroom, to get dressed or more likely, to hide. I was completely wild with anger, and it took every ounce of strength Peter had to stop me from attacking them both again. When I finally agreed to calm down, Peter let me go and after a lot of smooth talking on his part, I let Tammy leave my place with the understanding that she was never to return. I wasn't done with him yet though. How I rallied at him, I'm sure scaring my neighbours half to death. At one point I went as far as to tell him that I should have listened to Lynda in the first place and dumped him like a cold pile of shit that he was. He didn't seem to appreciate this last comment because he reached over and before I could stop him, in one quick motion, he yanked the St. Christopher's medallion Lynda had given me for my birthday off my neck, ran into the bathroom and flushed it down the toilet. I would never forget that necklace, for on the back of it she had it engraved with "Friends are Forever" and at no time did I forgive Peter for taking it away from me. After a couple more hours of arguing, I finally gave up the fight. I couldn't do it anymore. I lay in bed beside him, my back turned and not for the last time would I wonder what had I gotten myself into. I had only been married for three short days.

Seven months later I was in the hospital, pregnant with our first child. Somehow by getting pregnant one of my ribs on the right side had almost detached so I was put on bed rest for the next four months. While I was in there, my husband was supposed to be out driving cab during the day and visiting me at night. At least that's what he had promised me. What really happened though was a tad bit different.

About three weeks into my long stay as a patient, Peter stopped coming in at night. He would call and always had some lame excuse on why he couldn't make it. It didn't take a genius to know he was up to no good. A week went by and no Peter. Then two weeks and three. Finally I had had enough and when he phoned one night and I gave him an ultimatum; come in now to see me or don't ever come back. That was when he decided it was time to tell me the truth. One day he had got a call for a cab, and had met a young girl from another city. A couple days after meeting her she had phoned him and asked for a ride to her city. He had agreed to drive her, even though it was three hours away. They left that afternoon and he had been there ever since, for three weeks and counting, living with this fourteen year old and her mother. Now, first off, what parent lets their fourteen year old daughter live with, and sleep with a man twenty three years older and under the their own roof to boot? Secondly, how sick was this ass that he couldn't keep his hands off such young girls? Peter didn't give me any inclination whether or not he was coming back before I hung up on him and I didn't care; the next day I met with a social worker to prepare for single parenthood.

One month later Peter returned, full of apologies and promises. It took a while but eventually I gave in. I think I was just honestly terrified of being a single parent, with no job, no education, nothing what so ever to offer a child. I was only eighteen and still so naïve and gullible. I have no way of knowing if he ever saw her again while I was in the hospital, but I can tell you this, she was one gutsy girl. Not only did she phone him at the hospital when he was there visiting me, but she continued to call him at our home even after I had the baby. In fact it didn't quit for months and months and the longer it went on, and the more I allowed it to carry on, the less I began to feel about myself. When put in these positions, if we don't fight to get out, then we come to believe that we don't deserve any better. It may not be a conscious thought, but it is still there, embedded in every harsh word said to us, every slap that we feel, every time they cheat, yes we feel it all and believe we are garbage so all we deserve is garbage.

As humans, we all need to feel we have a purpose in life, a reason for being. Many times this aspiration comes out in the work we choose to do, possibly as a fire fighter, saving lives, a dietician, teaching people to eat healthily, or even as an actor making people laugh. Without this ambition our lives can become empty husks with no direction to take us through what could be a fulfilling life. Until my daughter was born, I had dreams, hopes and desires for my future, like most young people, but that's all they were, fantasies. I never actually saw any of them happening probably because of my low self esteem. I had become an empty shell, always trying to find something to fill it, whether it is healthy and safe or not. Even my marriage to Peter was nothing more initially than a way to try and fill that void in my life. I imagine, even if it was subconsciously, so was my getting pregnant, as really I was in no position, nor was I ready to become a parent. When Marie was born I hadn't expected to feel that instant love for such a tiny being. I was not prepared for the feeling of needing to protect her from the start. And I definitely wasn't expecting to want to be there for her, like I did. I had been so young and innocent in what comes along with being a parent. Over the years I would very slowly learn what all it entailed, but what I didn't see coming at me was the purpose to live and that being a caregiver of loved ones would incite in me.

I truly believe had I been single throughout all the years of my children's growth that our lives would have been very different. It was the men in my life that brought me down, bringing to surface the demons that continued to haunt me all those years, driving me to mental instability. I'm not saying it's entirely their fault; I was the one who choose to stay with them as long as I did. Their treatment towards me, as seems all men's with me, was never a positive experience. A person can only take so much before they crack, and the mending of the broken shell can be a long hard road that seems to never end at times. The glue needed to repair it sometimes is too thin and can cause us to need many applications before it finally holds. So was it with me. Eventually though, one beautiful day, I would wake to find the shell in one piece, albeit with cracks that would always remain. Testing the strength of the walls protecting me, I would find them strong and stable. It was this morning that I knew my purpose in life had been missing, taken from me by the evils of the human mind, but I had won, I had found it again, restored my self worth and there was nothing that was going to stand in my way ever again.

I am and have always been a caregiver. Whenever I have been bereft of someone to care for, my mental health has started to fail me. I need someone to care for and I need someone to need me, as pathetic as it may sound. It is what gives me the strength to continue on, to move forward and to take care of myself. At times I have wished for my freedom, to have that "alone" time where I have no one to answer for except myself, but when I am given it, even for a few hours, I find myself lost and confused on what to do with my time. I guess you could see it also as a need to not be alone, but if I'm ever without children in my home, this time around, I will get a dog.

A few months after our daughter was born, Peter had gone back to driving truck, long distance. We didn't see him very often, as he was usually gone at least ten days at a time. When he did come home it would only be for twenty four to forty eight hours at the most. One weekend night he was only going to the city three hours away, then back here to our home town. A neighbour offered to watch our baby girl so I could go with him and get a little break and some 'us' time with my husband. Peter thought this was a great idea. He said we could go out for a nice dinner and then rent a hotel room, instead of sleeping in the truck, and just make a great night of it. I couldn't deny it sounded wonderful, so I agreed to go, as long as it was only for one night.

Well, I don't know what other people call a "nice dinner out" but my idea was not the local truck stop. I didn't expect the Ritz, but something with candlelight might have been a touch more romantic than the smoky, dirty, smelling of diesel place he took me to. I had spent many hours sitting in truck stops with Peter in the past and didn't have anything really against them, they provided a much needed service to people who spent a majority of their lives sitting in a semi, but I guess I had been truly looking forward to a more 'special' night. One where a man and a woman, after having a child, could reunite and recommit to each other through romance. Silly notion, eh? No, instead we sat there in that same restaurant for over four hours while he talked with some drivers he knew from years ago and ignored me almost completely.

After they left to go to their trucks, he said we could go and find a hotel finally. Now, again, I must point out that I was not some spoiled little girl who wanted only the best, not even close. A stay at a Best Western, or Holiday Inn would have suited me just fine rather than the hundred year old hotel downtown that sits above a rowdy bar full of drunks and hookers, but that's what I got. As we entered our room, I got a good whiff of that stale, mothball smell that permeates all old, neglected buildings and hence I was ready for some sleep to get through this disappointment of a night as quickly as possible. After telling Peter I had a headache, and that I was just going to sleep, I curled up in the bed full of springs that stuck up through the material and into my back, closed my eyes and dozed off.

Not really knowing what I expected Peter to do after I went to bed, I guess I just assumed he would watch some TV and then fall asleep as well. What I hadn't counted on was that he would actually go down to that awful bar below our room. I'm not sure at all how long he was down there for, but it was at least long enough for him to have a few drinks and get him feeling rather inebriated. Now, I was used to him waking me up in the night, wanting sex. It was a common occurrence with him when he would come in from out of town in the middle of night but I detested the smell of alcohol on someone's breath, especially someone I was in bed with. I didn't drink at all, so it never went over well with me when Peter would drink so much at one time. Waking up to that horrible smell just floating over top of me like a noxious cloud I was immediately not a happy camper. I have no knowledge of what women are like in bed when they are drunk, but men, for the most part, are sloppy, uncoordinated and either inconsiderate or too emotional. Peter was no different but tended to lean towards the inconsiderate side much more often, so needless to say it was not an enjoyable experience for me at all. Not wanting to even see his slack face, I kept my eyes closed and tried desperately to feign sleep until he got bored and just gave up.

This might have worked considering how much he had obviously drank; at least it would have until I realized we weren't alone. Now I kept my eyes shut for a whole different reason. I did not want to face what was coming. I knew Peter had a problem with younger girls; I had accepted that and just prayed I could keep him from cheating again. This though, this was unlike anything I had encountered before and frankly it made me sick to my stomach. Not only had he brought someone back to our room, this person, from the sound of their voice, was clearly much younger than I. And the part that bothered me the most? It wasn't a female.

Okay please hear me out. I am not prejudice in any way, shape or form, as I said earlier, or at least I have always done my very best to not be. By not being this way, we learn to accept all differences, including when people are bi-sexual, or if they prefer the 'ménage à trios' lifestyle. Allowing one's self to not see these traits in a negative fashion does not mean we are accepting them in our own lives though, and I most assuredly was not. With my history of sexual encounters with men, mostly referring to John and Frank, I was a very simple lover. What I mean to say is I wasn't overly adventurous and was still usually quite nervous during the whole encounter. I understood that this could lead to problems in a marriage, so I always tried my very best to be a least a little outgoing. Without ever discussing this idea with me previously though, and by just bringing someone into our bed unannounced, I was extremely upset. With all intentions of sending this boy child away before he could actually undress and have this farce start, I opened my eyes and looking straight into Peters face with every ounce of courage I could muster I gave him the look that said it all; I gave him my "How dare you!" look.

Grunting out loud, putting my hands on his chest, I used every ounce of strength I had and pushed him off of me. Jumping up out of the bed, I grabbed my clothes and went into the bathroom to change. Ten minutes later, when I came out, Peter and his 'friend' were already busy on the bed. Neither one even looked up as I walked out the door.

Nine months after our daughter was born, I became pregnant with our second child. It was during these months that I really started to see what kind of person Peter was. Arrogant without fault, he could do no wrong, at least in his eyes. Yes, he was intelligent, but he didn't know everything, although he would probably have argued that point. He was a gambler, always looking to make a quick buck whether it be through hustling pool, going to a casino, or just playing Bingo.

He used to come into town and offer a night away from our little girl, a break, just for a few hours. It didn't take me long to realize though that these 'breaks' actually meant going to Bingo every time. When things got tough for me, and I felt I couldn't handle it anymore within this marriage and for a short time out of it, I too became an avid bingo player, sitting amongst all the seniors with their six cards, coffee on the left, ashtray on the right and whatever good luck charm they possessed right in the middle. For me it wasn't the chance of winning the big one as much as it was just an escape from the realities of life. Sometimes I got away from it all a little too much, to be honest. Yes, I left my daughter too many times with the sitter and it could really be called a form of neglect. As silly as it sounds though, Bingo can become addictive. It IS a form of gambling after all no matter what the seniors tell you. One day however, unlike Peter, I would get over this need for a getaway and begin to once again try to become the best parent I could possibly be. Just to be fair though, I must point out that Peter was not "all" bad. If he had been I don't think we would have lasted the five years that we did. Peter and I are the type that should have had a one night stand, or at most been friends, but there were times I don't know what I would have done without him.

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Chapter 7

There are two incidents which I feel bear telling. The first one takes place eleven months after our daughter was born. Peter had decided we would follow his friend and move to another city fourteen hours away. I wasn't totally against it as it would put me much closer to Lynda. What he hadn't warned me about was that we would be carpooling with another family in a vehicle not fit for city streets let alone highway and mountain driving. It was a very old station wagon and between us all it was so packed you couldn't see out the back windows at all. The weight from all of us and our belongings also played a factor as we continued to bottom out all the way there, but make it we did, amazingly enough. The scary thing is though after pulling that all-nighter drive through some pretty treacherous roads, with our daughter in the car, as we pulled into Peters friends driveway, the brakes gave out completely and we had to come to a rolling stop. Thank you God for delivering us safely, but I'm not convinced he heard me when I whispered those words.

A few days later our daughter started to get quite ill. She wouldn't eat a thing, and slept a lot of the time. We went over to Peter's friends place to ask them for a doctors number, and while we discussed this, we laid the baby on a bed in their home. Within ten minutes we heard a scream the likes of which I will never forget. Coming from my eleven month old child was a sound like that of an adult in excruciating pain. Running in the bedroom, we found her twisted in a position I didn't know a baby could even get into. Her back was fully arched and her middle was turned in such a way she appeared to be having some kind of seizure. Then without warning she just opened her mouth and out came this black, tar like substance flowing slowly out of her. When she was done getting sick, she appeared to pass out, but her skin had taken on a greyish hue. At this point, all hell broke loose as we argued back and forth with Peter's friend and his wife, trying to find out how to get to the closest hospital. Could they call us a cab since we now had no car? Before we could even come to an understanding where we should go, my little one had another one of these seizures and again just opened her mouth and without any heaving just laid there motionless and got sick with this black oozing stuff all over their bed. As I carefully cleaned her up, wiping her face and forehead with a cool cloth I could hear the rest of the adults continuing to argue in the other room. "What the hell are they fighting about, we just need to get her to a hospital!"

It was during this crisis that Peter actually came through and reacted as any good father should. His friend was insisting that there was nothing really wrong with our daughter and that, "You can't take a kid to the hospital for every little thing, she just has the flu." Peter had had enough of listening to this crap so he walked into the bedroom, very gently picked up our little girl and carrying her motionless body across his arms, he asked one question, "Are you going to take us to the hospital or should I call an ambulance?" Huffing about, not impressed, Peters friend finally gave in and agreed to take us. Between their home and the hospital Marie would get sick like she had been, with the screaming beforehand as if she was being gutted alive, once again all over the blanket Peter had wrapped her in. By the time we arrived at the hospital, my sweet little girl wasn't just completely listless, she was as grey as an elephant.

The nurse gave us a small section to go to, and a gurney to lay our daughter on with a promise that a doctor would be by to see her shortly. As we waited she got sick again, but the screaming had stopped, now all she did was just open her mouth and let it flow out of her like sludge. We had just finished cleaning it up when a male doctor showed up at the other end of the gurney. With a quick glance in the baby's direction, but without coming any closer, he simply replied, "She's dehydrated, she's staying" and he walked away. Not really knowing what else we could do, we just stayed by her side, each of us on either side of her gurney and kept a vigil over her until a staff member arrived to take her to her room. I don't recall how long it took for this to happen, but I do know it wasn't immediate by any means. Asking Peter now he says it was about ninety minutes. During these awful minutes though I truly felt we were losing our little one. She continued to get sick every so often but otherwise showed no signs of life. Finally a porter came to move her, but Peter refused to let him touch her, he would carry her himself. When we arrived in her room, he very carefully laid her in the crib and covered her with a blanket. Not even five minutes later a nurse came in to do the baby's admission forms with us. While we were talking with her, giving her the information she needed, Marie got sick one last time. The nurse, God bless her soul, saw this and reacted immediately. As she was running out of the room, she yelled back asking us how long she had been doing this. We replied and she took off flying down the hallway. Up until this point we had been scared, but now we were terrified.

Within three minutes of the nurse's reaction, a new doctor came running into the room. Going right past us and straight to the crib he proceeded to check on Marie, looking into her eyes, listening to her heart, and gently pushing on her tummy. When he was done, he turned to the nurse and said, "Prep her for surgery right away." Then looking to us, he went on, "You two come with me please" and he strolled out of the room with us following close behind, dumbstruck by all that had transpired.

He took us to a tiny room just big enough for a small couch and a chair. Here he proceeded to tell us what was wrong with our daughter. He told us that she had had a bowel obstruction where it had folded in upon itself, stopping anything from getting through and that it had most likely had happened a couple of hours ago when she first started showing signs of being sick. Her screaming and twisting was from her body trying desperately to have a bowel movement, but the obstruction wouldn't allow it and yes it would be excruciatingly painful. The black ooze that had been coming out of her mouth was actually her own feces and it had been poisoning her system from the minute the obstruction occurred. He then gently but seriously explained to us that due to all this poison entering her body he couldn't give her more than a fifteen percent chance of living even with the operation.

How does one react with such news regarding a child? There really is only one way and I was no different. I cried, I shook, I raged, and then I cried some more. In the end I called my parents back home for some moral support, not knowing where else to turn and then went to the chapel to pray. This was an uncommon thing for me and I didn't really know how to pray, but I did the best I could by closing my eyes and just talking in my head. Peter joined me in the chapel and I believe he prayed as well, he was a Catholic after all. Waiting for any news on how Marie was doing was the worst and hardest time in my life, I think. It took hours, how many, I don't remember, but it seemed like forever. Eventually though the doctor did return, told us the surgery had gone well, and now we just had to wait and see if her body could rally against all the poison. He said she had what he called a zipper up her front from the abdomen to up above the belly button with approximately fifteen staples in it. After assuring us that yes, he had done all he could, he left us to allow us time to process the news.

As soon as we were allowed, we went into Marie's room. She looked awfully tiny underneath the blankets, smaller than I remembered. Sitting down beside her crib, I held her tiny little hand in mine and just watched her breathing, willing her to not stop. It was at this point that Peter finally lost it a bit and left the room intent on finding his friend and pounding the living shit out of him. He needed someone to blame and saw his buddy as a good choice being that he had insisted we were being foolish in bringing her to the hospital in the first place. I don't know if he ever found him, I didn't ask. I did however stay at my daughters bedside until the moment she opened those tired, confused, and yet beautiful eyes of hers and looked right at me. It was then I knew she would live. Again I cried, unable to help myself, the emotions finally getting the best of me. Poor Marie had no understanding of what was going on, but thankfully she fell back asleep again shortly afterwards, giving her body the rest it needed to heal. I had never been more thankful in all my life than I was that night. Yes, I thanked God for looking after my little girl, even though I didn't even know if I believed in him, but it just seemed the right thing to do. I was also thankful for one other person because without his persistence and love, she would have died, so when he came back into her room, I went to him, and held him, thanking him for not listening to his friend and for saving Marie's life.

The other time I want to tell you about happened when my second born, my son Daniel, was about six months old. Peter was back driving truck across the country and I was at home alone with the kids. I rarely got any alone time except when they were sleeping and I hardly ever went out without them. When Peter would come into town though, I would try and find a sitter for at least one night so we could get out on our own for a few hours, even if it was just to go to Bingo. This time though I didn't know anyone who could babysit and it was Peter who came through. From his days of driving taxi in the city, he mentioned he knew a woman who lived close by and had a daughter about the right age. This sounded reasonable so I told him to go ahead and call her.

Peter set up a meeting between the mom, the daughter who was thirteen years old, and me. We all seemed to get along great and as I watched the girl, Marcie, with the kids they seemed to be a good fit. The mother wanted to make me a deal of a sort though. Instead of my paying her daughter, she wanted me to be available for the daughter to have someone to call over the summer months while the mom was at work in case she needed anything or if there was ever an emergency. I didn't see this as being too much of an issue so after some chatting about hours and such, I agreed. We decided that the first time Marcie would babysit was the next time Peter was in town, three days from then, for a few hours in the evening.

Marcie watched the kids twice over a two week period and all seemed to go well. During the second time she had taken them out for a short walk and Daniel had fallen out of the stroller. Marcie felt terrible about the whole thing and said maybe she shouldn't be allowed to babysit anymore. Other than a bruise on his shin where it hit the wheel, Daniel was fine. I didn't see this as a good enough reason to cancel our arrangement. She really did feel badly and accidents do happen. We discussed the importance of using the seatbelt in the stroller and all was fine again.

It would be two weeks later before Peter managed to get back into town. I called Marcie and asked her if she would mind coming to watch the kids for about four hours and she said sure. The weekend coming up I was to watch Marcie for the whole three days as her mom was going to go out of town to see a friend. This would give me a good break before taking on the responsibility of another kid for a few days even if she was thirteen. Peter showed up about four in the afternoon and by five thirty Marcie was there and we headed out. The kids had been fed and bathed, so all she had to do was play with them for a short time then put them to bed. We headed to Bingo without a worry in the world.

Peter and I arrived back at around nine forty five, coming home as soon as Bingo had finished. While Peter went to talk to Marcie, I went in to check on the kids as I always did when I had been out. We had a small apartment which only had two bedrooms, so the kids shared a room for the time being. Turning the hall light on, I opened the door to the kids room and glanced in. Marie was in her bed, straight ahead of me, sound asleep, curled up in a ball, blankets all askew as usual. Making sure to be quiet, I tiptoed in and covered her up, gently giving her a kiss on her forehead before going to check on Daniel. Turning around I looked over at the crib. Daniel was one of those babies who always slept the same way, laying on his tummy, bum up in the air and arms tucked under him. As I moved closer to the crib I realized he was laying on his side, and finding this curious, and for no other apparent reason, I picked him up, wrapped a small blanket over his shoulders to keep him warm, and carried him into the living room as he slept with his tiny head resting against my shoulder. Seeing the two of them chatting in the kitchen, I went straight in to see Marcie and thank her before she left. As I walked up to them, the blanket fell off Daniel's shoulders as he squirmed a bit so I carefully bent down to pick it up. Holding tightly to Daniel, I stood up slowly, adjusting him so I could better cover him back up. It was then that Peter looked directly towards us. As I glanced up at Peter though, the look I was faced with in his eyes was one I will never forget; it was a look of raw horror.

Peter was trying to speak, but couldn't get any words out. I gave him a look of confusion; I had no idea what was wrong with him. He lifted his hand as if to touch Daniel then immediately dropped it, looking absolutely lost and scared.

"Peter, what is wrong?" Unable to speak still he just pointed in my direction. Not understanding at first I was about to ask him again what his issue was, but then I looked down onto my son. What I saw will remain etched into my memory for eternity, no matter how many times they mess with my brain because nothing could allow me to forget what lay before me. My son, my sweet little six month old baby's body was completely covered in bruises, welts, and abrasions. Dried blood dotted his back and legs where the skin had been broken and unattended. Ever so slowly I turned him over to see that down his front were the same signs of an extremely abusive attack. Clearly Peter and I were both in shock because we just stood there motionless for a good minute before reacting. Oddly, considering our personalities, it was I who went kind of crazy. I handed Daniel very carefully to Peter, turned on Marcie and started screaming. I couldn't stop myself, I just kept yelling, going on a tirade the likes no one has ever seen in me before or since. While I rallied at Marcie, Peter took Daniel into our bedroom, probably to get him away from me and to check him over. After a few minutes I stopped, realizing I was alone with Marcie. I hadn't seen Peter leave the room and almost panicked when I couldn't see them but then I heard something coming from down our hallway, so I took off after the noise. As soon as I turned my back on Marcie she must have acted because before I knew it she had gone into the bathroom and locked the door. The little sounds that were coming from my bedroom though held much more immediate importance for us. As I walked in I came across Daniel laying in the middle of our bed, wide eyed, staring up at his daddy, smiling and cooing away as if nothing was wrong.

Ever so gently we touched all over Daniel's beaten body, looking for sore spots that could mean trouble. We tried moving his arms and legs and they appeared as good as ever, at least on the inside. Amazingly, somehow, this little guy had come away from this literally with just bumps, bruises and scrapes, and nothing appearing serious. After a good thirty minutes spent with our baby in our room, making sure he was okay, Peter went in search of Marcie. After some coaxing, and promises that he wasn't going to kill her, she finally agreed to let him in. It would be another thirty minutes or so before they would ask me to come and talk to them and then Peter insisted that we go into the living room where we all could sit down. Calmly as he could manage Peter then told me a story; the tale of Marcie.

For as long as she could remember, any time she messed up, anytime she cried or whined or complained, her mother would take something to her and beat her with it until Marcie promised to stop or smarten up. At first I didn't believe her, seeing this as a simple ploy to excuse what she had done to our son. I spoke up and said as much but Peter laid a hand on my leg to quiet me down, then looked at Marcie and told her to show me. Nodding and without a word, she stood up, turned around and pulled up her shirt. I think I actually gasped aloud when I looked upon this girl's back. From top to bottom she was covered in welts, cuts and old scars. Then she pulled up her sleeves and showed us her arms. There, you could clearly see hand prints bruised into her skin where her mother must have grabbed her and squeezed extremely hard without letting up. Pulling her sleeves back down and arranging her shirt, Marcie sat back down in the chair and started to cry, saying over and over again, "I'm sorry, oh God I'm so sorry." What does one do with this information, with what had happened? What we did was probably all wrong; I can look back and see that now. I know we didn't act accordingly when it came to our son, but hindsight is just that, isn't it, a recognition of the reality of a past event; what we coulda, shoulda, woulda done.

After talking some more with Marcie, we got the story out of her as to what had happened that night in our home. It seemed Daniel must have been overtired and cranky so he was crying a lot and just not a happy camper. Marcie tried to quiet him down with games, music, and silly faces but she said he only cried harder. Not knowing what else to do, but knowing what made her quiet down, she picked up one of the kids wooden blocks, the kind with the letters carved into each side and proceeded to hit him with it over and over and over again until he actually did stop crying.

I then explained to her that the reason he probably stopped crying was that he either had worn his little lungs out, or maybe even passed out but that the hitting had done nothing to alleviate the crying. After a few more minutes of chatting with Marcie I gave Daniel to Peter and went to phone Marcie's mother. When I got her on the phone, composing myself as best I could, but obviously very mad, I told her what had happened and that she needed to come and get her daughter. I don't know what I expected, maybe some sympathy, maybe shock, something, but I was obviously being stupid expecting anything like that from someone who abused her own child daily. No, instead all I got before I hung up in disgust was, "Does this mean you won't baby sit Marcie this weekend then?"

Marcie was terrified that we were going to call the police. No matter what her mother had done to her, she was still very protective of her. Before leaving she begged us not to call them and said she would try to get help. Watching as they drove away, I wasn't sure at that point what we were going to do, but I did know one thing; I wouldn't be calling the police. I too had some fears with the idea of calling them and that was that they might see our leaving the kids with an abuser as neglect and take our children away. Would it matter that we didn't know previously? What about that bruise Daniel had gotten the time before on his leg, should that have been our one and only needed warning? And did Marcie deserve to get in trouble with the police when she herself was a long term victim of child abuse? I still didn't have the all the answers but instead of dwelling on it that night, I went and took my son in the bathroom and gave him a very warm, soothing bath to ease the soreness of all the bruising and welts.

This incident took place during August of that year, about one week before school was to open back up in September. After a lot of discussion Peter and I came to a decision on how to deal with what had happened. As soon as the school office opened up in Marcie's school, from a payphone, we made an anonymous call telling of the abuse that went on in Marcie's home on a daily basis, and about the marks all over Marcie's body. We knew that if nothing else, they would have to call Child Services and have this claim investigated and that was all it would take, we were sure. As it turned out we saw Marcie years later and she told us that she had been taken out of her home and put in Foster Care. She said her mom had been charged, and spent some time in jail. She had never gone home to live with her mother again, but they did see each other now and were on pretty good terms. Marcie herself had also received counselling in order to help her deal with it all and she felt it had worked well. After all these years I still feel a bit of animosity towards Marcie, but I feel a lot more of it against her mother. If Marcie had never been beaten, she would never have hurt our son and because of that I felt we had done the right thing for her by simply calling the school.

Not telling a soul about what occurred became a high priority for Peter and me. We knew what would happen should anyone see his battered body, so we created a lie. We called my parents and our friends and told them all that Daniel had developed a very contagious type of bug. We went as far as to say that a doctor had warned us to keep him away from everyone until he seemed one hundred percent again and that that could take a few weeks. No one questioned us on this, taking our words for truth. From that day until Daniel was fully healed, we saw no one in our home and Daniel was not taken out at all.

We never took Daniel to a doctor after his maltreatment and today I see that as a huge mistake. I know that it would have brought the police down immediately and that would have meant a whole different outcome for us all, but Daniel's health most certainly should have come first. Thank God though nothing medically wrong with him ever came about after this horrible incident, he just healed over time and then it was as if it had never happened. For years I thought it was so, but questions arose as Daniel began school.

When the time came for Daniel to start school, he was very excited. Kindergarten would be a whole new world for him as it is for all children. What I hadn't seen coming though was that Daniel would have a serious learning disability and would struggle terribly all throughout his years in school, finally giving up in grade ten and quitting. I do believe now that this disability was quite possibly a result of the beating he got as a baby. Would we have taken him in that night, they most assuredly would have done some kind of scan on his brain and maybe found a lesion or something similar that would account for his problems learning. Either way though, I blame myself for Daniel's troubles in school. Whether it is for allowing Marcie to babysit in the first place, not recognising that first bruise as abuse or just not taking him to the hospital, I see it as my failing as a mother and will never be able to forgive myself.

Chapter 8

Peter would cheat on me again, at least one more time that I'm aware of. I am one hundred percent sure that there were many times that I am unaware of, but what you can't see, doesn't hurt you, right? The time I do know about though would come after our second child was born, eighteen months after our daughter's birth. Peter was back driving taxi in the city; I think he chose to take this job on so he could keep a better eye on me, which in itself is a joke. I had found out that Lynda was coming to town for a visit after having moved to a city very far away to go to University. Wanting to go out with her, for a little girl time, I set out to try and find a sitter for a night when she would be here. Not knowing many people though it was Peter who once again came up with an answer to my dilemma. There was a young girl, around fourteen or fifteen who hung out at the pool hall where Peter sometimes played, he told me. She went to school in the area and sometimes was at the pool hall for lunch, or after school to grab a snack. He said she appeared to be a good kid, clean cut and all and that he could ask her if she had any experience babysitting, or if she would even be interested. I agreed to this as long as I could meet her before allowing her to care for my children. Two days later I was on my way to the pool hall to meet this young Kari.

When I arrived I was greeted by a girl dressed in jeans, a T shirt, and a leather jacket. As Peter had said, she appeared very well mannered and clean. We chatted for about forty minutes and I finally agreed to have her come and care for the kids one night when Lynda was there. During the next few days Peter would bug me consistently about my going out without him. It became a serious jealousy issue, so I finally relented and said he could join us. When I told Lynda, she wasn't happy at all, but understood the position I was in so she agreed as well to Peter coming along. Strangely though, the night we were to have our outing, Peter begged off, saying he had been called in to do a shift driving his cab. You wouldn't hear any argument from Lynda or me and before he could change his mind, we were gone.

We had decided on dinner and a movie, so we headed straight to the restaurant. It was a popular place, not too expensive but great food and loud enough that you could have a conversation without fear that others could hear you. I ordered a steak sandwich while Lynda had a salad with focaccia bread. We took our time eating, enjoying each other's company. I tried hard to not talk about my life, not wanting to complain or let her in on how pathetic of an existence I led as I knew it would only upset her terribly. About thirty minutes after we were done eating, Lynda started feeling very ill. We figured it had to have been what she had eaten because we had been together for almost two hours and up until now she had felt fine. Agreeing we would finish this another night before she left, we headed back to my place so she could drop me off. As I was getting out of the car we both noticed that Peter's cab was parked outside our apartment, but I just figured he was home getting something to eat and maybe checking on how Kari was doing. Lynda left as I was walking into the building, waving goodbye as she drove away.

Walking upstairs to our floor I realized the kids should be in bed by then so Kari was probably doing just fine. I had decided I would pay her for the whole time I was supposed to have been gone because it wasn't her fault I was home so early. Just as I was entering our suite it also occurred to me that it was good Peter was here, he could give Kari a ride home.

One thing that I hadn't considered was that he might actually be giving her a ride already, of a different sort. Well, he wasn't, but he was close. As I walked into our living room, I found them in a very passionate embrace, one hand under her shirt, the other working on the button of her jeans. Clearly they hadn't heard me come in because they were not stopping. I shouldn't have been surprised, I should have known, but I guess denial is our best friend when we are dealing with someone like Peter. So, there I stood, in stunned silence for what seemed like an hour but I know couldn't have been more than a couple of minutes. Swallowing hard, I decided it was time to make my presence known, so I piped up and said, "Excuse me, am I interrupting?"

I have never seen two people jump like they did. She from pure surprise, it was written all over her face whereas his was more a reaction to her pulling away. Looking at me with shock and disgrace, Kari ran into the bathroom and shut the door. Most people when caught in such a position would instantly go into the "It isn't what you think" syndrome, but not Peter. No, he was the, "What the hell are you doing home?" type. Answering him with silence I totally ignored him and went to check on my kids. After seeing they were alright, sleeping soundly, I closed their doors and went back out into the living room. Immediately Peter approached me as if to grab my arms in order to bring me close, but I backed up away from him and gave him the "Don't touch me" look. "Alright, alright, I get it," he said and then continued on, "but I need you to do something. I need you to leave for a few minutes so I can talk to Kari. She's really upset."

Are you kidding me here? He seriously wanted me to leave my own house, so he could comfort his latest conquest? The look on my face must have said it all because before I could say anything he went on, "Look, she isn't going to come out of the bathroom with you standing here. You need to leave, just for five or ten minutes. Go walk to the store or something and then come back." I knew I wasn't going to win this one and he was probably right, she wouldn't come out with me standing here, ready to attack. Without saying a word, I pushed past him and went out the door, leaving my husband alone with his fifteen year old acquisition.

I did walk to the store and back, figuring that would give them ample time to get their shit together and be ready to get out when I came home. I didn't knock, I gave no warning of my entrance, I just walked into my home as I would any other time. There again, I found Peter and Kari in an embrace, this time with him reassuring her that everything was fine while she cried into his chest. Now I was really mad, "Okay you two, enough is enough, Peter take her home, take her anywhere, I don't give a damn just take her and get out." All things considered, the look he gave me, one of disgust, didn't even fizz on me. I stood my ground as he took her, arm wrapped around her shoulder and led her out of my home and out of my life. Well, she was out of it anyways. At least it was half good.

I also discovered that Peter had serious trust issues. The sad thing is that even when he was accusing me of wrong doing, it was only to cover up his own guilt of infidelity. But boy could he put on an act and find fault with every step I took, every look I made, every call I got. The whole thing got old fast and as I said I learned to see it for what it really was, refusal to see one's own failing.

Probably two of the worst traits I found though were his pure selfishness and degrading behaviour towards me, especially in bed. Initially he would start out with encouraging words, telling me how much he wanted me and such, but it always ended with the crude, rough talk which for me was anything but a turn on. He knew about my rapes as a teen. He was aware of my fears in bed. And through our life together he had discovered just how much physical pain intercourse caused me. We had gone to doctors, I had had exams and tests and what it all came down to was massive internal scarring, both physically and mentally. Needless to say, sexual contact for me was not a priority, it wasn't even really necessary and if it could be avoided, all the better. Who really wants to suffer such searing pain night after night? Still, I understood my husband had needs, as do most people, and so I tried very hard to make him happy by gritting my teeth as much as I could and allowing him his pleasure. This was fine for a time, but eventually I became not enough, or at least what I was able to give wasn't enough I should say, and so he started to take.

He became more demanding, refusing to take no for an answer. He was never what you could call abusive though, not really; more that he would talk his way through it while getting, or as I said taking what he wanted. It was as if he was convinced that by talking, saying repeatedly words of comfort and gentleness, that that made what he was doing acceptable. When I say I said no, I am referring to different things he wanted to happen in our bed, not to sex completely. Already scared of the pain intercourse caused, the idea of using other methods became that much more terrifying and along with that came tension, which in itself would cause more hurt. Face it, if you're not relaxed, anything can be somewhat painful, so imagine what your body would feel like when you're scared stiff. Still, my fears and pleas were ignored, my tears and crying out fell on deaf ears and as long as he got what he wanted, all was good in his world.

Excuse my bluntness but I do believe that in order for some form of understanding here I need to be a little more explicit in the things I was expected to do and put up with silently. For some people, hence probably most sexually active adults, oral sex is a part of what makes their love making special. I can see where that could be the case, in fact at one time it was for Peter and me as well. After a year or so of our being married, this sharing, this connection became a broken link where only one side continued on, the other was lost forever. It wasn't that he stopped trying to please me, because he did try at times, but with his increased selfishness, I slowly lost any desire I had once felt. Peter's idea of "togetherness" became such that many nights he would lay on his back, arms clasped behind his head, and without so much as asking, just a look would suffice to show what he expected of me. No words of endearment, no soft touching during the act, nothing, except for when he was almost done, would he force my head down onto him so hard that I would gag and choke, with my throat becoming bruised from the incessant pounding pressure. Maybe for some it is okay for your partner to force on you something to this effect, some might see it as acceptable, or even a turn on but I find it selfish, mean, and cold hearted.

One 'position' I had always avoided was anal penetration. When I was raped, both men chose to use this and the memory of the pain it caused is still excruciating. It was one thing I had made very clear to Peter that would never happen when we started sleeping together. Again, for approximately the first year he abided by my wishes, never really mentioning it except for a couple of times where he asked if I would be willing to give it a try. He would promise me how gentle he would be, but I could never do it, I always said no. One day his understanding and patience just up and left altogether. There was no more asking, he would just roll me over and position my body the way he wanted it. Oh sure, he would actually mumble something like "Don't worry baby, I'll be careful, this won't hurt," or my personal favourite, "I'll stop if it hurts too much, just tell me." But never once did he stop, and holy hell, as he pounded harder and harder into me, the pain was so intense and so extreme I could feel myself passing out every time, the air gone from my lungs, the bed soaked with my sweat, my vision blurred, and I was going, going, gone. Did he ever apologize? Did he show any remorse? Of course not, why should he?

One small note I want to add here before going on was that Peter decided to take this a step further and purchased a large vibrator to "increase our sexual experiences." If there was no penetration, then I can't deny that at times I did find it enjoyable but many nights he would use this so I was being penetrated in both spots at the same time, increasing his pleasure and killing me inside. I can't even find words to express what I went through during these periods of complete abandon for him. Oh, and let's not forget how much he enjoyed me using it on him. That might be exciting to some people but to me it was just another way of showing that I wasn't enough. What I can tell you is that after so much selfishness and disrespect a person grows to not only hate their lover, but they also see themselves as an abhorrence. One night, after another one of his exploitations of my soul, I found the courage to fight back a little, to try and find myself once again as a human being, not just a sex toy. Before he could react, I grabbed the rubber implement and flung it as hard as I could out our twenty fourth floor window. We both did however get quite a laugh out of that stunt as we watched a car circle the block three times, always slowing when it got close to the dildo, and finally on the fourth round, stop, open his door and quickly snatch it up and drive off.

Being put through so much pain time and again you would think it couldn't get any worse, but I guess that depends on your perception. What is worse though, physical hurt or physical revulsion? I personally find them both horrifying to experience and wouldn't wish either on anyone. Have you ever had to do something that repulsed you though? Something so appalling it made you sick to your stomach? What if it also left you feeling like you were obviously dirtier than the shit on the bottom of your shoe? Well, I have, more than once and never by choice.

Peter had one thing that he loved to do to me that would turn him on more than anything else. For him this was one of his ultimate fantasies that produced a raging orgasm. It was sick and twisted in my opinion though, but I'll let you decide for yourself. On many of those nights when Peter would lay on his back and make it very clear what he wanted, one of his favorite things to do was for him to hold my head down on him, making sure I couldn't move and then verbally reassure me that this would only be a little bit, just a little bit baby. And as I lay there with my head over his crotch and my mouth filled with his organ as deep as it could go, slowly at first, but never really stopping after "just a little bit", he would urinate in my mouth, not allowing me up or to breath until I had swallowed it down. I still get a very nauseated stomach when these memories come to mind and in writing them down for you today, I have had to take a Gravol to settle it down before I do get sick. But it's not just my stomach that feels it, it's my psyche as well. No matter how many times I tell myself I'm a good person who deserves nothing but the best, thoughts of these past incidents bring nothing but loathing towards myself and therefore make it very hard to see the actuality of my worthiness. In all honesty many times I feel like nothing more than a well trained animal, even still to this day. And people wonder why I have been alone for eleven years.

Chapter 9

In nineteen eighty eight I became pregnant for the third and final time. Three months into my pregnancy I developed lower abdominal pain which were severe enough that I went to our family doctor. Concerned for the health of my baby and me, he admitted me to the hospital for observation and a few tests, one of which would be a standard ultrasound.

During the actual test, the technician left the room for a moment, returning with a doctor, who I was later to discover was the head of radiology. Not much was said at first but there was a lot of pointing going on at the screen. After another minute or so the doctor asked one simple question of the tech, "Did you get a heartbeat on that one?" for which her response was simply, "No." He left the room after that and the technician turned to look at me and smiled nervously. When I enquired as to what was wrong, she would only say my doctor would discuss any results with me back in my room.

As I was being wheeled back to my hospital room, upon entering the unit I was greeted by my physician. He took over pushing me and we went straight to my room. I noticed right away that my roommate was gone, which I found rather surprising as she seemed quite ill, but shrugged it off as none of my business. As I sat down on my bed, my doctor pulled up a chair and sat down facing me, watching me for a minute and making me nervous.

"What is it, what's wrong?" I asked

"Well Lee, we found something in the ultrasound."

"What? What did you find?"

"That you're having twins Lee but there's a problem."

Initially I was ecstatic, totally ignoring the part about "there's a problem" and in a matter of seconds I had numerous thoughts run through my mind; imagine twins! Will they be identical? I'll get to dress them the same! What would we name them? We'll need another crib.

"Lee."

"...Lee."

"Huh?..oh yea, sorry, what were you saying?"

"There's a problem with the babies Lee, well with one anyways."

"Problem? What problem?" Now reality was kicking in and I started to shake, I was getting scared.

"One of your babies is ectopic and that causes a big problem"

"What does that mean, ectopic?"

"It means one of the eggs has implanted itself in your Fallopian tube and because of this, we are going to have to do emergency surgery to get it out Lee. It can seriously hurt your other baby and you if we don't."

Now I understood. Nodding, I turned and looked out the window, trying to hide my tears from him. As the tears slid silently down my face a thought came to me, at first confusing me, but maybe...

"Dr. Dolny, I want a second opinion."

"What? Why Lee? We found this on your ultrasound, you want another one?"

"Yes, I do. When they did this one, the technician called in a doctor to come see the picture. While they were looking at it, he asked her if there was a heart beat coming from "that one" and she said no. If there is no heart beat, then it's not growing and if it isn't growing then it's no immediate threat, right? So I want another ultrasound."

Sighing outwardly he said, "Alright Lee, I'll go see what I can do. Please, just don't leave your bed alright? I'll be back as soon as I can."

I quietly replied "okay" and then he left.

All alone now I had to deal with this shock and instead of freaking out, I felt determined, set on making sure I needed this operation. I may not have known a lot of medical things but I did know that surgery could hurt my other baby as well.

I couldn't sit still and was tired of waiting for my doctor, so against his advice I got up and went to go out to the nurses' station looking for him. As I opened my door I almost walked right into a very tall man in a white coat. Backing up, I looked up at him, wondering who he was.

"Hello Lee, going somewhere?"

"And you are...?"

"Dr. Jacobs, your surgeon."

"Oh, well I was looking for my doctor; he went to order me another ultrasound."

"Oh, there is no time for that, you have to get into surgery right away Lee."

"What? What do you mean right away?"

"Right away as in ASAP. We need to get this taken care of."

"But.."

I never got to finish as he gently pushed me back towards my bed and continued talking.

"Now, back in bed, we need you to stay prone until we get you into the O.R. A nurse will be in shortly to prep you and then take you down. We'll see you there" and with that, he was gone.

Right away turned out to be three hours that I waited in my room, with no sign of my own doctor returning. I had no one to talk to, no one to tell my fears to, or to have backed me up with this second opinion idea. After a couple of hours I gave up hoping and just allowed myself to feel the pain, physically and emotionally. I cried almost non stop for an hour, but they were silent, personal tears that I would never have shared with anyone. This was my suffering and I would take it on alone. When a nurse finally came in to prep me for surgery, I had regained my composure and was laying quietly in my bed. She told me why she was there and I just stayed silent, doing what she asked of me. I never said a word all the way to the operating room, until I was up on the table and they were ready to anesthetise me. Looking up at Dr. Jacobs, just before I went under, I whispered my plea, "Please save my other baby."

I woke up slowly, keeping my eyes closed at first, just feeling my body come back to life as one feels after surgery. I could tell it was dark in my room, and was glad so the light wouldn't hurt my eyes. Opening them, I blinked away the blurred vision, focusing on a person sitting on the edge of my bed; it was my G.P., Dr. Dolny.

Seeing me awake, he smiled at me and took my hand in his.

"How do you feel Lee?"

"I don't know yet, I'm still too out if it."

He nodded his understanding, and then seemed hesitant to continue on. Eventually though, with my silence, he carried on.

"There was no tubal pregnancy Lee. It was a shadow in the ultrasound."

"What? So they didn't operate?" Pulling my hand away I immediately felt my stomach for the tell tale signs of having had surgery but before I could find anything he answered, "Yes, they did Lee. That's how they found out, after they had opened you up."

This took a moment to sink in but as it did, so did the realization of what this could mean.

"My baby? Do I still have my other baby?"

"Yes, you're still pregnant Lee, but just with the one."

Thank God. But there was still one more question I had to ask.

"Is it okay? Will it be okay?"

He looked down at the floor for a minute before answering, then ever so quietly he responded, "I don't know Lee, I just don't know." He stood up, looked me in the eye almost willing me to understand, squeezed my hand and left, leaving me in the dark to ponder what all this meant.

With the complications I had had at three months gestation, my doctor decided to induce me when I got to my due date. I hadn't gained much weight and the baby appeared to be quite small so he was a bit concerned. When they started the drip on me, I fell asleep very quickly having not been able to sleep the night before; Peter too passed out in the easy boy chair set up beside my bed. I began to dream almost instantly. I could feel the labour pains crossing my stomach in lightening fashion and that deep physical need to push was upon me. Just as suddenly as I had fallen asleep, I woke up only to find that I WAS pushing. Calling out to Peter, he jumped up and when he realized what was happening, he ran out to find a nurse. I was lucky that I was in one of those new fangled birthing beds so I wouldn't have to be moved because there definitely wasn't time for that now. The nurse came running in, with an intern in tow. "But you can't be pushing already! I just put the I.V. in fifteen minutes ago!" The look on my face shut her up as another contraction hit and I went into pushing mode. The intern was on the ball but a little shocked I think to have things happening so fast. He was struggling to put on a gown and get ready to deliver a baby but my body just wasn't going to give him that opportunity. A huge contraction hit me suddenly and in one push my water broke and my son came flying out, wiggling like a little snake as he did so. I will always be hopelessly grateful to that doctor for his quick reflexes that saved my son from falling to the floor. Covered in amniotic fluid, the cord still attached, he walked over beside me, and showed me my precious little man before rushing him off to be checked over. He was so tiny, especially for being a full term baby, weighing only four pounds and he was the sweetest bundle I had ever seen.

From the moment I got him home, Sean cried. He cried while being fed, he cried during his baths, he even whimpered throughout his sleep, when he actually did sleep. I took him to a few different doctors, feeling lost, confused and not at all like a good parent, but they could never find anything wrong with him. Sleepless nights, long, endless days started to wear on me and I felt like I was falling apart. Just when I thought things couldn't get any worse, Peter came to me and told me we were moving over seven hundred miles away so he could drive for a new owner, with a new company.

All we could take with us was a few clothes and a small bag of toys for the kids. We travelled all those miles packed like sardines into Peter's semi. When we arrived there, welfare agreed to help us get a place since Peter did have employment. We found a duplex which was actually quite nice but it was hard being in the new place. We had no furniture, I didn't know a soul, Peter was gone on the road and the kids got bored having very little to do. I did the best I could, taking them to parks and for long walks or playing in the house trying desperately to keep them amused.

After about a month in our new home, when Sean was three months old he developed pneumonia, putting him in the hospital. The second day he was there, I took the kids and we went to see him, to spend the day, or as long as the other two could handle before going completely batty from boredom. He was in a crib, with the oxygen tent over him, curled up in a ball on his tummy, with only a diaper on and as usual he was crying. Trying to comfort a tiny baby who you can't really touch is next to impossible and I was feeling very frustrated when a doctor I had never seen before came in. He was hardly any taller than my small five foot frame, Oriental and had the kindest eyes. I don't recall his name, but he did introduce himself and shook my hand. Noticing my obvious frustration he asked if everything was alright. I shook my head no and then just let it out, "Doctor, what's wrong with my son? He never stops crying. He's been like this since he was born and no one can tell me why."

He looked at me curiously, then without saying a word, he unzipped the tent, picked up Sean, held him at arms length, looking him over, then gently placed him back in the tent, zipped it up, turned to me and said, "Your son has Cerebral Palsy, Mrs. Dupuis." Just like that. I had no idea what it was, not really, but to think no one else had been able to figure it out and this guy walks in and knows in less than a minute? "What does that mean? I don't know anything about it."

"I'll have a nurse bring you some documentation to read over the next couple of days then I will meet with you and answer any questions you may have, alright?"

"Okay," I answered shakily. I was scared. I needed someone familiar to talk too, anyone, and I had no one except the kids.

When I got home that night, I waited impatiently for Peter's call. Finally the phone rang, jarring me out of my day dreaming so fast that I dropped the jar of pickles I had been holding. Cursing quietly to myself I answered the phone while trying to start cleaning up the awful mess. I quickly found out how hard it is to keep two kids under four years old out of a bunch of free for all pickles laying all over the floor. Peter was getting frustrated with me because of all my distractions and threatened to hang up, so I just stopped what I was doing, sat on a clean part of the floor, watched the kids gobble up pickle after pickle and proceeded to tell Peter what the doctor had said about Sean.

Peter didn't take the news very well, as one would expect, but for him it was more personal, a denial that any child of his could actually be disabled. I promised to learn as much as I could and hung up, not needing his negativity when I already had so many concerns and unknowns to deal with. I spent the next two days reading all I could on Cerebral Palsy. I even took the kids to the library and found as much as I could there. Then when it came time to meet with this doctor I was as ready as I could possibly be.

I found out many things that day about my son, too many to list here, but a few need mentioning. Even though he didn't know the full extent of Sean's disability, he said he knew enough that he was severely affected. He showed me how Sean's legs were always pulled up towards his body and extremely rigid; in fact his whole body was quite stiff. When I enquired as to how this might have happened versus my other two, normal, healthy children, he was a little hesitant to answer. What he did say though was that sometimes Cerebral Palsy is due to a lack of oxygen to the brain during birth or a possible infection that the mother had during pregnancy. Lastly he said that Sean was going to require an especially high amount of extra care and that I needed to put these in place as soon as possible in order to give Sean his best chance at a decent life.

After talking for forty five minutes or so, the doctor rose to leave. I was completely lost in thought with so many new things to think about. Just as he was about to go through the door, I stopped him with a quick call, "Doctor! Can I ask you one last question please?" "Sure."

"Could Cerebral Palsy be caused by the mother having surgery while she is pregnant?" Again the hesitation, then, "Well, hypothetically, yes I suppose it could possibly happen if she was put under anaesthetic."

"Thank you doctor." Hmmm.

When I told Peter everything I had learned and all that the doctor said, he got really angry. Obviously someone was having a hard time accepting this. His first thought that he insisted on was that I call a lawyer. I can't deny, the thought had crossed my mind as well, but I think for a very different reason than Peters. I agreed to call one the next day and hung up. That night I spent the whole evening just thinking. Poor Marie and Daniel must have thought I had lost it and it probably scared them with how remote I was, but I couldn't help it. I just couldn't decide if it was morally right for me to contact a lawyer. It seemed rather vindictive but that wasn't my goal. My only thought was for Sean. By what I had read and from what the doctor had told me, Sean was going to require some very expensive equipment over his lifetime, let alone possibly needing full time care. We could never provide for him financially, but maybe...I just didn't know.

The next morning I called a lawyer that I knew back in my home town. I had grown up with her younger sister so it felt a little more personal talking with a familiar voice. When I briefed her on what it was about, she asked to bring in another lawyer, a more experienced one. I said alright. So, over the course of about a two hour long distance conference call, I proceeded to tell them both about my surgery when I had been pregnant and Sean's diagnosis. The other lawyer, the man, told me that we definitely had a case but that it would be much easier if we were home to deal with it all. I agreed to pass the idea on to my husband, we arranged another call for a week down the road and then we were done. Just like that, it had started but I'm pretty sure the end result will come as a surprise.

Peter was adamant that we move right back home immediately so we could get this "show on the road" so we were back in his truck within two weeks, as soon as Sean was well enough to travel. We had an appointment with the lawyers a few days after we arrived home, which gave us a bit of time to find a new apartment and get somewhat settled...again. Thanks to Peters job, at least this time we had our own money to get a place.

The day of our meeting my parents agreed to watch the kids just long enough for us to go to talk with the lawyers. When we found the office I was instantly intimidated more than I had ever been before. The office was in one of the city's highest skyscrapers, was done all up in marble and plush carpets with expensive paintings hanging on the walls and glass and gold everywhere. I was out of place, WE were out of place. We had no business being there and I said as much. Before Peter could respond though, a man in his late thirties, maybe early forties came out to greet us. This was the person on the other end of the phone and the one who would be responsible for seeing that Sean was looked after. I couldn't decide if he looked the part or not.

Before even starting our meeting, I let the lawyer know my only concern was Sean and his being able to have all that he would require over his life. He smiled at me and said he understood. A few minutes into the discussion though I would find out that what he proposed was way beyond my comprehension and I wasn't sure how I felt about it all. He suggested two lawsuits filed together as one case. The suit was going against the hospital where the surgery occurred, the Ultra Sound technician, the Head of Radiology and the surgeon himself. The first suit would be Peter and me, for Sean, against them. Any monies won would be strictly governed and was only used for Sean's necessities. Once he was the age of majority it would all go over to him. I liked this idea very much. The second suit would be me against them, for me. In other words, monies to compensate for all that I had gone through and all I would continue to go through raising Sean. This one I didn't agree with, not really. I mean sure, it would be nice to have a little extra cash, but I didn't care about me, this wasn't supposed to be about me. Peter asked immediately how much we were looking at. God how embarrassing. The answer he got though would shut us both up, stunned beyond belief.

"You can't be serious?" I said, almost unable to breathe.

"I'm very serious Mrs. Dupuis." I just sat there, blinking at him as if to try and make myself wake up. Then Peter spoke, "So let me make sure I understand this correctly. The suit for Sean would be for twelve million dollars and the one for Lee would be for nine million?"

"Yes, that's correct, although you must understand, these type of cases, when settled outside of court, end with a much lower amount."

"How much lower?" Peter questioned.

"It could go as low as twelve to fifteen million for the two cases combined." I didn't say much after this, I couldn't even if I had wanted too. This was unfathomable and wrong, at least in my opinion. Yes, I'd be a liar if I said the idea of never having to worry about money again didn't appeal to me, but I was also not convinced that I deserved anything, Sean was my son after all, why should I get paid to look after my own child? And also, another thought that came to me was how that kind of money would affect Peter and his love for gambling.

One thing that never occurred to me was how a lawsuit of this magnitude would affect our lives, especially Sean's. Needing a refill on my Asthma medication, I called my old family doctor's office to make an appointment. Sadly, after twenty years as his patient and neighbour, he would no longer see me. At first I was very hurt by this, but eventually I came to understand; I may not be suing him, but I was suing his hospital and many of its staff so by default he could no longer see me. After finding a new doctor, or actually I should say a walk-in clinic that would see us, I had a referral made to see the head of paediatrics at a rehabilitation hospital for Sean's assessment. It was time to start him with all the varying therapies and such that he would be exposed to for many, many years to come. That evaluation however would turn out to be a huge waste of time.

It was a short conference between Peter, myself and the head of Paediatrics. We were basically told, in no uncertain terms, that it would be at the least many months before Sean could be seen. Of course we protested, having learned that early intervention was important to his success in many aspects, whether it be physical motion, mental stimulation or gross motor skills. Our arguments fell on deaf ears however as he just sat there, behind his huge desk, watching us for a moment, then smugly replied, "Mr and Mrs. Dupuis, I cannot help you."

And that was that. There would be no help for Sean in this city. Not as long as we continued the law suit. It wouldn't matter what doctor we went to, what hospital we tried, no one from the medical field, in the city, would speak to us. I understand sticking together when it is the same organization, being a hospital or a clinic, but this was horrendous. It was like they had all sat down, had a little meeting and decided to force us to either drop the lawsuit or leave town. In doing so though, the only one paying the price for this ignorance was Sean. I am still mad to this day, twenty two years later, for the way we were treated throughout this time. It wasn't as if we were known cons who sued everyone, every chance we got. I had been refused a second opinion and most likely due to that decision by the hospital, my son was now severely disabled. Were we wrong in trying to get Sean what he would need to support all his needs over his lifetime? Do you know that the average price for a power wheelchair, that will last approximately five years, is over five thousand dollars? That's one piece of a huge stock of items he would need to get through each day. There would be walkers, bracers, manual wheelchairs, power vehicle lifts, stair lifts, roof lifts, wheelchair accessible showers, shall I go on, because I can. But not one of the doctors we would approach over that year would help us, they wouldn't think of or have any concern of what was required to care for a child with such high needs. And what gets me is that isn't that what these professionals have insurance for in the first place?

Our lawyer phoned us one afternoon to let us know that we were very close to what is called, "Examination for Discovery." This is where both parties of a civil action meet to examine each other verbally, and before trial. It is meant to bring the main issues of dispute into focus, and evaluation of each other's evidence. One side effect that can happen during this conference is that the parties can agree on an out of court settlement. This is what our lawyer was going for, we just had to pay up our bill with him prior to going into this. You would think we would owe him thousands of dollars, but we didn't. It was somewhere around the two hundred and forty dollar mark. Not a hard amount to come up with really. Just imagine, it would cost only a couple hundred dollars to make upwards of twelve million! We didn't pay it. In fact, I cancelled the lawsuit.

So many of you will think I'm insane, I'm sure and that's okay, you're entitled to your opinion. But let me ask this, would you take the money knowing you would have to leave your home, maybe even your country? Because we would have had to, in order to get Sean any help at all. Would you take it if you knew your spouse had a very serious gambling addiction? Because mine did and I knew in my heart that a lot of my share of that money would have gone to casinos, racetracks, etc. And honestly I was already very seriously trying to figure a way out of this marriage, and the problems that kind of money would have raised would have been far too overwhelming for me. No, none of this was worth it to me, we would make do and yes, that was my final answer.

Chapter 10

There I was, so young, yet already married, with three children, two of which had some disabilities, one severe. I wasn't happy, not even close. It wasn't so much the stress of having special needs children as it was the man I was married too. We were not meant for each other and still I was stuck in this loveless marriage, unable to see a way out. Where could I go and what would I do on my own? How would I support them? There were so many questions for which I had no answers. I knew I wasn't the first one in this position, and I definitely wouldn't be the last but how many had the obstacles that I did with my kids? Sean required constant care, Daniel needed special attention and then poor Marie was always left with what I had left to give, which many times, wasn't much. This, along with the issues in my marriage to Peter, eventually weighed me down to a point I couldn't find my way up and out of.

One quiet evening at home, with the kids all asleep, I was sitting by myself on the couch when I realized there was no way out of this dead end partnership. I felt devastated and miserable beyond belief. Grabbing the phone, I called a good friend of mine and explained to him that I really needed to get out, that I was feeling overwhelmed. He offered to come over with his girlfriend and watch the kids, to give me a good break, until Peter could get home in a day or two. I thanked him very much, hung up, and packed a knapsack with a few of my things, not having a clue where I was actually going to go. After they arrived and I made sure they knew where everything was, I left and headed to a bus stop. It wasn't until I boarded the bus though that I actually knew where I was going; the crazy lady was going back to see Dr. Parker for help.

Nothing had changed in all these years, he was still an ass. "Actually", I thought, "he might even be worse," if that was possible. This time though I was on a different unit, in a newer hospital, being that the old one had been torn down finally. The staff seemed to have changed with the building. All the friendly, kind ones seemed to have retired and in had come the stern, never smiling, bitchy ones that you couldn't trust or talk too and whom obviously hated their jobs. It was a terrible time for me during those few weeks. On top of a seemingly ever increasing depression, I ended up having to have a Hysterectomy and due to chronic Pelvic Inflammatory Disease but instead of staying on a medical ward, they kept me on the psych unit. The nursing staff here seemed to have no knowledge of how to care for someone who had just had major surgery which in fact I'm sure they didn't. They were rough beyond belief when checking or changing my dressing and then would get mad at me when I cried out in pain from their carelessness. They forgot to bring me my pain medication more times than not and then refused to admit I had even asked for it, or that they had missed it. When I asked for help in getting out of bed, they manhandled me like I was a criminal who had just committed some heinous crime. And when I requested some help to go have a shower, I was promptly told it wasn't their job and to call my husband. I tried once to talk to Dr. Parker about the situation but was abruptly told he wasn't interested in my "problems" with his staff. As I said, it was a long few weeks, and thanks to Dr. Parker and his staff, nothing had improved with my depression.

The day after I had gone to the hospital my kids were picked up by child services due to an anonymous call made in regards to their safety. It turns out that my friend's girlfriend had a previous record for being a sex offender. Would I have ever considered this was a possibility, especially with a female? Never in a million years. I thought I knew my friend, I had known him since I was fourteen and I had trusted him with the lives of my children. What I didn't know was that he had such terrible taste in women. Peter would come home and get the kids out of care within a few days, but the damage was done, they had already been traumatized. I take full responsibility for what they went through those few days. Why I couldn't have waited until Peter came home, why I had felt so distraught that night, I don't know but my decision to leave my three innocent children with Dale was one of my worst ever.

Peter came to see me when he could, but with having to care for the kids alone and try and work a bit to bring in some money, he didn't get there a whole lot. After five or six weeks he asked to see Dr. Parker alone, but he refused and only agreed to see him if I was present. I wasn't sure how I felt about this or what his motives were, but I knew the doctor had a reason; he always did for his actions. We met in a small interview room and right away the stress level was so high between us all, you could physically feel it pulling at you from inside screaming for some form of release. I was scared and nervous because I had no idea what either of them was up too. My palms were damp, my nose itched and my legs wouldn't sit still. I didn't have to wait too long though to find out on both their accounts.

"What's wrong with Lee, Dr. Parker, why is she so depressed?"

"Nothing." he replied.

"Nothing?" we both said at the same time, looking first to him then to each other.

"If there is nothing wrong with me, then why the hell am I still here?"

Dr. Parker didn't even seem to hear me. Instead he looked directly at Peter and continued on.

"She's only here because of you. She wants to get as far away as possible and this was her way out. Give her a divorce and she will be fine."

"But...but what about my depression?"

"What depression? That was just an excuse. You're using us to stay away from Peter."

With the good doctor's proclamation Peter turned and stared at me, waiting, I guess for some kind of response, but I couldn't find any words that would fit this awkward and revealing conversation. Honestly I was just as stunned as Peter was, having never even considered this to be my reason for coming here.

"Is it true, Lee? Is that why you're here, because you want a divorce?"

I sat there for a moment, letting that question sink in. Was it why I was here? Could it be that easy? Suddenly there was no thought of where would we go, the kids and I. Nor did it occur to me that supporting them was going to be an issue. Instead I looked over at Peter and saw the truth in Dr. Parker's words. I did want a divorce, no matter what that meant for my children and me; I could not go home until it was over and he was gone. Not really able to look him in the eye, shaking terribly, I just nodded my head in assent and looked away quickly. This semi conscious fear of Peter that was still with me took over at times like these and I just couldn't look him in the eye. "Well, fine then. I guess that's it." he said rather harshly, although I really couldn't blame him. He stood up, looked at us both one more time and was gone, out of the room and somewhat out of my life. At least as much as one can be when you have children to consider. I found out afterwards that he had gone downstairs and outside the entrance to the hospital, found some young hooker, taken her home and ended up with crabs. Did I feel sorry for him? Not even one tiny bit.

*One thing I'd like to add here is that many years later a medical doctor would request the report from my Hysterectomy, wanting a clearer picture of my history. A couple weeks later he would call me into his office and promptly hand me a single sheet of paper saying only "I think you should have this." On it was a report from my time under Dr. Parker when I did in fact have the operation, but it had nothing to do with the said procedure. Instead what I was reading was a psychiatric evaluation written by Dr. Parker during my stay under his care that time. On it was his professional diagnosis of my conditions. It read: Severe Personality Disorder with Sociopathic Traits. I cannot even begin to explain how reading this, knowing that was what he thought, affected me. I was so completely shaken that I just up and left the medical doctor's office and went straight to a phone to call Lynda. In a jumble of words of which I couldn't seem to get straight in my stressed out state, I asked her what exactly was meant by "Sociopathic." I figured I knew, but needed confirmation. Lynda proceeded to confirm my knowledge of the meaning but also couldn't fathom why I would be asking about it. Imagine my 'feelings' though when I discovered that this particular doctor saw me as not having any morals or social conscience. When I explained to her why I had been inquiring about it, she was totally floored by the whole idea, thinking that Dr. Parker was truly insane himself for even suggesting such a thing with regards to me.

Chapter 11

Over the next year or so I would discover what being a single mom on welfare was all about. We would be forced to live in low income housing, being that was all I could afford, in one of the city's worst neighbourhoods. Here, screaming women, yelling men, and crying children seemed to be a pre-requisite to life and was fully acceptable. One day it would even go as far as having a woman show up on my doorstep, screaming her fool head off. Of course this disturbance attracted my children and they came running to see what was going on, only to find this stranger, standing there, both arms held out in front of her, her wrists slit and bleeding everywhere. What a sight for my children to behold. I requested a move within a month following that incident and was granted it on extenuating circumstances; my kids were terrified now of living there, refused to go outside and who could blame them? They were only one, three and four years old after all.

Rarely did we have enough to money to buy our groceries for the month, so we soon learned to utilize the local food bank. Neither could I ever afford to go out and buy my kids any new clothes, relying instead on donations and thrift stores. Unlike so many others though, I didn't drink, didn't do drugs, didn't gamble, and had but one bad habit and that was I smoked; therefore our money wasn't getting blown in one shot at the local liquor store or casino. I tried my best to get by on what we were so lucky to get in the first place. I always valued the funds I received from the government, knowing full well we would be out on the street if it wasn't for them. But even knowing I was trying my best, kept a clean home, made sure my kids' needs were met, I still hung my head and never looked anyone in the eye when I was out in public.

Being on welfare instantly brings on such a strong, negative stereotype, one cannot escape it. Even when others may not know when they first see you, YOU know and that in itself gives it away. It's embarrassing, degrading and humiliating even when it's legit. Many people all over North America cheat the system on a daily basis, although it is getting harder and harder to do so. Back in the early nineties it was pretty easy, the process to get on it being hardly more than giving your name, your children's names and dates of birth without even any hard proof. So many took advantage of it. I even knew of one gentlemen who collected welfare for fifteen years for himself and his two children...he didn't have any kids, but he did have a cat and a dog. For a family like myself and my children however we were stuck in the system, with no way out and hence paid the price with our pride and self worth. I say we were stuck because that's exactly what we were. I offered to either get a job or go to school to upgrade, in order to get off assistance, but the government people always said no. Why? Because, they said, it would cost more for them to hire someone to care for my three kids, especially my youngest, than it was to keep us on welfare. Sean alone required specialty care, and along with that came huge costs; ones I couldn't afford on my own. So there you have it. I was a welfare bum, but not by choice, we were a low income family, because we had no choice and therefore we struggled through hurt, hardship and humility for sixteen years because of our government's choice. And who said we had freewill?

Sometime during the summer of nineteen ninety one I was again admitted to a psychiatric ward although I have no recollection of how or why I even ended up there. This time though I was in a different hospital altogether and therefore I became the patient of a doctor new to me. She was younger than any of the others I had had before, and maybe because of her age she came across completely differently. I remember her as a woman much taller than I, well dressed, serious with kind eyes, and a no nonsense attitude, and a quick smile. I have no bad memories of her, what little I do have, but even those few good ones tell me a whole different story than my past experiences with psychiatrists.

During my stay there I spent most of my time listening to my music and writing poetry. Music for me has always been an extremely important part of my life. Somehow I have always managed to find a few songs to connect with that fit my situation and or feelings at the time. They will incite such commotion within my physical self that I can actually feel what I'm going through. Then, for whatever reason, maybe because it's like someone out there was going through what I was, I would listen to these special pieces over and over and over. Even today I will still get emotionally caught up with certain songs and play them continuously for months at a time. Back during my years of struggling with single parenthood and mental illness, this music I listened to would fuel in me a need to write like nothing else ever has since.

Not that long ago I had found some of the stuff I had written then, and was horrified by what I found. It was all so dark, so final; words speaking of an endless haze that would surround me, and eventually swallow me whole. Some were of the hatred I had felt at the time for my father, for his role in knocking my self esteem down so low it was at least six feet under. A few were meant to hurt my family like I felt they had hurt me and the rest were obvious suicide notes. There was not one positive piece amongst it all, and that in itself saddened me greatly, to realize I had been that low and felt so terribly alone.

Back to where I was, over the duration I spent on that unit, a majority of the time I would find myself in one particular room. It was a place meant for occupational therapy, where we could do crafts, paint, or draw anything to keep us and our minds busy. Most of the time though it was empty which was exactly what I wanted; to be alone with my songs and my words. Being that I spent so much time alone, Dr. Montgomery saw fit that it would be in my best interest to join one of her group sessions. I do remember the room we had these meetings in, I think. I believe it was quite a large one, like a gymnasium type room where we would put several chairs, off to one side, in the typical circle. Here we would sit and chat, supposedly taking turns speaking, following the therapists lead. I have never been one for groups though. I am always nervous, fearful of others looks and thoughts, and just want to get away, so this group thing didn't last very long for me as I could not bring myself to participate what so ever. Then she would try meditation, with her, in the privacy of the interview room on the ward. Again, I couldn't handle knowing I was being watched, studied and written about, so this attempt to help me also failed. Indeed I had at some time developed an inner paranoia towards how others saw me and yet I have no idea at what age this began. The only other treatment the doctor had tried, up to this point, was the standard medication that all patients receive when hospitalized for mental illness. They range from anti-depressants to anti-psychotics, all in the hopes of stabilizing that chemical imbalance they say we are suffering from. Sometimes though the drugs could have awful side effects; they could completely take away your ability to function normally. I am referring to having the shakes and uncontrollable twitching of the head and eyes. Dopiness to the point where one could sleep twenty hours of each day, or completely blank thoughts whereas you find yourself coming around, having been staring straight ahead at nothing and you have no idea for how long you were like this or even where you are and how you got there.

I have only three more straggling, faint whispers of memories of my time there, all being completely separate situations. One is of my finding a letter on my bed, written to me from Lynda. My only question is do I truly recall finding this and its words or is it only that I had the physical proof that it even happened. Another is of me being pushed in a wheelchair by a male orderly, up what appears to be a service elevator. I can almost see myself, head falling forwards but being held up by my hands, making it appear that I was holding it in place so it didn't roll off. The picture is so faint though I cannot even begin to know if it is a real or not. The last one consists of having a conversation with Dr. Montgomery in the room where the group therapy was done. I believe she is explaining to me her reasons for something and I am apparently not happy about it, but was this real or is it only a figment of my imagination?

The remainder of my time there is only filled with stories given to me by Lynda. Truly, if it wasn't for her, I would have lost all that happened to me at this hospital after Dr. Montgomery's failed attempts at restoring my sanity. And even these tales are few and far between as Lynda was not even living in the same city as me anymore and so only visited when she came to town. Apparently though, with nowhere else to turn, I was introduced to E.C.T., or electroconvulsive therapy. Here, the patient is put under anaesthesia and then given a muscle relaxant to help avoid injury. Once they have been given both an electrical current is then passed through the brain via electrodes to cause a controlled seizure, which typically lasts for sixty seconds. After-effects a patient can possibly have are temporary headache, nausea, confusion and muscle stiffness which are expected to be gone within a couple of hours. Another side effect which is quite common is short term memory loss of new information. What this means is recent conversations they have had or material they have read is not retained. Due to this last one Lynda had already experienced my not remembering her one time when she had come to visit me, so the next time she wrote me a letter letting me know she had been there and that I probably wouldn't remember and then left it on my bed for me to find when I returned from my E.C.T. treatment.

One thing that Lynda could not tell me was whether or not I signed a consent form for these procedures; I can only hope that I did. Chances are now, after all these years, I could never find out anyways as I'm sure records from twenty years ago are long gone. I also have no clue as to how many times I had the E.C.T. treatment while in this hospital, only that it was done more than once; the problem being I have no recollection of how long I was actually in this hospital. Funny thing is, I had no real memory of ever having ECT while at this hospital. It was Lynda who reminded me of it and the note she had left me that day. This brings me to believe that maybe my other memory of being pushed in the wheelchair did in fact happen, possibly coming back from one of the said treatments.

The next step that my mental instability would take me to is one I struggle with almost daily, still, after twenty years. One of the reasons for this ongoing battle is the confusion on what really happened. I have my memory, Peter and his new girlfriend at the time, Cindy, have theirs, and the medical records state contradictions to both. Even knowing full well that the records are sure to be the correct turn of events, or at least the closest to it, has not helped with my feelings about and recollections to that time in my life. Here is my memory, of which I might add is very clear in my mind, as to what happened:

Sometime during my stay under Dr. Montgomery's care it was decided that I should be committed. As far as I recall, Peter and his girlfriend requested to meet with Dr. Montgomery. Why, I don't know. But I do believe Dr. Montgomery felt she should agree to it because I was still legally married to Peter. I will never know what was said during that meeting but I believe it was Peters suggestion to have me committed or maybe it was more his letting her know that I was still a danger to myself. Either way, and why in Gods name she ever agreed, but she did and I would be locked up, so to speak.

I was never a danger to anyone really, not since I was sixteen years old and attempted suicide. Sure I was very depressed. Yes I had a hard time coping with the reality of my situation with raising my children. But seriously, who wouldn't when left in the position I had been. Try imagining raising three children, two with special needs, one of which is severe, on your own, with only welfare to support you and no real family support nor any friends close by. I was alone, I was confused and I was scared. Does that justify being locked up indefinitely, with no rights or say in regards to my treatment? I should think not. I believe this is where my third and final memory comes into play. Even though I cannot recall any of the words said, I can still sense the emotions I went through during the conversation I had with Dr. Montgomery in that gym. Feelings such as anger, hurt, frustration, betrayal, and resignation. It's definitely a strange thing to go through, remembering emotions but not the words that brought them on.

It was shortly after the conversation between Peter and the doctor that I would be transferred to a different hospital. This time though, I wouldn't be going to just a psychiatric unit in a general hospital. This time it was serious; I was to be committed to a actual Psychiatric Hospital. Now let's see, how would this make you feel? Because I can tell you this, it made me lose any sense of self respect I had left. I truly began to believe Dr. Parker when he had said years earlier that "I truly was crazy." And more than ever before in my life, I was totally alone and terrified of what lay ahead.

According to Peter and Cindy, it was I who went to Dr. Montgomery and requested to be sent to and committed in the Psychiatric Hospital. Is that the memory of the conversation I had with Dr. Montgomery? I have no idea. Apparently though, after some discussion, I was then transferred by ambulance to the new hospital where I was put under a 'Certified Admission.' I just cannot fathom why I would ever do this. I knew of this hospital, my sister worked there in fact, and I was aware of the types of seriously troubled people who stayed there. Had I really seen myself as one of these tortured souls? Quite possibly I had because according to the actual medical records, I did 'present myself' at their door. I was not transferred, however, from one hospital to the other. There is a one week period between the discharge from the general hospital, to the admission in the Psychiatric Hospital. Upon my arrival I was put into a lock up unit until they could decide if I was actually a threat to myself. Here again, I have hazy memories of my time in there that leave me feeling desolate, scared, and completely lost. I can see myself in a tiny room with a locked door that has a small window for the staff to see in. It had only a small bed for me to sit on and was covered with a dark grey wool blanket. My clothes had been taken away and replaced with only a hospital gown to cover me. Like looking down on someone else from above, there I am, curled up in a ball on the bed, shivering, crying and so obviously lost. I recall a male nurse who came to talk to me. He knew my sister and I guess felt he was looking out for me. Lastly I remember meeting with my parents in a room where two walls were completely covered in windows, allowing anyone to see what we were doing. We were sitting at a round table and there is a clear sense of agitation and frustration in what I feel when I think back on that day.

So, I guess you could say that from what I recall, the pictures and emotions, added together with Peter and Cindy's recollections, there can be some truth found in all of it. It had been my idea to certify myself, although I have no clue how I got there or what I did during that week in between the two hospitals. What I can say is that after reading some of my files from those days I have come to see that I truly was one messed up human being. Yes, I was depressed, even suicidal, but I was also deceitful and manipulative. Looking back on it now, and after talking with my current therapist, we believe, or at least I hope, that my fabrications and actions had been a way to draw wide open attention to myself in order to get the help I so obviously knew I needed. Had I felt I wasn't going to receive any without these stories? Possibly, or maybe it was just some deluded way to bring compassion onto myself, at least for a short time, due to having felt I never really received any from home. Whatever the case may be, I am horrified within myself for the things I did and said back then even though I cannot recall any of it.

I would never see Dr. Montgomery again, as with a new hospital, comes a new doctor. How many did that make for me now? Four in my short thirteen years involved with mental health professionals. I didn't think those odds were too good, but who am I to know? I have always been under the impression that once we find a doctor, we stick with them as long as they are needed, although not being stuck with Dr. Parker didn't seem such a bad thing. My new doctor seemed alright at first. He was small in stature, had short brown curly hair, was of medium build showing a bit of a ponch, dressed similar every day in sweater vests and was very soft spoken. In other words he was a nerd who appeared to be unable, no matter how hard he tried, to even intimidate a frog. His name was Dr. Schmidt.

For the first time in any of my hospital stays I was given a private room. Initially I took this as a positive, seeing the privacy as a huge bonus. The room was sparse as were all hospital rooms, but this one even more so as it didn't have all the usual medical equipment attached to the wall behind the bed. Everything here was done in turquoise, the walls, the linen, the paint on the cupboards, even the chairs. I was starting to wonder if there was some connection with this color and wellbeing as every hospital I have been to uses it profusely to the point of being sickening. This was an old hospital, in a very old building, and with it came that musty, mothball smell that can't be avoided. The unit I was placed on was a single hall, but a long one with the nursing station right in the middle and the only doors off the ward right beside their desk. The only other thing that I can add was also half way down, on the other side, there was a smoking/T.V. room that I would only use to quickly douse my nicotine needs and then get the hell out. In fact here I would truly learn the meaning of being alone as I would not want to associate with anyone at all around me. I mean, let's face it, if they were all patients here, then they were all totally nuts.

About a month after my arrival, an orderly came looking for me, to take me for a nice stroll in a wheelchair, or so I thought. Maybe this place wasn't so bad after all. I tried to tell him I didn't need the chair, that I could walk just fine, but he said he had no choice, it was policy, so I finally gave in and sat down. I smiled at and half waved to the nurses as we left the ward trying to be as friendly as I could. We headed to the elevator and when we got in, the orderly hit B as the doors closed. Now, I have heard of G for ground level, M for main level, L for lower, or 1 as in first floor, but never had I heard of a B being used. When the doors opened I was totally confused and I think the orderly knew it and was getting pleasure from it as he didn't move me but instead just let me sit there and absorb what I was seeing. All that lay ahead of me was an obvious underground tunnel leading to God only knows where. Now I knew what the B stood for, but why were we here? The orderly had specifically said he was there to take me for a "nice stroll" and so far this didn't meet my criteria for nice. It was gloomy, with light bulbs hanging from the ceiling every fifteen feet or so, some of which were actually flickering. There were pipes running the length of the roof as far as I could see, and I swear I could hear a humming coming from them. The walls were made of cement with no attempt at ever trying to hide their ashen grey color. I wrapped my arms around me and shivered, noticing just how damp and cold it was down here as well. Honestly it had to have been the most eerie place I had ever been in and I did not want to leave that elevator.

My chair started going forward as my escort must have decided it was time to move on. I immediately felt myself grabbing the rims on the wheels and halting any motion, stopping us right in the doorway of the elevator. Before he could do anything the doors started to close, and coming up against the wheelchair, they stopped but didn't reopen, instead they sat there pushing against the wheels and locking me in place. Cursing in an most un-orderly type fashion, he forced the doors open and somewhat threw my chair and me out of the elevator and grabbing onto the handles, he started jogging down the tunnel, pushing me along as he went.

"Please stop! Where are you taking me?" I tried grabbing the rims again but they just slid through my fingers, we were going too fast and I was weak from all the meds I was on.

"You need to just settle down now." he replied, "I'm just taking you where Dr. Schmidt asked me to."

We came to a T intersection in the tunnel and I was taken aback by how far it carried on in either direction. Where were we going that we had to travel so far underground? And why were these tunnels here in the first place? Realizing it would do me no good to jump out of the chair and try and run away, I sat back nervously and just waited to see where I ended up. Turning right we carried on for what seemed to be at least five minutes before finally coming to what appeared to be the end, a single door followed by a hallway with closed off rooms on both sides. A short way down, on the left, we came to an alcove where there was room to park maybe three wheelchairs, a small table with a lamp and a couple of old magazines on it. This seemed to be my destination because my guide parked me in there, told me to just sit tight and abruptly left. Looking around and I could wonder was where was I? What was going on? But before I had much time to worry about my situation Dr. Schmidt came around the corner, smiled at me, and said, "Well, good. You're here already. Now we can start." With that he grabbed my chair and proceeded to push me into the adjoining room where I was met with what could only be described as a set from "One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest."

It seemed to be a very small room, but that was probably perception because it was full of medical equipment and had another person in it which didn't leave much room for manoeuvering. The first thing I noticed wasn't that surprising considering it stood right in the center of the room demanding my attention. Standing approximately three feet high, six feet long and maybe two feet wide was a table made completely of wood. By first appearances one could only think, "This is what a sacrifice platform looks like." Its top was worn from use to a point of shininess and the color of it was faded to an almost white color. What stood out though were the worn leather straps attached to both sides of the tables upper edges starting at two feet down from the top and every foot after until the five foot mark. Beginning to cower within myself I continued to look around the room. I saw a few machines that looked familiar, being for monitoring heart rate, blood pressure and such, along with an I.V. pole. Glancing past the unknown man in the room I saw the last machine sitting up quite high on a stand sitting right to the left the archaic wooden table. Curiously, here was what appeared to me to be nothing more than some type of battery charger. As Dr. Schmidt pushed me further into the room, and then signalled for me to climb up on top of the table I wondered if I was, in fact, inside a nightmare where I was being readied for torture. "God, if only I could wake up," I thought and squeezed my fingers into my arms as hard as I could, but then pain shot through both my arms where I had grabbed; sadly I realized I was awake. Finally I looked back towards and directly into Dr. Schmidt's eyes and although stammering, got the courage to speak.

"Wha..what are you going to do t..to me?"

The look my question produced on his face was incredulous. He was truly shocked and I had clearly annoyed him.

"What do you mean what are we going to do here? You must know, you've had it done before and you signed a consent form just a few days ago. This is the E.C.T. room. You're here for your treatment. Now enough delaying already, you're not my only patient, you know, I have other commitments to go to. Get up on the table so we can start, please." It was my turn to be stunned and stunned I was. I could not have guessed this is what I was headed to; no one had given me the slightest clue. Or had they? Damnit, I just couldn't remember! Yes, I had had it before, in the last hospital, but I only knew this from people telling me so. I had no recollection what so ever of having it done, or where or what it involved. If this is what it looked like, I didn't like it. Not at all. This was far too scary for me and I began to panic. My breathing became fast, and short, my hands began to shake uncontrollably and I felt myself searching for a way out of the room. At that point both men came, and without being overly forceful, helped me up onto the table, talking to me quietly, soothingly, and slowly I felt myself start to calm. Gently the stranger pushed me down to a laying position on the table and began to ready my hand for an intravenous. Giving in, giving up, resigned to my fate, I stared up at the roof and thought of better times with my children.

Other than the first time, I don't remember getting anymore E.C.T. I do however recall being returned to my room at least one time, laying down in bed and wondering if a head could actually explode from the pain it was producing. During these months I knew a time of complete withdrawal from the real world. I enfolded in upon myself and couldn't see my way back out. I was at the doctor's mercy, no matter where he chose to take me. I know I was seeing him on a daily basis and that he was supposed to be helping me but I really don't believe he ever did. For some reason that I'm not aware of now, I know I didn't like him and still today thoughts of him leave feelings of distaste and anger. Funny enough though I still have positive thoughts of Dr. Montgomery and yet as far as I know, she was the one who had convinced me to commit myself for months in this hell hole. It only goes to show that we are capable of forgiveness even in the face of betrayal when we are treated with kindness and respect.

I don't believe we did anything else there except get shocked and exist. Unlike other hospitals there was no group therapy, no occupational therapy, just lots and lots of time to ponder what the hell brought us there in the first place, if only we could remember. Another absence I felt severely over those many months was that of my children. I could be wrong, I wish someone would tell me I am, but I don't think they were ever brought to visit me in either of the last two hospitals. At least I knew that I did have kids. I tried so many times to remember their births, their first steps or words. What were their favourite colors, cartoons, or stuffed toy? In fact, I couldn't really recall much of anything of their lives with me before all this, and that would become an overwhelming distress I couldn't let go of. When my parents would come to visit I know I asked them questions, tried to force memories to come back but it never worked, it only served to frustrate me more. Even to this day there are still so many years full of memories that are just...gone.

They say E.C.T. is extremely successful in relieving depression, even if only for a while, but I know it wasn't having any effect like that on me, so why I wonder did they insist on continuing it? Nothing is one hundred percent and so there had to be patients it didn't help other than myself; I couldn't be alone in that too. Oh, this is so difficult, trying to remember the things I went through, the emotions, the trauma. I have pieces, small ones, that like to flash themselves in the face of my mind at random times, upsetting any balance I'm holding onto. They are so unsettling, so frustrating, because as I said, I really don't know if they are real. E.C.T. does this. It robs us of ourselves, our soul, of what makes us...us. How could it not when it takes away what made us who we are, our past. Instead it continues, through our lives, to confuse us more, making us believe we must be insane when we can't recall something as important to us as the birth of a child or the death of a loved one. Even years afterward we are affected, our memory seemingly permanently broken. Unless I write something down, I am guaranteed to forget it and even with doing that, it doesn't always work. Sometimes I will put a sticky note on my computer screen to remind me of something important. I will spend a good portion of my day looking at my screen while writing and yet will not only not see the note, looking right through it, but as I said, will not remember what the note was for in the first place. How many times have I gotten a call telling me I missed another appointment or remembered one after the fact when it is too late to still make it? And what about the conversations we forget within minutes of them happening? Possibly the worst part of all this though is not the inability to remember things but is in trying to get others to understand this helplessness, for truly ones mind has been sterilized of its thought processes. Trying to explain it to a friend or family member is one thing, as they usually know your history and they can at least justify it a bit as they know you did in fact go through ECT treatments. But what do we tell the receptionist at the dentist's office when we miss an appointment? The power company when we didn't pay a bill or a prospective new boss if a job interview is missed. Do we degrade ourselves beyond belief and tell them the truth? No, of course not. What we do do is to stumble over our own words in an excuse on why we forgot or maybe simply lie through our teeth; I know I have been guilty of giving a sub truth of previous brain damage which affected my memory. But each of these in themselves is degrading and humiliating and each and every time I lower my already fragile self respect to open myself up to dishonesty and embarrassment.

Then comes the attempt at acceptance of what we have become versus what we had been. The scary part is I don't remember who exactly I was but only have bits and pieces, ideals, and values that I have been told by others. I have some fragmented memories that get all entangled and make no sense whatsoever. Some things may remain clear as day, while others are only in a fog. My early childhood remains with me mostly, but my late teens years and on are all either gone or jumbled. My best friend Lynda has spent hours and hours over the last twenty years talking to me about who I am now, and have always been. She reminds me of stories of our childhood that I can no longer see. Ones of our teen years, and my life as a young adult when I was a new parent. Many times when my memories do get all mixed up, events, times, and places are not where they should have been. Sometimes it's even worse, where I can clearly remember an event or see a memory as if it happened yesterday only to find out it isn't true, it never happened. How is this even possible? Is it some trick my mind is playing on me and really I am recalling something I read in a book, after all I have always been an avid reader. I have no way of knowing what causes these misconceptions but have had to learn to deal with them because they don't seem to be stopping, only getting worse. I once saw on a television interview with what is coined as a Shock Survivor. She referred to what happens to our minds when put through E.C.T. as rape of the worst kind. She may have a point but I see it somewhat differently. I see it as the murder of an individual. That person you were before E.C.T. is gone, wiped out, buried six feet under where you will never be found. Then adding insult to injury, your body is replaced with a cheap copy which is completely incapable of ever becoming the real you. One of the biggest problems here is that no one really understands that you've changed, they just expect you to be exactly whom you have always been. And that, my friends, is impossible.

Yes, thanks to all these professionals over the last thirty plus years, especially Dr. Montgomery and Dr. Schmidt, I am left with only a shadow of my former self. I do somewhat remember that during my time under Dr. Schmidt's care I started to notice these changes in myself. Maybe a better way to put it is that I would come up against something that I knew I should know, like if I liked a certain food or not, and yet I had no idea. It was as if this food was familiar yet totally new. It's a very creepy feeling, like constantly going through a déjà vu loop and not being able to escape. I never fought back once during my time there, allowing them to drug me and shock me at will. I had become nothing more than an complacent zombie. Well, that was until one day when I woke up feeling very different indeed.

Maybe it can be contributed to the E.C.T. after all, or the drugs, or even a combination of both, but I did wake up one morning knowing myself to be changed. Looking back now I'm not sure it was either. Both of those treatments are meant to take you out of your depression, allowing you to feel normal once again without the compounding negative feelings and thoughts. That was not the case here. I didn't feel better, I just felt stronger, more in control. It didn't take me long to know how I wanted to use this alteration in myself and it wasn't staying where I was. I dressed almost robotically, lost in thought for perhaps the first time in almost a year, my mind almost maniacally putting together a plan. Then, before I knew what I was doing, and yet unable to stop myself, I walked down the hall to the nurses' station and inquired as to the whereabouts of Dr. Schmidt. I was told he was in conference with another patient and I would just have to wait my turn. He would come and get me when it was time. I smiled back at the nurse, said thank you, and walked back the way I had come, this time though stopping before an alcove off to my left. With no hesitation I entered the alcove, turned to my right and walked right through the door that was there.

Having just barged in on a patient-doctor conference, it was little wonder Dr. Schmidt jumped up startled when I came in.

"Lee, just what the hell do you think you're doing?"

"I'm leaving."

"What?"

"You heard me, I'm leaving, I'm going home."

"You can't leave, you're not ready."

"I am leaving, now, today. I want my life back. I want my kids back and I'm going to get them."

"You'll be leaving against my medical advice."

"I don't give a damn."

With that he watched me for a minute, the other patient completely forgotten by both of us. I assume he realized there was no stopping me because his next words were not meant to halt my actions, but instead were only meant to hurt.

"You are self destructive Lee, you always have been. You destroy anything good in your life that comes along. You destroyed your marriage, you destroyed your family and now you're going to destroy the only chance you have of getting help."

Tears began to run down my cheeks as his words sunk in. Was I really that way? No! Fighting back, I refused to let him knock me down again. Standing up straighter, ignoring the tears, I clenched my fists and went on.

"I am not that way. I won't let you do this to me anymore. I AM leaving Dr. Schmidt. Right now. Goodbye."

Turning my back on him, I began to walk out of the room. Just as I crossed the threshold I heard the last words I would ever hear from him.

"You'll be back, Lee. You know you will. You always come back. You can't handle it out there."

"No I won't doctor." Without stopping I replied, "I will never be back again."

Chapter 12

It didn't take long after I left the Psychiatric Hospital to get my two older children back. Once I had rented a place, had re-established my welfare file and gotten some furniture, the government seemed anxious to send them home. Getting Sean back though would be a whole different story. Concerned that having all three children back so fast might have a negative effect on me, Child Services decided to start with weekend visits for Sean at home with us. Our time together was spent building forts, going to the park, playing in the sprinkler, reading stories, dancing to music and whatever else we could think up. We had a lot of fun, no stress, and the three of us loved having Sean there with us, where he belonged. Watching him drive away every Sunday evening was heartbreaking for us all and would always end in tears. I thank God for the driver we had that took Sean back and forth from his foster home to us every weekend. He understood our feelings, saw how hard it was for us all and always allowed us as much time as we needed to say goodbye.

After almost two months of doing weekends with my son, I received a call from my worker at Child Services. Initially I was excited, thinking that the call meant they were going to give me my son back now that we had been through many great weekends with him. Oh was I wrong though, so very wrong. She was phoning to inform me that they had gotten many complaints from the foster mom accusing me of sending Sean home without having bathed him, in a dirty diaper and filthy clothes, hungry, very tired and grumpy. Are you kidding me here? I know I instantly went into somewhat of a tirade, not being able to help myself, but soon calmed down. As we talked I thought of something that could prove my innocence without a doubt. I told the worker to talk to Sean's driver. He saw Sean for about ninety minutes every Sunday when he took him home to his foster parents. He would be able to vouch for me. She agreed to call him right away and we hung up. All that continued to go through my mind afterwards though was why in the world would his foster mom say these awful things about me?

About three hours later my worker called me back and told me she had had a meeting with Sean's driver. He had not only backed me up but had added how I had always made sure Sean had something to play with and a snack for the long drive home. Also made aware of the emotional greetings and farewells our family went through, the worker decided it was time for us to go through the formality of court to get my son home. My only request was that I would not have to see the foster mom as my feelings towards her had diminished significantly. I was assured that at no time would I see her, the worker herself would be bringing Sean home to us right after court, three days from now. After getting off the phone, I informed Marie and Daniel of the good news and together we went upstairs to make Sean's room as special as we could for his home coming.

Even though I knew the court hearing was just a formality, I was still nervous. Knowing that Sean's foster mom had tried to sabotage his coming home, I didn't trust that everything would go smoothly, so I asked two people to join me. Peter and Cindy sat beside me on a bench, outside the courtroom as we waited our turn. Sitting there, quietly chatting, I glanced around the lobby and stopped instantly when I thought I recognised someone. I watched the group for a few more minutes, then without saying why, I told Peter and Cindy I wanted to go down to the cafeteria to grab a coffee. Once we were downstairs and had our coffee I pulled them over to a table and sat down. Wondering what was wrong, Peter looked at me questioningly. Just as I went to explain, that same group walked into the cafeteria and sat down not ten feet from us. As I looked over at them, the one I had noticed looked back at me and gave me the dirtiest look imaginable then looked away. "What is wrong Lee?" Peter inquired of me.

Nodding my head in their direction I replied "You see that woman over there, the one with the thick wavy brown hair?" They both looked over.

"Yea, I see her, who is she?"

"I think it's Sean's foster mom."

"Are you sure, what the hell would she be doing here?"

"I'm almost positive and I have no idea, but I don't like it. Let's go back upstairs. I want to see if my worker is here yet, maybe she can tell us what's going on." As we climbed the last few stairs I saw my worker standing near the closed door to the courtroom we would be going into. Waving her over, I told her who I was pretty sure I'd seen and then asked if she knew why she would be here. "I have no idea, Lee. She shouldn't be here at all. In fact, she shouldn't even know about the court. Maybe she is here for a whole other case. I'll go see what I can find out. I'll be right back." I didn't think it likely that she was here for someone else, but I didn't say anything. After what she had done to me, I knew it was about Sean. Standing apart from the group the foster mom was with, since they had returned upstairs as well, the three of us didn't say a word to each other, our nerves all on edge, just waiting for the worker to come back. When she did return she didn't look very pleased, to say the least. "Well, you're right, Lee. It is her, and she is here about Sean. How she ever found out about this I have no clue, but I fully intend to find out when I get back to the office. She had to have been tipped off by someone."

"But why is she here?" Swallowing hard, the worker looked in my eyes, almost checking to see if I could handle the truth, sighed and answered, "She's here to apply to adopt Sean."

Peter was the first one to speak as I was too busy shaking with fear and anger. "What? She can't do that, can she?"

"Well, that's not our choice actually, it's the judge's, but it's highly irregular."

"Does she have a chance, will the judge grant her the right too?"

"I can't answer that definitively, but I really can't see it happening." Looking at my worker I realized she was as worried as I was. She was frowning and wringing her hands, a nervous tic she had when she was upset. Just at that moment my name was called to enter the courtroom. Putting a hand on my shoulder for reassurance, Peter gave me a slight push in the direction of the courtroom door.

When we entered, the worker directed us to a pew on the right side of the courtroom, second row back. As we took our seats, she proceeded to the front of the room on the left. Not being able to help myself I glanced back and sure enough, on the other side, back a couple of rows was Sean's foster mother. With a deadpan look upon her face, she stared straight ahead towards the front of the courtroom. "It's going to be okay, Lee," Peter whispered to me. Acknowledging him silently I turned back facing the judge's empty chair. Fighting back tears, I tried to think of anything else, but damn was I scared.

After the judge entered the courtroom and all the technicalities were taken care of, the judge asked where I was. I stood up and said, "I'm here, Your Honour." He then inquired as to whom the two people beside me were. They stood up and introduced themselves with Peter indicating he was Sean's father and that Cindy was his fiancé. Nodding his acceptance he looked across to the other side of the room, and looking straight at Sean's foster mom, asked, "And who are you?" Standing she replied, "Sean's foster mother, Your Honour." Looking perplexed he asked, "And why are you here?" "Because I'd like to apply to adopt Sean." The shock on the judge's face couldn't have been any more noticeable. "Are we not here to cancel the Child Services order and send the boy home?" He said, looking directly at my worker. "Yes, Your Honour" she replied. Looking back towards the foster mother, the judge said quite gruffly, "You have no reason to be here ma'am, so I'm going to need you to leave my court room right now, thank you." She stood there motionless for a moment, staring at the judge in astonishment, then glaring at me. Due to her hesitation, the judge nodded towards the guard and he moved to remove her. The movement behind her must have jolted her out of the stupor she was in because she turned and headed out, nose in the air, shoulders back and you could almost hear her huffing. "Now, shall we get on with things?" the judge asked.

Within ten minutes we were finished, the order was cancelled, with my agreement to stay in touch with my worker, once a month for six months, to make sure the transition went well for all concerned. Sean was brought back to us the following day. We held a small, family only, welcome home party for him and the four of us had never been happier.

The sabotage that the foster mom had tried to commit didn't end with Child Services. While she had Sean, every doctor or therapist she was involved with was told horror stories about me, too. They were all lies of course, just like the ones she had told my worker, but the damage was done and I would have to fight to earn back any respect from them all. Initially, when I went to his appointments, I was treated with harshness and indifference. If I had a question they ignored me, turning their backs as if they hadn't heard. When I was being told what to do with my son, like his physio therapy for example, not only would they not look me in the eye, but they talked to me as if I was a errant child. His Orthopaedic Surgeon was the worst of the bunch, refusing to acknowledge me altogether. During one appointment with him I asked the child services worker to accompany us, to show her what I was going through and she agreed to. While we were there, in the treatment room, again the doctor totally ignored me, but choose to talk to and explain things to the worker. This left her flabbergasted at first, rendering her speechless. After this went on for about twenty minutes she finally spoke up not being able to contain herself any longer, "You know doctor, Lee is his mother and she is right here. She is the one whom you should be talking to, not me. Why you are choosing to treat her like this I have no idea but I have never seen such utter rudeness from a supposed professional before in all my years. Lee doesn't deserve this. She is and has always been a great mother to all of her children. Sure, she has struggled with coping at times, but who wouldn't, placed in her situation? I'm going to leave now and I would hope you would continue to explain things to her and give her the respect she has earned.." Standing up, she squeezed my hand for a second, smiled at me, then walked out, closing the door behind her.

It took the doctor a minute to recover, then clearing his throat, he continued to explain in a very cool manner that Sean would need a picture board attached to his tray on his wheelchair in order to communicate as he likely was never going to talk. I wasn't ready to accept this diagnosis though, and said as much. I asked the doctor to give me three months with Sean before ordering the board. Sighing in what could only be seen as frustration and annoyance, he agreed. Now all I could hope and pray for is that Sean and I could pull this off together.

For the next two months all I did was talk. It didn't matter if I was cooking dinner, taking the kids for a walk or bathing them, I just talked and talked. I would tell Sean what I was doing, or explain things we were seeing as we went for our strolls. I would ask him questions, or pick him up and dance with him in my arms, singing the whole time. My other two even got in on the fun, telling Sean all about their day at school, playing with him and chatting away or they too would sing. I'm sure my neighbours must have gone mad with the constant sounds coming from our unit, because it was never quiet anymore. We weren't loud, per se, but we were sure to create a non stop drone through the walls.

It was the only idea I had to get Sean talking and after nine weeks I was almost ready to give up. Maybe the doctor was right and Sean would never talk. I promised myself to finish what I had started and then, in the end, I would admit defeat. About a week later I was trying to get everyone ready to go for a walk to the store for groceries. Marie ran by me and I noticed her unruly hair, so I started looking for the hairbrush. Being in a house with three small children, things were never where they were thought to be. Calling out to the kids I asked, "Where's the brush you guys?" Nothing. I tried again, "Anyone know where the brush is?" Still nothing. Man how I loved being ignored. One last time, quite loudly to make sure they heard me, "Hey, guys and gals, do you know where the hairbrush is?" This time I got an answer, "I dunno." That was weird, it sounded like it came from the living room but Marie and Daniel were in their bedrooms. "Where's the brush?" I tried again. "I dunno." It was coming from the living room! Who had snuck past me! Playfully growling I went into the living room to see who had managed to sneak by. Figuring it was probably Daniel, that was the kind of thing he loved to do, I decided to play along as a pirate. "Ahoy there, who be taking my brush?" I said with a flourish as I jumped out from the kitchen doorway waving my invisible sword. Nothing. He wasn't here and neither was Marie. What the...? This time, ever so quietly, I stepped around the coffee table, and unable to manage more than a whisper, I said, "Who be taking my brush? You'll be walking..." Looking down I saw Sean. "...the plank when I'm done with thee." Giggling, in his tiny little voice he answered me, "I dunno." Falling to the ground beside him, I started to cry. "Sean...oh my God, you talked." "Yea Mommy." "Oh Sean, oh say something else baby...talk to me" Smiling from ear to ear he said, "Love Mommy." Oh how I cried, I didn't know how or what had happened but we had done it. I didn't understand at all how he could say what he was but I didn't care. Calling in Marie and Daniel, I got Sean to talk for them as well. Being a funny guy, which we would discover he had a knack for, he looked at them both and mimicked something I did daily, "BOO! Scareded you." Marie actually kind of screamed in surprise then began to cry while Daniel jumped up and down, up and down clapping for his little brother over and over.

When the three months came upon us that the doctor had allowed, Sean and I went back to his clinic to see him. As usual, we had a bit of a wait. I read a book I had brought along while Sean wheeled around outside our treatment room, and then into what appeared to be the doctor's office. Knowing he shouldn't be in there, I stood to go get him just as the doctor came in. Looking at me with no real emotion, he asked me where Sean was. I pointed across the hall to the office. As I went to get Sean, the doctor inquired as to how Sean was doing. I turned to look him in the eye, smiled what I know was very smugly and said, "Ask him yourself."

"What?" "I said ask him yourself." Giving me the most confused look, he walked past me, over to where Sean was looking at the things on the desk, and said, "How are you Sean?" "Fine thanks." he replied without ever looking up. I have never seen a doctor so stunned. He just stood there staring at Sean for the longest time. Then, probably unable to believe what he had just witnessed, he tried another question, "What are you looking at Sean?" "Just stuff, I dunno." Slowly but surely a smile spread across the doctor's face. Telling Sean it was time for his exam, he pulled the wheelchair away from the desk and pushed Sean into the treatment room. Still standing in the hallway, I moved back a bit for the two of them to pass me. The doctor stopped right beside me, looked at me, placed a hand gently on my shoulder, nodded once and then continued into the room.

About two weeks after that appointment I got a letter in the mail. This wasn't the usual copy of Sean's assessment from our last appointment. This was a letter sent to me directly from the Orthopaedic Surgeon. Dated April 20, 1992, it read, "Thank you for bringing Sean to clinic on 31 March 1992. I would like to commend you for giving excellent care to Sean. He has shown a lot of improvement. In particular, his speech language function has progressed..." As usual, my mushy self sat down and cried. I had done it. I finally had earned back the respect that I had lost through the maliciousness of a very mean, spiteful woman. It had taken me months but I had won and my son, at the age of three, could talk. The specialists said they figured Sean had just been listening for three years, storing information and for whatever reason, they didn't have a clue what it was, he had waited to talk until that special day. Some even joked, after I told them about my incessant talking, that maybe he choose to talk that day to attempt to finally shut me up. Whatever the case may be, they gave me the credit for finally bringing Sean into the wonderful world of speech.

Chapter 13

All good things have to come to an end eventually and thankfully so do bad things. This was how I saw my marriage to Peter and boy was I grateful that it was almost completely over. However, as terrible of a marriage as it had been, I do have my three children that came from it and those each are a blessing in themselves. I still see Peter occasionally, and over the years we have definitely had our ups and downs, where both of us are not approving of the other's actions and no, we have not always agreed on things, not even close. But, after all these years, twenty two to be exact, I can honestly say we are as close to being friends as two people in our position could be.

Shortly after our divorce was finalized, in nineteen ninety two, I met a gentleman named Doug and get this, I met him when I called a taxi. Are we seeing a pattern here? Oh, there's more. Doug was also a lot older than I was, with there being twenty six years between us. That's where the differences ended though. Where Peter was thin, in physically great shape, and really not bad looking with his wavy, thick salt and pepper hair, Doug was bow legged, had a pot belly that hung over the top of his skinny legs and blonde, thinning hair. For one reason or another though, we hit it off right from the get go and we would become inseparable within a couple of months of meeting each other. Doug would help me through some very rough times, including the time I was lied to by child services and my kids were taken away from me.

I was tired, and I was depressed therefore I was finding it hard to cope from day to day on my own as a single parent. I called a help line one night, unsure of how I was going to continue on and looking for some advice. The people there told me that because I was a single parent there was help for me and then they gave me a number to call. They said I could get some respite to help me get past this hard time, all I needed to do was phone and request it. I thought about it seriously for a little while, but finally decided that maybe it was a good idea after all. I was nervous when I finally phoned, but the lady on the other end assured me that there was nothing to be worried about. She said that I was entitled to some help, to have someone come into my home and give me somewhat of a break.

A short time later, maybe an hour, a woman showed up at my door. She had been sent over from Child Services to relieve me for a night or two. There would actually be three women who came, each for eight hours. After talking for quite some time, showing her around my apartment, and introducing her to my kids, she told me I could go out for the night, if I so inclined. I called up Doug and asked him to come and get me, and he said he would be right over. I left my home at approximately ten p.m. that night, with all intentions of returning home the next morning.

I woke up just after eight a.m. and immediately phoned home to check on my kids. No one answered but it wasn't that surprising as the kids would be at school, so obviously the woman had left to go out for a few hours. Before noon I had Doug take me home so I could be there when the kids came home for lunch. I let myself in, since no one was home, and set about getting some food made. I started to get a little worried though when the kids still hadn't arrived home at twelve fifteen. They were usually home by twelve. And where was the woman who was supposed to be looking after the kids while I was away? I had said I would be home by lunch, but was told someone would be here either way. Not sure who to call first, I found the number from the night before and called them back, hoping to get a heads up on what was going on. Maybe they had sent the kids to school with a bag lunch. That would account for why they weren't home. The lady who answered my call this time was nowhere near as friendly as the one I had talked to the night before. In fact she was very short and curt with me to the point of being rude. When I inquired as to where my children were, explaining that they hadn't made it home for lunch as of yet, she informed me that they had been apprehended that morning and were in Child Services custody.

I can't deny I went a little crazy when I was told my kids had been taken away from me. I couldn't for the life of me understand what had happened except that I had been lied to by a government employee. How I was going to get them back, what would I have to do? I had no idea. Doug stayed by my side throughout all my turmoil, trying desperately to keep me calm. Still, not knowing where else to turn, I called Peter, hoping he would have some idea what I should do. Peter ended up talking to Doug because I was too upset to talk rationally, continuously going on about how I had been tricked by Child Services. Between the two men they decided the next best course of action would be for Peter, being the father, to call the government office and get more details. Doug gave Peter his cell phone number, hung up and told me we were going out to get something to eat. Saying that I needed something solid in my system to help me think calmly we headed out to a local truck stop where Doug tended to hang out for his meals on a regular basis.

Peter called Doug's cell about two hours later with some new information. It turned out that the kids had been separated, with the two older ones going to one home and the youngest to another. He also said that in three days' time we would be going to court to decide the fate of the children. When I asked him what I had done so bad, he didn't know, the people had never given him a clear reason as to why the kids had been apprehended in the first place. Peter did tell me that he and Cindy would be in town for the hearing and they would take me if Doug couldn't.

Doug kept me with him over the next three days, worried about what I would do if I was left alone. I really was very depressed, now more than ever. The idea that my children had been removed from their home and taken to some strangers ate away at me more and more each minute of each day and by the third day, I was a total mess. Doug took me to the courthouse and there we met Peter and Cindy. They told me that if they were allowed they would take the children out of care, and back with them to their hometown. If I couldn't have them then I agreed this would be the best option. When we entered the courtroom I was suddenly filled with the most intense feeling of dread that I had ever felt before. I was so scared and so humiliated I couldn't even look anyone in the eye. I sat alone with Peter and Cindy because Doug wasn't allowed inside but I even sat a little ways down from them as well. It was as if I felt that I had to face this all alone and that I WAS all alone in the world anyways.

The proceedings didn't take long at all. The judge, after asking who each of us were, asked if Peter was prepared to take the kids. He said he was ready to take the two older ones, but that the youngest would take more preparation. Then the judge asked me, surprisingly, if I had a problem with the kids going with Peter. I very quietly replied, no, not at all, when in fact, I just wanted them back with me, in our home. Satisfied with all of our answers, the judge ordered the two oldest to be released to Peter immediately and that Sean be released when Peter was ready for him. Then he dismissed us all and that was that, my kids would be separated from each other and from me for God only knew how long and I still had no idea why.

Over the next two months I moved into a new apartment with Doug and Peter and Cindy continued to care for my children, at least as far as I knew. The day finally came when Peter came to get Sean and take him home to another city. However, one week after getting Sean released to his custody, Peter called me and asked me to come and get him. He said he couldn't care for him and that he was very worried about Sean's overall wellbeing. I didn't even hesitate, jumping on the next Greyhound, I headed that way to get my son back.

Bringing home Sean on the bus wasn't easy, but we managed. Having seen my other two had brought me to tears and it had emphasized just how much I missed them. They seemed to be getting along alright at their dad's, but it was hard to tell after only being there for a couple of hours. Doug and Sean were starting to get to know each other, and that too appeared to be going well. Life was starting to settle down after Sean had been home for about a month when one night at around eight p.m. I started getting very disturbing phone calls.

The first call came from a Child Services worker, looking for Marie and Daniel's mother. When I said that was me, he proceeded to tell me that my two children had been apprehended and that I had forty eight hours to come and get them or they would be kept in custody indefinitely. He never went into much detail surrounding what had brought them into care, concerned only with getting them out. I promised to be there within the time allowed and hung up. A few minutes later the phone rang again, this time it was the principal from the kid's school. He would be the one to fill me in on what had transpired over the last few days, as far as he could tell, and it was horrific in my eyes.

It turned out that Peter and Cindy had decided to go back to trucking long distance, so had hired a nanny to care for the kids. This 'nanny' was not a professional by any means, rather she was just some random person who either had answered an ad, or they had met through someone they knew. Packing up their stuff, they left my children and their own daughter, who was less than a year old, with a stranger.

While she had been there, for however short of a time it had been, she would send the kids to school unbathed and without a lunch. No one really knew how long this woman had remained in the house, only that she had eventually taken anything of value and left. This left Marie, who was only six years old, in charge of caring for her five year old brother and the baby. She managed to do it for a few days. No one really knew for how long, before anyone noticed. What triggered the school staff though had been the kids not showing up for class and that no one was answering the phone. This had raised a red flag for the school, so they had called the local police to check to make sure the family was alright. This brings me to my third call that night, being the police from the district where my kids were. They simply wanted to make sure I knew what was going on, that I would be coming to get my kids and to let me know that yes Child Services had been notified, but the children were currently with a neighbour who had agreed to help. After these three calls, it was ten p.m. and I had no idea how I was going to come up with enough money and transportation to get there within two days to save my children.

It would be Doug who saved the day, along with my parents' help. Without even letting me know what he was up to, Doug phoned a friend and arranged to get a one ton cube van that we could use to go get the kids and all their stuff the next evening. After he explained to me what he had set up, I called my parents and asked them if they would watch Sean just for the time it would take us to go get the kids. They agreed and all was set, we would be leaving in less than twenty four hours, driving through the night to get to where my children were within the time I was allowed.

When we arrived it was just after nine a.m., and I went straight to the neighbours that I had been told had my children. I had never been so happy to see anyone as I was at that moment. Kneeling on the front walk I held the children close to me for a few minutes not wanting to let them go. It was Doug who finally got me to release them saying we should go next door and start packing up their things. As I opened the door to the house where they had been living I was instantly struck by the pungent odour of urine, feces and rotten, mouldy food. Covering my mouth and nose as best I could with my hand, I stepped into what honestly looked like an indoor city dump. This was not what I saw a month prior when I had been there to pick up Sean, not even close. In fact when I had been here the house was clean, just a bit untidy, so basically what you would find in a home with three small children. This though, this was gross beyond words. The master bedroom floor was completely covered in dirty laundry; you really couldn't see any carpet. Mixed in amongst the clothes, and all over the main floor of the house there were dirty diapers, just laying open as if they had been tossed down wherever they fell. Plates, bowls and cups all covered in mouldy food littered any table surface that there was and the one garbage can was overflowing. The kitchen counters and sink were also covered in garbage, spilled food and drink, and dishes. What they hell had gone on in here?

Without removing my shoes, I stepped over the many piles of trash, and headed upstairs to the attic to what had been my children's room. As I got closer to the top of the stairs the smell of human waste almost chased me back down the stairs. Now using my shirt to cover my face I slowly finished the climb. At first the room didn't seem near as bad off as the rest of the house, I could at least see the floor. Going in for a closer look, I walked over towards the beds. Figuring out whose bed was whose by the blankets covering them I first went to my daughter's. It was unmade; the sheets obviously hadn't been washed in quite some time from the amount of dirt in them, but otherwise seemingly normal. Going over to my sons though I instantly saw the urine stains all over the sheet covering the mattress. Was he so messed up that he was wetting the bed now? Turning around, glancing about me, I saw something even more disturbing; little piles of human waste covering the floor in the corners of the room. Why would they have done this? Had they been locked in here? I had no answers. As I made my way back downstairs I knew one thing for certain, I wouldn't be taking most of what was here back home with us, we would just have to make due with what we could scrounge together that wasn't ruined. One question kept coming back to me over and over throughout that day though and that was, this disaster, this obvious amount of neglect could not have all happened in a single month, could it of? I knew the answer already of course since I had been here just over one month ago, the answer was yes.

All we found that could be saved was one garbage bag of clothes, a few toys and two bikes. Loading these into the back of the truck, we took out the furniture blankets that were in the van already and laid them down on the floor near the front seats for the kids to lay on for the trip home. We wouldn't be taking Peter and Cindy's baby with us, she would stay with the neighbours until they came home. After a quick call to the social worker, we agreed to meet him at a restaurant on the way out of town, to sign some papers. Thanking the people who had taken in my children, we got into the truck and drove away, leaving the nightmares behind I hoped.

I would never know the true extent of what had gone on in that house over the course of that month. Neither child would talk about it and I didn't feel the need to push the subject, they were safe now and that was all that mattered. Within a week or so of returning to me however, I discovered just how messed up my children were now because of everything they had been through. Almost every morning I woke up to find one of them had shit in the closet. They would never say who had done it and again I didn't insist on an answer. Doug didn't handle this issue very well, threatening to put them both in diapers, and in actuality he did a few nights, disgracing them even more. Daniel had pretty much withdrawn and had become a very quiet little boy, almost never talking. Marie on the other hand outwardly seemed fine but would show signs that she wasn't. For example, sitting at the kitchen table coloring, the house quiet, she would suddenly burst out screaming, telling us to shut up. I was worried sick about both kids and talking to the people at their new school, I got them referred to a child psychiatrist they would see within a week.

I hadn't been given the name of the doctor they would be seeing, just the location to go to. It was a clinic that saw only troubled children and some even stayed there, while others simply went to school there or just came in to see the doctor. I knew I would never agree to letting them stay there, after my own experiences as a child, but I didn't see any harm in trying to get them the help they so obviously needed. We didn't have to wait long before being called in to the doctor's office. I was told I would be accompanying them for the first session, and I was glad. I let the kids enter the room first, following right behind them. At first I couldn't see who else was in the room, as my kids were in the way, but then as they sat down in chairs I was given a clear view of the room. There, sitting at the desk, all noble and smug, was Dr. Kincaid.

I think I surprised him as much as he surprised me. Of course he wouldn't have known the kids he was about to see were mine because my name had changed. He was the first to speak, and to be honest I don't think I could have said anything at that moment; I was far too torn about how I felt about this development.

"Laura Lee Brand? Is that you?" I nodded still not knowing what to say.

"Well, I'll be. And so these are your children then?"

"No," I thought, "I stole them on the way over here," but what I said was,

"Two of them, yes."

From this point on the conversation was directed at my kids, and that was probably best because my emotions were all out of whack and I probably would have said something I'd regret. As I sat there quietly though, my mind was working in overdrive. What do I do now? Do I get through this interview then never come back? Is that fair to the kids when they so obviously need help? If I allow them to keep seeing him am I approving now of the way I was treated by him as a child? Can I simply limit what he is allowed to do with them? And, unfairly, I was also feeling somewhat embarrassed by being there. First me, now my children; what was Dr. Kincaid thinking? With all my musings time flew by and the next thing I knew it was time for us to go. Crap, I hadn't heard a word that had been spoken between the three of them. Getting up from my chair I smiled at the doctor and went to leave, but he stopped me and asked to speak to me alone for a moment. Oh great. A nurse came and took the kids to another room while I stayed behind. Slowly I sat back down, clasped my hands in my lap and looked towards Dr. Kincaid.

"I have some papers here I will need you to fill out Laura. One set for each child. It will give me a better idea of what brought them here and how I can help them."

"Okay," I responded monotonously.

"If I feel they should stay here, go to classes here, or be put on any medication it will have to be approved by you first, alright?"

"They will never stay here." There, I said it. Just that one statement made me feel stronger, more in control.

"Well now, sometimes it is necessary to give them the help they require Laura, as you know yourself."

"Exactly and that is why they will never stay here. Ever. The other options I might be willing to talk about, the medications will be questionable, but please never mention again your idea of them staying here or I will pull the kids out of your care and find someone else. "

He looked directly at me when I finished, watching me I suppose to see just how serious I was. I stared right back, refusing to back down. I needed him to know right from the start that I was not some pushover parent, like mine were, that would submit to his every whim.

"Alright Laura. Please bring those papers completed to the kids' next appointment."

"I will." and with that I stood up and walked out without giving him a chance to say anything else. Yes, I would be in charge this time around.

As it turned out he requested that both children go to school on his unit for an indefinite amount of time to allow him more opportunity to observe them. I agreed, but kept a very close eye on what was transpiring throughout their time there. At one point Dr. Kincaid insisted that he put the children on a drug called Cylert stating that both kids, especially Daniel, were suffering from ADHD or Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. At the time I wish I would have known more about researching certain medications because today this drug has been taken off the market in the US because of its association with life threatening hepatic failure. All I can do is thank God my children never experienced this terrible side effect. Another point I feel I need to make is that today I don't believe either child ever actually had ADHD. That diagnosis is one that seems to be tacked onto any child who acts out of the ordinary. If anything, and this only comes from my own research, I would say that both kids were actually suffering from PTSD or Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I know, I'm no doctor, but a parent knows their own child and my kids were not ADHD.

One diagnosis that I did agree with is that Daniel had SAD or Severe Anxiety Disorder. This was a boy who would hear the wind in the trees and would run and hide in his closet for fear of a tornado. Whenever I got sick, whether it be a cold or the flu, he would be convinced I was dying and would go under his bed and cry uncontrollably. Everything to him was an extreme, there was no middle ground. Because of these stressors he also had an extremely hard time falling asleep for fear of what the night would bring. One situation would become so serious that I had to allow him to be medicated at bedtime in order to allow him the rest his body was craving. At approximately thirteen years old Daniel decided he had had enough of these medications and requested that he be taken off it all. It would take him a full year to completely become drug free, but he did it and I am so proud of him for his will and determination to win over these troubling issues. Marie was only ever put on Cylert and she stayed on it for about two years when it was decided that she really didn't need it anymore.

Doug and I decided to move to a smaller community outside the city where we could rent a whole house for the same price as an apartment in the city. I thought the community would be a much better one for my kids and the house we found was amazing. It was a split level home with four bedrooms and two baths. Sean loved to commando crawl everywhere in the house instead of using his chair and the stairs were not really an issue either as he had learned to go down them on his tummy. He actually had amazing upper body strength as well, so he would go up them laying on his stomach too. Using his arms only to climb each stair he would drag the rest of his body up behind him, basically using the same commando style like he did on a flat surface.

Here we started making a life for ourselves, we got a dog and the kids made friends. The house was situated on a crescent and everyone looked out for each other, including all the children in the area and life was turning out alright. After six months or so however, I started noticing that Doug was coming home late from work a lot. Praying that he didn't have a gambling problem like Peter had, I confronted him on it. He never got mad at me for asking such a thing but just explained how lately he had been getting a lot of clients who liked to book him late at night to take them home instead of driving drunk. I knew Doug was a popular driver, being very punctual and pleasant, so this really didn't surprise me and life continued on. That was until he didn't come home one night.

I tried calling him on his cell numerous times but as it got later and later I had to eventually give up and go to bed. After getting the kids off to school, I had one thought in mind and I was determined to find out if I was right; I headed into the city. When I had met Doug he had been seeing a woman name Marlene off and on. She was closer to his age, and very determined to get Doug to put a ring on her finger. Not being what he was looking for in a relationship, when he met me, he dropped Marlene like a hot potato. I knew she still called him on his cell quite regularly but I had been present many times when she had and had always felt I had nothing to fear. Besides she was just plain weird. She wouldn't care who was in his cab, and she knew he always had his phone on speaker, but she would still call and tell him what she would like to do to him physically. Ugh. But still...Doug had shown me the block that she lived on once before, a long time ago and this is where I was headed; I just couldn't fully trust anyone.

Driving slowly up the street, nearing the end of the block, I saw Doug's cab parked in the driveway of a house. Bingo. I parked down the street a ways, and not even realizing just how mad I was, I strolled up to the front door and rang the doorbell. I could hear some talking going on, but then the door opened. She stood there in a negligee covered with an open housecoat, and the look on Marlene's face was truly worth all the gas I had wasted coming there. "Where's Doug, Marlene? I want to talk to him."

"He's not here." she said just a tad too quickly.

"What? You think I'm an idiot? His cab is parked in your driveway, now get him out here please." Just as I finished she tried to close the door on me. I stuck my foot out, blocking the door from closing. "Marlene, I wan...never mind I found him." Out of the corner of my eye I caught Doug slipping out her back door. I stormed down the stairs, walked over to his car and as he looked up and saw me standing there, I didn't give him a chance to speak, let alone breathe, "You have twenty four hours to get all your shit out of our house, do you understand me?" I guess he didn't know what to say because he just nodded. Satisfied, I walked back to my car as fast as I could. Without another glance in his direction I flew off down the street.

Instead of Doug leaving, I choose to take the kids and move as far away as possible. Since Sean was going to have surgery in a different city sometime over the next year or so, I choose to go there. Doug was good enough to stay away until I left. He tried to get me to meet him and talk but I refused. I was packed up in a U-Haul and ready to go within four days. As I drove away I looked back at the house, saddened by the way my life had again taken a turn I hadn't seen coming.

Chapter 14

We settled in a townhouse complex that housed a lot of families. There were children everywhere and it wasn't long before the kids once again had met and made friends. Daniel and Sean seemed to be settling in quite well, but I was getting worried about Marie. She seemed to be changing, her attitude towards people, especially me, becoming full of anger. There were days where she would be outside playing and instead of coming in to look for a drink or a snack, she would come in just to tell me she hated me. When it came to my divorce with her father, it was all my fault in her eyes and she loved to make sure I knew this. Nothing was ever good enough for her and she always wanted more, sometimes screaming it to tell me. Vindictive became a common word to explain my little girl as she always had a way of getting back at me if she wasn't happy. Outside she became queen of the hill, with all the other kids having to follow her direction and she became fiercely protective of Daniel, willing to knock out anyone who dare threaten or even just ditch him. The worst of it for me though was Christmas of that year. She wasn't alone in her misbehaviour, Daniel and Sean following suit, but I do believe she was the instigator.

A couple weeks before Christmas I ended up in a cast up to my knee. I had been play fighting with a couple male friends. I always used my hands to punch, dodging around them like a mouse. It was easy to get around them quickly with my tiny frame and both of them well over six feet and built like brick...well, you know. One day I got some stupid idea in my head to pretend to kick them instead of punch. Completely unexpected and caught off guard they both reacted as if they were being attacked and their arms and hands came crashing down on my foot to block it, crushing a bunch of the bones and dislocating my big toe. And wouldn't you know it, this was going to be the first year that I ever hosted Christmas dinner for not just my immediate family, but also for an aunt, uncle, and cousin.

The three days prior to Christmas I spent up, on my feet, so to speak, cooking and baking for hours, getting ready for my big day. Looking back I think I went overboard but I was so excited to be having it at my house I couldn't help myself. I made about five different kinds of hors d'oeuvres, I created and decorated about a hundred cream cheese mints, designed a gingerbread nameplate for each individual, and had desserts and cookies more than we could have ever eaten. I was exhausted by Christmas Eve but also very proud of all I had accomplished. Everything was ready, the presents were under the tree and I could finally sleep. Everyone would be here by eight a.m. and it was going to be the perfect Christmas.

Waking up Christmas morning, with small children in the house, you usually expect them to be jumping all over your bed shouting, "Santa was here, Santa was here, get up, get up, it's Christmas!" At least I always did, and I was usually right, except this year. As my eyes cleared and the fuzziness left my head, I could hear the kids, they were all being pretty loud, and they were in one of the bedrooms. Well, I guess they were letting me sleep, how nice. As I came out of my room, I immediately noticed something in Sean's room that didn't make sense. It was a Christmas present I had bought him, and it was open. With my stomach dropping within seconds of this realization, I headed downstairs without so much as a good morning to the kids. Going down the hall towards the living room, I started feeling more and more sick as I caught glimpses of what appeared to be wrapping paper. I was pretty sure I knew what had gone on; the kids had opened their presents. With my heart sinking, I came around the corner and looked into the room. The chaos that I came upon was far worse than I had thought. Not only had they opened their presents but they had opened ALL the gifts in what appeared a mad rush of insanity, without any focus or concern of what they were opening. I was faced with a huge jumble of gifts and paper all mixed together, no idea what was for whom or from whom. Falling down into the couch I sat and stared unable to believe my children's callousness.

I knew Daniel and Sean would never have done this without the lead taken by their big sister and I truly felt she had done it intentionally just to get at me and ruin my big day. I was so hurt by what they had done. I didn't even want to face my family, but I had no choice. Wiping my eyes, I went and got two garbage bags, one for paper and one for gifts. The kids could stay upstairs, right then I just didn't want to see them.

I ended up salvaging what I could that Christmas morning, rewrapping gifts for other family members, and cleaning up the disaster before anyone arrived. I had to tell them what had happened though, since almost all the presents were gone from under the tree and that proved to be embarrassing, to say the least. The rest of the day went off without a hitch and everyone seemed to enjoy themselves. The kids still talk about that year and what they had done and every time they do, their own humility shows through clear as day.

Peter and Cindy needed a home base for when they were in town for a day or two every few weeks and so they asked me if I could rent them my basement. Needing the extra money, I agreed. After all, it would be pretty rare that I would actually be seeing them. When they were home one weekend, we had been playing cards when Marie

came inside from playing outside and asked for some candy. It was almost dinner time so I said no. Without so much as a second thought about what she was doing, she stood there, looked right at me and screamed that she hated me. Peter was so floored that he sent her to her room right away, then came down and said we had to talk. Oh boy, here we go.

When Peter and Cindy had gotten the kids out of care, not really understanding how it all worked, we were all under the impression that Peter had custody of them, even though they ended up living with me eventually. With this in mind, that day Peter told me since I obviously couldn't control the kids, especially Marie, that he was going to keep the two older ones. Feeling completely powerless, all I could do was nod my assent. They said they would take over my townhouse and that I should just take Sean and go. Not knowing any way to fight them, and really unsure of what was the right answer to this dilemma, I agreed. One week later, with a U-Haul trailer hooked up to my car, Sean and I left to go back to our home city. It was a two and a half hour drive and I don't think Sean and I said more than three sentences to each other, both feeling the emptiness of Daniel and Marie being gone.

We got an apartment in a downtown high rise that catered to disabled adults. They had agreed that we could move in due to Sean's disability and he became a big hit in the building, making an impression on all the adults. A month after we moved in, I met with Doug and we talked about what had happened. I was a total mess mentally, and very vulnerable. I fell for all his apology talk and "needing me" chatter; before I knew it he was moving in. Life might have been okay had I not been suffering from such an empty feeling in my heart. I missed the kids so much, and at night I would sit on the floor, staring out at the stars and just think about them incessantly. It was so quiet, too quiet, without them. Sean was booked for his surgery finally back in the city where Marie and Daniel were. I would at least get a chance to see them, but that wasn't my only plan. I didn't know how I'd do it, but I knew I had to try to find a way to get them home with us once and for all.

Chapter 15

Sean was scheduled to undergo a major operation called a Dorsal Rhizotomy. By definition, it is a neurosurgical procedure that selectively severs problematic nerve roots in the spinal cord, most often to relieve the symptoms of neuromuscular conditions such as spastic diplegia and other forms of spastic cerebral palsy. In layman's terms that meant they would expose the spinal cord, test the nerve rootlets to see if they were causing spasticity in Sean's lower body and if so they would cut and cauterize them. The goal was to get him out of his wheelchair and walking, even if it was with a walker or canes, as long as it was to become his main means of motion. It was major surgery and back then Sean would only be the fifth or sixth one tried in our country, with the previous ones all being successful. As long as all went well he would be in the Children's Hospital for no more than a week, then transferred back home to a rehabilitation hospital for a few months to undergo therapy. It was going to be a long haul, the longest we had been through yet, even with Sean having already undergone four other operations.

The morning of the operation I was allowed to accompany Sean up to the O.R. waiting room. He was a bit scared, not really understanding what exactly he was going to be going through, but I was a nervous wreck. There were complications that could arise from this, as in any operation, but some of the possibilities were serious; permanent paralysis of the legs and bladder, permanent impotence, or sensory loss and/or numbness that is severe enough to not feel anything any more in the legs (not paralysis; movement is retained), to name a few. When they came to take him away, I held him close for an extra minute, telling him how much I loved him and that I would be waiting for him when he returned to his room. I stood there for another minute or two after they had left, unable to move. It was a nurse who came in and politely told me I could go now, that Sean would be a few hours. This jolted me out of my apprehensive state and I made my way to the elevator, not really knowing where to go or what to do for the next several hours.

As the elevator doors opened onto the main lobby I was greeted by my aunt who had been waiting for me. Somehow she had known I would be lost and scared so she had come to get me out of the hospital for at least a couple of hours. I had never appreciated seeing anyone as much as I did that day. We went out for some breakfast, and even though I found it hard to stomach anything, the company was a blessing. I was so happy to not be facing this alone. Afterwards she took me shopping where I found a stuffie that I thought Sean would like, and my aunt bought him a book. About two and a half hours later I was back at the hospital, feeling less anxious than earlier.

It had been almost eight hours since Sean had gone into surgery. By then, I was becoming quite nervous as I'd expected him back after about six hours. No one told me how it went, but I finally did run into the assisting surgeon in the cafeteria and he reassured me that all had gone well. They had some trouble getting him "put back together and closed up," that's why there was a delay. It didn't sound that promising but I had no one else's word but his, so I hung onto it. When they brought Sean back to his room, I wasn't as prepared as I had thought as when I saw him surrounded by machines, some even on his bed with him, I instantly felt sick to my stomach. He looked so infinitely tiny amongst everything, and so frail. Walking over, once I was allowed to, I gently placed his new big stuffie on the end of his bed, delicately kissed his brow, and sat down in a chair directly beside him to watch over him through the night.

I dozed off in the chair, and was woken by Sean sucking in air as if he had just been punched in the stomach, then seemingly holding it as if he could no longer get any air. Not wanting to hurt him, but scared that he had actually stopped breathing, I called out his name and gently touched his arm. Nothing. I did it again this time calling louder and shaking him a tiny bit. All of a sudden Sean let out the air he had been holding in his lungs as someone who had been underwater for too long would, if they came up bursting for air. Within two minutes, however, he did it again. This time when he gasped for air, there was a weak, but definite sound that came from his throat, almost willing someone to help him. Terrified of what was occurring I immediately rang for a nurse. It had been three hours since his return to his room, and this was not an expected reaction. Convinced he was in pain, she called for the pain crew to come and see Sean. This was the group of people who looked after any pain medications that the children received. After about thirty minutes and God only knows how many of these attacks Sean had gone through, the man arrived who would look at his pain medication. He watched what Sean was going through, which was consistently occurring every two to five minutes now. Satisfied with what he saw, he first checked the one IV machine that controlled something that I honestly had no idea what it was for. With this machine showing that it was administering the correct amount of medication, he too became sure it was a pain issue, so slightly increased his Morphine drip through his IV, via the IVAC machine. Satisfied that would settle things down, he left. Not even five minutes later, it happened again. Each time it happened it seemed to take a bit longer for him to come around, and take in air and he was obviously getting weaker with every episode. Again I rang for the nurse and made her watch what he was still going through. With a worried look upon her face, she went back to again call in the pain crew. Returning for the second time in thirty minutes, the intern from the pain crew again increased Sean's morphine, this time doubling it. He observed for a few minutes, when nothing happened he smiled at me and left. I too thought it was over as nothing happened for about fifteen minutes. Sitting back down in my chair, exhausted, I closed my eyes to rest.

Before I could even think about sleep I was startled awake by Sean once again gasping for air. This gasping was also accompanied by an arching of his body as if he had been electrocuted. Almost yelling at him, willing him to take a breath I called his name over and over, telling him, "Please baby, please, breathe!" When he finally did gasp for air, it was so weak I knew he couldn't keep this up for much longer. There was sweat running down his brow and covering his face. He was so pale and I could almost see his life slipping away bit by bit. Ringing the nurse again, now very upset, I almost yelled at her to call his doctor. Agreeing, she took off running to the station to do so. Within ten minutes, and two more serious episodes, she returned to tell me they couldn't get hold of the surgeon so they had once again called the pain crew. In reality I knew they too had no idea what was going on, or what to do for Sean, so they took the only route they knew, call in the drug people. By this time Sean had been having what I called seizures for approximately four hours. Taking their sweet time, they arrived, two of them this time, around thirty five minutes later. Watching Sean, they both once again rechecked the first machine and satisfied, surmised he was just in serious pain, so tripled the amount of pain killer from what it had originally been. He was now getting enough morphine to drug a fully grown man, let alone a very tiny five year old boy. This time however, the pain crew didn't go too far, only leaving to go to the nurses' station. Not even three minutes after they left the room, Sean had another seizure. It was clear that he was losing this battle, being almost too weak now to even try and get any air. Not caring who I woke up, I screamed for them again, insisting they get his damn doctor. A nurse came in, almost scared to face me, and quietly explained they had been trying since this all began hours ago, but that the doctor had not responded to any of his pages. Angry, scared, and knowing I was losing my son, I fell down into the chair and cried, not knowing what else to do. Without any other solution, I wiped my tears and I chose to remain by my son's side, holding his hand, talking to him quietly, letting him know just how much I loved him. I'd just be there for him until he couldn't fight anymore. At the six hour mark, a new man entered Sean's room. Mumbling he was from the pain crew, I almost chose to ignore him. I knew my son's time was almost over and I had no intention of wasting it watching another failed attempt of a group of useless people. This man however did something none of the others had done. He didn't just check the readout on the first machine, but opened it up to reveal a small IV bag used strictly for medication. I had no idea that it was even in there, never before seeing this type of machine. What he found though was enough to make him curse up a storm. Taking off without a word he ran out of my son's room. Shaking my head in confusion I returned to watch my son, too tired and saddened myself to really care what he was all worked up about.

Coming back into Sean's room, this same gentleman from the pain crew who had been swearing under his breath almost ran to that first machine. Taking the machine off the IV pole, he then replaced it with a new identical one. Opening the front of it, he placed a new bag inside then programmed something into it and watched for a minute. Now apparently happy, he turned to me and began to explain what had been going on. He said that the drug in the first IVAC machine was particular to kids who'd had the Rhizotomy. It was kind of like an anti-rejection drug so that Sean's spinal cord reacted normally after being so messed around with. Apparently the first machine had not been working properly. It was showing that it was administering the drug, but in reality the bag had probably been empty for hours. Sean's spinal cord was kind of rejecting his body causing these incredibly awful seizure type incidents to recur over and over all night long. Apologizing profusely, the pain med gentleman walked out quietly, leaving me once again alone with my son. Sean had two more episodes after that, the second much less severe than the first. Finally, after almost seven hours, Sean was actually just sleeping. I placed his new stuffie close to his arm and he must have sensed it because he tried to move towards it. Pushing it closer to him still, I took his hand in mine, sat down and closed my eyes, thanking God for looking after my son.

Normally children would have woken up within an hour or so after returning to their room, just briefly though, due to the morphine, but Sean wouldn't wake until late the next morning. During his seizures the night before he had pulled open his incision, which ran a full six inches up his back, causing it to heal much more slowly and in the end leaving a much bigger, wider scar. Around lunch time the next day Sean's surgeon showed up with a entourage of students with him. Just standing at the end of Sean's bed, looking at him, he said, "Well, good, I see Sean is doing fine." and began to leave. He never made it a foot before I verbally let him have it. Accusing him of shirking his duties as a surgeon and not being available to his patients when he was needed, I asked him pointedly where he had been all night and why had he not responded to his answering service. Not sure what to say, I think because he couldn't believe anyone would actually talk to him like I was, he kept his mouth shut. I went on to ask him if he had even read Sean's chart because obviously he had no idea what Sean had been through all night. I then told him to get out of Sean's room and not bother coming back. I knew when I said it, that it was in vain, saying I didn't want him to see my son again. He was, after all, the only one who did this operation so we had no choice but to see him. I had just never felt so frustrated and angry at a doctor before, not even at the surgeon whom I believe caused Sean's disability in the first place. This was a man who may be exceptional in the operating room, but unfortunately, like so many surgeons he had the bedside manner and feelings of an ox. Sadly, I guess brilliance fosters ignorance.

While Sean was in the hospital, my parents came from our home city to see him. My aunt visited a few times, and Cindy came once. Peter never did show up. I got to see Marie and Daniel a couple times but only for short periods of time as I had to get back to the hospital. It was so refreshing to see them. Their visits gave me the energy to keep going as I was tired from lack of sleep that a parent always suffers from when their child is in the hospital. Ten days after arriving at the children's hospital, we were on our way back home, to admit Sean to the rehab hospital for his long stay there. We would have to drive back in one month to see the surgeon, and then again at the three, six and twelve month periods. At least now, while Sean was in the new hospital, he would be under his normal orthopaedic surgeon again and that made us both feel infinitely better.

At the one month marker Sean and I were set to go back to the children's hospital to see the surgeon who had operated on him. My father said he would drive us and I was very grateful as the trip there and back would be quite costly. First we were put through meeting with all the physio therapy people and having them film Sean walking, checking his range of motion by doing stretches with him on the floor and having him stand at a bench unassisted to assess the muscles and strength in his legs. After a few hours of this we were finally taken to see the surgeon. When we were called into the treatment room, my father chose to just sit outside the room and wait. Once we were settled the surgeon asked Sean to walk, using his walker. He tried so hard, grunting outwardly with each step, the muscles in his arms flexed beyond reason. Still, all he could manage was to drag one foot at a time, in an arcing half circle, toes dragging, to bring it forward, but also crossing overtop of the other foot. It was a struggle that was so intense and yet there he was, giving it all he had, to impress the surgeon. Watching him for about five minutes, the doctor then turned to write something down, and then spoke, "I don't know why I bothered with you Sean, I knew I shouldn't have accepted you as a candidate for this surgery. You're not even trying and you have wasted my time and many of my colleagues' time." Sean started to cry, knowing he hadn't pleased the surgeon but before I could even move, my father came through the door of the treatment room, picked up Sean, looked at the surgeon and said, "No one talks to my grandson like that!" and carrying Sean, he walked out. Grabbing Sean's walker, I glared at the doctor, unable to hide my anger, and as I walked out, I said, "You disgust me and we will never be back here again."

When we arrived back at the rehab hospital Sean's regular doctor came to see us to ask how it went. When I told him, I don't think he fully believed me, but he saw how serious I was when I said I would not be returning to that hospital ever again. He argued that it was especially important that Sean be seen at least three more times over the next year. My response to that was simple, the surgeon could come to us, after all, I argued, I knew we weren't his only patients from this area, so wouldn't it make more sense for one person to come here rather than four or five go there? I guess I wasn't the only one who complained because at the three month mark for Sean, the good doctor did come to us.

This time our meeting with him consisted only of having to see him in a treatment room, as all the filming had been done on a previous day. When he walked into our little room, both Sean and I stiffened noticeably, it was impossible to hide how we both felt about the man. Without so much as a hello, he asked to have Sean walk. Gently I helped Sean out of his wheelchair, into his walker and told him to go ahead and take a few steps. He didn't budge. He just stood there, holding himself up, trying not to collapse, head looking down to the floor, and refusing to move one step. We stayed locked in battle for about three minutes, the surgeon becoming more and more frustrated by the minute. I was also frustrated because I wanted the appointment over with, yet, I fully understood why my son refused to move. Just as the surgeon was about to get up and leave, Sean's personal doctor walked in, looked around the room, and getting an idea of what was transpiring, smiled at Sean and said, "Come on buddy, let's go for a walk." Sean smiled back and took off, cruising at top speed, keeping pace with his doctor.

I couldn't blame Sean for his stubbornness that day, I don't think anyone could, except maybe the jerk surgeon who operated on him. Being told you're a failure anytime is exceptionally hard to take, let alone for a five year old. Sean was fighting back, to keep some of his dignity, something I had never been very good at. His walking never got much better, even after a few more operations to release the tension of his muscles and to rebuild his feet so they were straight. By the time he was fourteen years old he would no longer be considered a manual user and would be forced to move to power mobility. Did his personal doctor consider him a failure? No. Did I? Hell no. He worked hard at everything he did and never gave up. I know now that allowing him to have the Rhizotomy was a mistake. It did nothing, but that wasn't Sean's fault. It was just the way it was, it was life.

Chapter 16

While Sean had been in the hospital for all those months, I had been going up to spend the day with him, without missing once. It was tiring and sometimes stressful, trying to keep him amused along with having to take him for all different kinds of therapy day in and day out. It was wearing on me and I know it was starting to show. I believe the nursing staff went to Sean's doctor and must have said something because one day, after almost four months of this routine, he came to me and told me I was hereby banned from the hospital for the period of one week. At first I didn't know how to take this development, almost taking it as a personal affront, but soon I realized it was for my and Sean's own good. A little rest and separation would do us no harm, by any means. With so much free time on my hands I decided to take this opportunity to go and see my other two kids. I called Cindy to ask if it was alright for me to visit, and she readily agreed, saying the kids would be ecstatic to see me. The three hour drive went extremely fast, with my excitement to see my children pushing me along.

When I arrived, it was pure joy seeing them. I actually think Marie was even happy to see me as well. For the first hour or so we talked non stop. They inquired about our home in the other city and how Sean was doing. I asked about their friends and school, wanting to hear all they wished to share. Peter finally came in and shooed the kids outside, telling them I needed a break after my long drive. Marie ran out, waving as she went, but Daniel seemed much more hesitant. Slouching somewhat, he slowly made his way out the door. When I asked what was wrong with Daniel, Peter said he had been having trouble with a bully in the complex. This worried me, but there was nothing I could do right at that moment. Sitting down to coffee with Peter and Cindy I would also discover that things were not all peachy keen with the kids as they had been leading me to believe. Daniel seemed down a lot, and missed us terribly. Marie did not behave much better for them than she had for me. They told me about an incident that had happened between Cindy and Marie. I would learn later that depending on whose point of view you saw it from, the story would end very differently. According to Cindy, the three of them had been talking and because Marie didn't like what Cindy had to say, she called her a bitch. Cindy's response was to slap Marie across the face. What they didn't tell me was what the conversation they had been having was about. It would end up being one the three of them would have numerous times over the coming years, and that was who came first in Peter's life, Cindy or his kids. His decision was always the same and he always told Marie his answer; Cindy would always come first in his life over anyone else. So, not that I approve of such language or disrespect, I can somewhat understand why Marie called Cindy what she did and what a great dad Peter was for making sure Marie knew exactly where she stood in his eyes.

On my second day there Daniel came in crying, having been pushed around again by this bigger and older boy again. This time Peter convinced Daniel to take his advice, so Daniel went outside, walked up to the boy and punched him in the face. He got beat up a little but the boy did stop bothering him after that. I still don't know how I feel about that episode because I am so against violence but maybe there was some good to be found within it. Just possibly Peter's advice had actually taught Daniel to finally stand up for himself.

On the third day at Peter and Cindy's they asked to talk to me. We sat down at their kitchen table where they announced they wanted to go back on the road, so could I please take my kids back? Are you kidding me? They actually have to ask? I withheld my excitement, playing my serious card. It was time to pull out my arsenal, "Of course I'll take the kids back, but first there is something you have to understand."

"What's that?" Peter asked, definitely curious and a little wary.

"Never again can you walk into my home and just take the kids. You don't have custody Peter, not like you think."

"What are you talking about, of course I do, they were given to me by the court."

"Yes, they were, but it wasn't a custody court. If you actually read the paper they gave you, nowhere does it state you have custody." Cindy went and grabbed the thin pink piece of paper from a file and they both read it over. Seeing the truth in my words, Peter asked what it all meant.

One thing that I had done after returning home from the children's hospital was to phone my previous divorce lawyer. I found out through him that by getting the children out of Child Services custody does not actually grant you custody, not in legal terms anyways. As for the custody of Marie and Daniel, their custody wasn't quite clear cut but it wasn't that difficult either.

As a result of a screw up on Peter and my divorce order, the two kids were left out of it completely. This meant simply: whomever had them, had Defacto custody. And Defacto custody means the fact that you have them or should I say they reside with you. It never gives the right of either parent to take the child away from the other, as does any custody unless specifically ordered by a court. Therefore, Peter had no right what so ever to have walked in my home, taken Marie and Daniel, and sent me on my way.

When all was said and done, after I had explained everything, they finally understood. I then made Peter swear to never try and pull a stunt like that again. Finally I asked when I could take the kids home, assuming they meant at the end of the month maybe, which was three weeks away. That wouldn't give me a lot of time to get ready for them but I would manage. Smiling, straight faced, Cindy turned to me and said, "In three days, that's when we leave." Oh Lord.

There was more to it of course; that wasn't the only surprise they had in store for me. They also wanted me to help pack up their house and take all the boxes to a neighbour. Sighing deeply, I knew there was no way out of it, so I agreed. I had less than three days to not just help pack up their stuff but to also pack the kids things. This should prove interesting. The first step I took was to call Doug. I needed a way to move all the kids things from one city to the other and Doug had a utility trailer that would be just right. Trying not to sound like I was begging I asked if he would bring it and come to where I was in three days. Thankfully he agreed.

It was mid afternoon by the time Peter, Cindy, and I were done talking and so we spent a part of the rest of that day slowly packing up a few things, but mostly it was a time for just going through stuff. There was so much to decide on what they would keep and what they would leave behind. By the end of the day I was exhausted, more from mental strain than physical. As I lay in bed though I was smiling, thinking back to earlier when I had told the kids they were coming home with me. They had both whooped and hollered, jumping up and down, saying, "Yea!!" Then they had grabbed me in a fierce hug and said how much they loved me; even Marie and that had made my day and all the stress I would go through over the next few days worthwhile.

Waking up the next morning, I still felt tired but also excited for what lay ahead. I headed downstairs knowing at least Peter would be up, he was always the first one out of bed and thankfully there would be coffee made. As I walked into the kitchen, it seemed awfully quiet. Looking around I saw that there wasn't coffee in the pot after all and it looked as if no one had been up as of yet. Odd. The clock said it was just after eight, Peter never slept this late. Ah well, I figured they must have gone out I so I went and made a fix for my caffeine addiction.

Taking my cup to the table I went to sit down when I noticed a note addressed to me. It read, "Lee, I got called in to take a load right away so we had to leave at five a.m. Can you take our stuff to the neighbour like we talked about? Just leave everything else. Thanks, Peter." Got called in, in the middle of the night? Really? I immediately wondered, had they planned this all along since I called and said I was coming? Almost falling into a chair I felt the weight of what all I would have to accomplish in the next forty eight hours. By myself, not knowing where anything was, I would have to go through absolutely everything to separate the kids' stuff from theirs. Did I feel overwhelmed? To say the least. But it had to be done, even if just for the kids' sake. I decided to start in the kids' rooms and work my way down to the basement, packing as I went. Going downstairs to find some empty boxes, I started the first of two of the longest days of my life.

The next morning I ended up going to the basement right after finishing the kids' rooms; I was not going to leave anything of theirs behind if I could help it. Downstairs, it was a disaster. Kids' stuff was all over the place. Everything, and I do mean everything, was covered in mouse droppings. It gave me the heebie jeebies just touching all of it, shaking anything out that could be shaken, or taking it upstairs to be washed. All in all it took me until almost dinner time to finish up down there. That left whatever time I had after dinner to pack Peter and Cindy's things and I just hope they appreciated whatever I did manage to save of theirs. The next morning Doug arrived as planned and we loaded up the trailer as fast as we could and got the kids in the car. We were going home.

The next day I had the kids registered and starting school a block away from our apartment. While they were busy there, I unpacked and washed all their clothes and started setting up their room a bit. We wouldn't be able to stay living there for very long now that the other two kids were there also, but the landlord had been kind enough to give us three months to find a new place. Doug was talking about buying a place, an acreage, so he told me to start looking in the papers for one and maybe call a realtor. When the kids got home after school, both looked rather pale and were not themselves. At first I attributed it to the changes they had been put through and the rushed trip home. I assumed they must just be tired. By six p.m. though both had developed fevers and were complaining of terrible headaches. Giving them both Tylenol, I laid them down to rest, keeping a close eye on them. Neither got sick to their stomachs and after sleeping for about four hours, they woke up feeling somewhat better, although I had started to feel a bit warm myself. Doug had left earlier to go back up to the mine where he was working, hauling rock and we wouldn't see him again for two weeks. That evening my parents came and watched the two older ones while I went to the hospital to see Sean. He was really excited because after all these long months he was finally getting discharged the next day. When I told him his brother and sister would be there when he got home, he got so excited, throwing his body backwards, he almost tipped over his wheelchair.

I told the nurses I would take Sean for his bath, then get him ready for bed, apologizing for coming so late. I explained that my other two were now home and had been ill. While I was getting his PJ's together I leaned over to pick up a dropped shirt and my head almost exploded behind my eyes. "Great," I thought, "that's all I need, a migraine." I took Sean into the bathroom and ran his bath. While he was sitting in the tub my headache got progressively worse to where I had to almost keep my eyes shut. Realizing I couldn't finish what I had started, I rang for a nurse, explained that I was developing a migraine and could she please finish so I could go home to rest. Telling Sean I loved him and that I'd see him in the morning, I went home, thanked my parents and after taking some Tylenol, I went straight to bed.

Sometime in the night, I think I crawled into the bathroom, feeling sick to my stomach. I must have got back to bed sometime though because that's where I was in the morning when the kids came to wake me. I immediately knew I couldn't walk them to school, let alone get up and get them ready; the pain in my head was worse than it had been the night before. Explaining to Marie that I was really sick, I asked if she thought she could get herself and Daniel ready for and to school, on her own. My nine year old daughter straightened up and told me she most definitely could, grabbed her brother by the arm and hauled him out of my room. I faintly remember them saying goodbye, but I was too out of it to be sure. Sometime later in the morning, I woke and knew enough that I was in trouble. Silently thanking God that my phone was on the headboard, I called my dad.

I really don't remember much except telling him I needed help. The next thing I remember I was walking to his car, eyes almost completely shut leaving a tiny slit to see through just enough that I wouldn't walk into walls. My hands covered my ears as any sound seemed to penetrate right into my head like a dagger. I have no recollection of the drive to the hospital but Dad says I yelled and screamed the whole way every time he hit even the tiniest bump in the road. I slightly remember struggling to keep upright as I walked into the emergency ward. The bright lights and sounds were almost too much for me to bear as I stopped in the doorway, unable to move. Thankfully a nurse saw me, came over and helped me inside, asking me questions as we walked. She asked me to open my eyes so she could look at them. I did so but almost cried out in pain as I slowly raised them to her. At that point she took me into a cubicle, closed it off from everyone else, told me to change and lay down and she was gone.

A very nice doctor came in shortly afterwards, introduced himself, and told me that they were going to need to do a spinal tap. I wasn't a hundred percent sure what that meant, but I knew it wasn't going to be fun. Boy did that turn out to be the understatement of the day. The nice doctor left and an intern replaced him, saying he would be doing the tap. What did I care, just get it over with. He had me sit up, bare my back and hunch over the hospital bed table. It was cold, extremely awkward and it hurt like hell. And wouldn't you know it, he missed, therefore we had to start again. And again. And again. Why? Because the bastard missed seven times before I said no more! I fell down onto my bed, exhausted beyond belief. I was covered in sweat, which was fast turning cold. I began shivering, felt nauseated, and truly thought I was going to pass out. A few minutes later the nice doctor came back in, leaned down and very quietly asked me if he could try just once. He assured me he wouldn't miss and that he would be doing it a different way. I couldn't even speak by this point but I nodded my approval. He had me lay on my left side, in a fetal position and he was right, he got it the first time. With that done, he told me to rest, saying I had to stay prone for a while after having the spinal tap. Fine by me, I didn't want to move anyhow. As I laid there, eyes shut tight, hands still covering my ears, I remembered something rather important. Today was the day, after almost six months, that Sean was to come home. Well damnit, I had to get out of here soon to go get him. With this in mind I decided to stay still as long as they said I had to, then I would get a prescription for whatever I needed and be gone. Sean would be waiting very impatiently. Who could blame him?

When the doctor came back in, I have no idea how much time had passed, but I knew it had been a while. Knowing I had to get my butt in gear, no matter how crappy I felt, I told him as much and how I had to get Sean out of the rehab hospital. I then moved to sit up, in order to get ready to go, but was forced back down instantly by an intense wave of pain and dizziness that threatened to knock me unconscious. With a look of concern on his face, he placed his hand on my shoulder, and politely told me I wasn't going anywhere. Offering me his cell phone so I could call Sean's hospital, he informed me I would be transferred to a unit ASAP. When my head cleared enough to actually think, I asked him, "why?" As far as I was concerned I was only suffering from what they called a migraine. Looking back at me before leaving my cubicle he replied, "Because, my dear, you have the highest white blood cell count we have ever seen. You don't just have a migraine, you have meningitis and you're very, very ill."

I remember phoning the rehab hospital and talking to Sean's doctor. He had no problem keeping Sean a few days until I could make other arrangements. Unfairly though, he freaked on me, and I mean he yelled at me for having been there the night before, considering what I had and how contagious it was. As if I knew? I hadn't any idea, I thought I was just getting a migraine. As it was I still didn't really understand what having meningitis even meant. After hanging up, they moved me temporarily into a private room in the ER, turned out the lights, hooked me up to an IV, gave me lots of drugs including morphine and Gravol, and to sleep I went.

I would spend the next fourteen days in a private room in which they had covered the window and taped down the light switch. There would be a sign on my door warning of a no noise policy. Every two to four hours I would be given two shots, one for pain and one for nausea. My IV kept me hydrated as I couldn't have eaten no matter what, in fact I was only semi-conscious for twelve of those fourteen days. Doug came home to care for the kids, including getting Sean out of his hospital. He brought them to see me once, I faintly recall but it is hazy like that of a memory of a dream. I know at one point I tried to go downstairs and outside for a cigarette. A nurse loaned me her sunglasses and they gave me a wheelchair to use. Having developed thrush since being hospitalized, along with the daylight penetrating my brain even through the dark sunglasses, I took one drag, almost cried out from the pain in my head and my mouth, threw out my smoke and went right back to my bed, never trying again until it was time for me to go home.

While I was there they did an MRI on my brain, to see if there had been any lasting damage. At this point in time I am unsure of the results. What I do know however is that meningitis in adults can cause after effects as severe as brain damage or deafness. These affects may be temporary or permanent, physical or emotional.

It wouldn't be until I was ready to go home, and I was meeting with my doctor for the last time, that I discovered just how sick I had been. He pointed out to me how lucky I was to be alive and that many people would have died from a case as severe as I had developed. I guess I really was a survivor. Due to information provided by Doug, they thought they knew where I had contracted the virus; from all the mouse droppings I had been in contact with in Peter and Cindy's basement. I'd have to remember to thank them. I also believed that Marie and Daniel had had a mild case the night before I got sick and silently thanked God for watching over them both. As I headed home, for probably the first time in my life, it really felt good to be alive. The sun, the trees, the flowers, and even the wind were all especially poignant to me, more so than ever before. I smiled as I watched out the car window at all the beauty and felt the breeze coming through, silently moving my hair. God I was happy to be going home.

Chapter 17

I tried very hard to make a life with Doug, not just for my sake but for the kids, feeling they needed a father figure in their lives. Unfortunately this would be another mistake on my part that the kids would be the ones to pay for it. Sure, he provided, helping with the monthly expenses and such. He even went as far as to buy a beautiful manufactured home on an acreage and get the family a dog. Sounds lovely, doesn't it? But what isn't included in this picture is what the kids were forced to endure in order to keep this new found stability. There was the day that Marie upset Doug with a bit of her defiance attitude; most parents might send a child to their room for a short time to think about things. Others might choose to have a talk with them about their demeanour. Not Doug. His idea of dealing with this kind of issue was to put Marie's back up against a wall then lift her up by the neck and stare her down with harsh words. I wasn't there that day, so I actually never saw it. I was at school, trying to finish my upgrading. I believe it to be true though as all my children told the same story. There was also the afternoon that my parents were coming over to join us for dinner. When it was just about time for them to arrive, Doug called the kids together and then told them all to go to their rooms and be quiet, that their grandparents weren't coming to see them, they were coming to see Doug and me. As if. Oh and one of my personal favourites and again when I wasn't in the room initially, but this time I did catch him in the act. We were in the process of trying to potty train Sean, which as any parent knows can be a bit of a trying time, with a lot of accidents. I can deal with accidents, it happens. Doug, on the other hand, could not. Sean was still using diapers as training was coming along very slowly. I was outside with the dog when I heard the kids all start screaming. Running in the house I found Doug spanking Sean with a wooden spoon over and over for having "crapped in his diaper" as he so eloquently put it.

This would be the final straw for me. I knew this wasn't going to work, so quietly, on the sly, I started making arrangements to get the kids and me out of Doug's home and into one of our own. These kinds of plans take time and money though so it was a slow going process requiring a few months patience. I never told the kids my plans because I was scared they would say something to Doug, even if just in anger and then all my plans would be for naught because I was sure he'd just kick us out. And because I never told them, my daughter, having no clue that I was trying to get us out of this awful situation, took matters into her own hands.

One early morning Marie woke up before all of us and decided to go watch some TV until we all got up for school. Lying on the couch she used the satellite control to continuously change channels, looking for something she liked. She didn't see Doug come up behind her, so was startled when he reached out and grabbed the remote from her, telling her she was not to touch it, ever. She talked back to him a bit in her ever so snarky way and in response he slapped her on the leg with the remote then walked away. Little did he know that his response that morning would forever change this family's lives. Actually, none of us had a clue, except, maybe Marie. I believe from the minute he hit her with that control, she had a plan and fully intended to use what he had done to her against him as best she could. Unaware of her intentions, I went to school that morning, calm as could be, but while I was in class I got a call from the kids school telling me I better come in right away. Oh man, now what?

When I arrived at the school, I was directed into a room just off the office area. Inside I found my daughter, the school counsellor and a woman I didn't recognize. The counsellor directed me to a chair and then began.

"So, Mrs. Dupuis, I assume you know why we're here?"

"No, actually I have no idea." This raised some eyebrows, especially the woman's I didn't know.

"Well, your daughter, Marie, has informed us of an incident that occurred this morning in your home between her and your boyfriend, a man named Doug."

"An incident?" I was honestly clueless. I could not fathom what they were talking about. Now it was the woman's turn to speak.

"You mean you know nothing of what occurred?"

"And who are you exactly, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Oh, I apologize, my name is Susan Webb and I am with Child Services for this area." "Oh great, just what I needed" I thought.

"I was called in this morning due to an allegation made by your daughter against your roommate, a Mr. Doug Downy."

"What allegation? I have no idea what you people are talking about." I almost hollered as I stared at my daughter trying to understand what was going on.

"Marie has informed us that there was a confrontation between her and Doug this morning that resulted in Doug striking her and leaving a bruise on her leg."

The look on my face must have been priceless. I swear my jaw must have actually hit the floor I was so stunned. Were they serious? When he smacked her with the remote? They have got to be kidding here.

"You're serious? You do know he smacked her leg with a remote control for a TV? I hardly doubt that left a bruise." Yes, I was openly accusing my daughter of lying. Marie though wasn't impressed and proceeded to pull up her skirt just enough to show me a bruise on her left thigh. Even in seeing this I still knew it wasn't true, this was all a joke. He would have had to beat her with that remote to produce a bruise and as rough as my kids played it was no wonder she had a few bruises. No, I knew immediately what she was up to and I didn't like it, not one bit.

"Look, I don't know what to tell you people but I can guarantee you that bruise didn't come from Doug hitting her with the remote. It must have come from her playing outside, maybe here during recess or at home but either way, she is wrong."

"Mrs Dupuis, did you see Doug hit your daughter with the remote?" Oh geeez, here we go. This woman wasn't going to let this slide.

"No, I didn't, but she also didn't yell out or cry or anything because I would have heard that and there was nothing, no sounds whatsoever."

"Mmmhmmm, Mrs. Dupuis, we must follow up these accusations. That is our job. We have a child here with bruising and a story to go with where it came from. We also have a parent who doesn't deny that the child was hit and by whom. That leaves us no choice except to take further action. I am going to need you to take Marie for an examination at the local hospital, then to the local police department to sign a statement in regards to what transpired. Then Mrs. Dupuis, you will have three choices. One, we can take the children into custody until you make other arrangements for yourself and your children to live. Two, you can have Mr. Downy leave the home you are currently living in, with a guarantee he won't return or three, you can take the children today and find other accommodations. With any of these choices there must also be a restraining order put into place. Do you understand?" Did I understand? I was sure I was going to throw up, that I understood but did I get what was going on. No, of course not. This was ludicrous. I had to take her to be checked at a hospital? Are you kidding me? I have to move, now? God, where will we go? So many thoughts were racing through my mind at a hundred miles an hour and I could barely slow them down enough to respond.

"This is insane. I can't believe you people are doing this. It was a friggin TV remote control and it isn't what left that bruise!" Without realizing it I had started to cry. Did Marie have a clue as to what she had just brought on to this family? I glanced over at her, hoping to see some form of regret, apology in her eyes, something, but all I got back was a smug look that said, "I told you mom. I told you I wasn't going to stay living with Doug."

I couldn't even be mad at her, I did understand, I realized. Without my letting her know that we were going to be moving, she thought I was choosing to keep us all in an abusive situation. She was only doing what she had to in order to save us all. How could I fault her this decision? But taking her to the hospital and then the police station over this was going to be some of the most embarrassing things I have ever gone through.

Funny thing happened at the hospital. Seems the bruise magically moved from the left leg to the right, which I must add would be the correct leg had she thought about it the first time around. During the morning of the so called attack, after I had gotten up, Marie had proceeded to tell me what had happened. In doing so she showed me exactly how she was laying on the couch and it would have to have been her right leg that got hit. I hadn't thought of this while we were at the school but it hit me as she showed the doctor her bruise. The doctor didn't take too kindly to our wasting his time and sent us on our way with not so much as a get well soon card. The police were even funnier. The officer who was on when we arrived, had heard about our story as the Child Services had contacted them already. I asked if they too needed to see the bruise and his exact response was, "No ma'am but how's the remote?" I don't know about policy and so forth but this officer refused to file this claim against Doug unless something else should come up again. Humiliated, we left, and went back to the school. I left Marie there and carried on home to break the news to Doug. I still had no idea where the kids and I would go, but go we must because I refused to be split up ever again. We also couldn't ask Doug to leave the house, since it was his. No, we were now on our own.

Doug was furious at Marie and rightly so, although he seemed to forget all the previous times where his abuse was real. In reality he didn't see any of it as abuse being that he was raised in a military type fashion so saw it fine to do so with my children as well. I had never approved of it but I guess I should have done something much sooner though because then maybe it wouldn't have taken an ten year old lying to make it happen. Doug left the house shortly after I told him, vowing to not come back till everything of ours was gone. He allowed me to continue to use his car for the time being, knowing I had no other way around. I have to give him kudos for his kindness there. I picked the kids up from school that day, having already packed as much as I could in such a short time and we headed into the city. My first idea was to call my parents, because if we couldn't go there, where else could we possibly go?

Arriving in the city, I stopped at the first payphone I could find and called my mom. I tried to remain calm and slowly explained to her all that had transpired in the last eleven hours but it wasn't easy. When I was finished she asked what I wanted from her. I told her nicely that I had hoped that the kids and I could come and stay there just until I could find my own place. Sadly though her response was, "What would I do with all of you, where would we put you? There has to be a better place, can't you call a shelter or something?" For me that denial and refusal to help was almost as devastating as finding out we had to move this morning. I felt crushed as I looked into the car and watched the three kids arguing amongst themselves. Their mood was a reflection of mine and it was about to get worse. I hung up with a, "Don't worry about it Mom, we'll figure something out." I didn't have any friends in the city to call on. I knew the woman's shelter downtown was an option but there you had no choice but to sleep with a knife under your pillow, so why would I ever consider taking my children to such a horrible place? I would just as soon see us all sleep in the car and that might be exactly what we were going to do, I thought.

After sitting in the car for a few minutes, trying to think of an answer while the kids roared behind me, it would be Daniel who came up with an idea. He had quietly tapped me on the shoulder from behind and said, "What about Dad and Cindy? Couldn't we go there?" The very thought of knocking on their door sent my stomach into knots but realistically I had nowhere else to turn. Without thinking too much about what I was doing, I took off in their direction. I knew if I hesitated I would never do it. When we arrived there, the kids ran in to say hi to their dad while I took my time, having a smoke outside first. I was pretty sure the kids would fill them in, so I needn't worry about having to tell the whole story myself. After a few minutes Peter came out and told me to come in and have a coffee so we could talk. Nodding, without saying a word, I followed him into the house.

Peter and Cindy offered to let us stay with them until we could make some new arrangements. I can't lie, living with your ex and his wife can be a tad awkward but not for the reasons you might think. It had nothing to do with losing my husband, remember, I left him. It had nothing to do with wanting him back, I didn't. It was just the differences in attitudes and parenting ideals. Another issue that would come up with our living there was the kids, especially Marie, playing one parent against the other. It became a game to her and something she excelled at to where there were real tense moments between us all. I appreciated what they did for us very much so, but I also couldn't wait to move.

Just before moving out of Peter and Cindy's, one of Sean's therapists suggested I call the local Wish Foundation. She thought it would be a real positive in his life over all the turmoil we had been through lately. Following up on her advice, I made the call. A few days later two ladies came to our home to meet with Sean and me. After chatting for about thirty minutes, they asked Sean the big question, "What is your wish Sean? If you could have anything, what would it be?" At this point the parent is not allowed to speak at all. After the child says what it is they want, one of the ladies will further question the child to make sure the wish is truly his, not his parents. Sean said he wanted to whisper his wish in the one ladies ear, so I moved him over to the couch, to sit beside her. Leaning over she told Sean to go ahead and tell her his wish. After a hushed moment, she looked up at me with contempt in her eyes and said, "So, you want a pick-up truck, do you, Sean?"

This statement floored me as much as it had her! I had no idea what she was talking about. I could see the wheels turning in this woman's head as she got ready to pounce on me. Thankfully it was then that Sean clarified things, "No," he said, "I don't want a pick-up truck, I want a semi truck like my dad drives so I can drive one too." You could seriously hear the collective sigh that passed through these two women and me. "Oh, I see, well sometimes there are things we just can't do for children no matter how hard we try Sean. So what we ask is for the children to make a second wish in case we can't fulfill the first one. Do you have something else you might want?" Sean thought about this for some time, then nodded his head, yes. "I want to go on a holiday with my mom and brother and sister. We have never had a holiday."

"Ok, Sean, where are you thinking you'd like to go?" He put his head down, looking defeated and said. "You'd say no."

"Try me Sean, you tell me where it is you want to go with your family." Very quietly he said, "Disneyland, but I know it's too far away, it's on the other side of the world." Smiling, the woman looked down at Sean, placed her hand on the top of his head and scuffing up his hair she said, "Oh I dunno Sean, we might be able to pull that off. We will have to see, okay? I will tell my boss where it is you want to go and when he decides if we can or not, he will call your mom, is that okay with you?" Sean nodded, and getting a little too excited he went into a full extension and he slid right off the couch before anyone could catch him. Laughing even harder now, it made it almost impossible for me to pick him up, but I managed and placed him on my knee, holding him to calm him down. After a few more questions, the ladies left, taking my sons dream with them in the hopes to bring it to life.

A week later I received the call. Sean's wish to go to Disneyland had been approved. I was informed that since I was a single parent with three children, I would be allowed to bring one other adult, but it had to be someone who had previous experience working with the disabled. They said they would be in touch very soon but it looked like we would be going as soon as three weeks from that day. I had a lot to do before then, especially I had to get a notarized letter from Peter allowing me to take the children on this holiday. Not so easy a task when he was somewhere on a highway thousands of miles away, driving his truck. The person whom I chose to go with us was Lynda, of course. She had worked in a group home for the disabled for years while going to university and was able to prove as much with a letter from the home.

What a trip this was going to be. The kids were so excited it was almost impossible to get them to sleep every night for those three weeks. Peter came through with the letter just in time, arriving in the city three days before we were to leave. The kids were a bit nervous, having never been on a plane before, but then again, so was I having only flown twice before in my life. On the flight to California, Marie and Daniel were taken up to the cockpit to see the pilot and get a chance to look around. Sean was asked to wait until we were close to landing though, and we didn't really understand why, other than maybe they were too busy now. We were pretty much convinced they had forgotten about Sean's trip to the cockpit and so Lynda and I were trying hard to explain that we were sure there was a good reason that he couldn't go. Then, about five minutes before we began our descent, the flight attendant came and asked me to bring Sean and follow her. As usual Sean got really excited making it extremely difficult to carry him, so as we made our way, we pinballed off people all along the aisles.

The next thing I knew we were sitting in what they called the "Jump Seat" in the rear of the cockpit. This is where we would remain for the rest of the flight, throughout the whole landing process. The pilots played it up a lot, asking Sean if they should "Bring the nose up" or "Do we look good Sean, are we coming in straight?" Looking out the windshield the view was unbelievable and a little bit terrifying, making the whole experience that much better. It was an amazing opportunity that neither of us will soon forget. Just before leaving the cockpit the pilot removed one of his sets of wings from his uniform and gave them to Sean. These he would cherish forever, eventually giving them to me, "To take care of so I don't lose them." Today they sit on a silk cloth in the bottom of a jewellery box on my dresser waiting for Sean to take them back when he is ready.

The trip, as with most family holidays I'm sure, had its up and downs but the positives far outweighed the negatives. The wish foundation had gone all out for us, sending us not just to Disneyland, but also to Universal Studios, SeaWorld, and Knott's Berry Farm. With Sean being in a wheelchair, we were never made to wait for a ride, instead always being shown to the exit, where we would walk back to the ride and get on from there. This alone made the trip far easier to handle as sitting for an hour or more in the hot sun could make Sean quite ill. When we could, we would either go back to our motel or into a restaurant during the mid afternoon to escape the searing heat of an August day in Anaheim. This too proved to be good practice, allowing us all time to rejuvenate. There would end up being only one ride that Sean wouldn't be able to go on due to his disability, that being Indiana Jones. Otherwise the little man proved to be fearless, willing to try anything. Unfortunately this almost proved to be a mistake as we ran into two rides that had to be suddenly stopped because Sean could not hold himself up and was falling out. Thankfully on the first one his brother held onto him as tight as he could until the ride could be halted and on the second they shut it down immediately when they saw the issue. We would only have one other major incident during our trip and that wouldn't happen until we were back at the L.A. airport getting ready to go home.

Everyone who has flown before has experienced going through security. When you have someone with a wheelchair, it goes a little bit differently. First you push the wheelchair through the metal detector, then as the aide, you go back around and go through again, this time solo. Afterwards the person in the wheelchair might be taken into a curtained room, with a parent present if it's a child, where a hand search can be done. Going to Disneyland this went off without a hitch. Coming back though was a whole different ball game. It was a Sunday afternoon and the airport was pretty quiet. Lynda took Marie and Daniel in a line with her, while Sean and I went in the one beside them. While Lynda was busy trying to keep the other two under control and through security, I pushed Sean's chair past the metal detector, parking him with his brake on, then returning to the line to go through myself. As my turn came up, I followed the security guard's directions, and when I was finished I went to Sean, but he wasn't there. I automatically assumed he was with Lynda, so looked to my right to find them all. To my despair though I found the three of them together, but no Sean. In fact, turning in a complete circle I realized Sean was nowhere to be seen.

I immediately went to the security guard and asked him if he had seen my son. He informed me that Sean had been taken to a private screening room for a security check. Appalled, I demanded to know where that was, but the guard refused to tell me. Instead all I was told was that if I had a problem I could go to the Airport Security office to discuss it with someone there. When I inquired as to where THAT was, I was given very non-descript, vague directions to follow. Hauling the other two kids, Lynda and I ran around the airport searching for this office. We never did find it, but we did come across the guard's staff room. There we were greeted with about as much help as the original guard where no one could tell me a thing. When I inquired as to where the head office for Security was, I was informed it was closed, after all it was Sunday.

Not knowing what else to do we headed back to the security check. All in all we had been gone a good forty minutes and as we arrived back at the gate, our hearts sank as Sean was still not anywhere to be found. Just as we were both about to go ballistic on the guards again, we heard a child screaming from far away. Knowing my own sons voice, I followed the yelling till I saw him approaching with three big guards around him, one pushing his wheelchair. Grabbing my sons chair out of the guards hands, practically pushing him away, I took Sean and made sure he was alright, calming him down. The fear in his eyes was so profound and I couldn't fathom what had gotten into these guard's heads that they would do something like this to a seven year old boy. Lynda grabbed the other two and we left to find our flight, thankful to just be all together and with all intentions of reporting this incident to the Airport Authority the following Monday.

When we arrived in Lynda's city, the kids and I had to change flights, therefore go through a security check all over again. As soon as Sean saw the gates he started to cry uncontrollably. This got the attention of the Security Guards and they immediately came over wondering what was going on, suspicion covering all their faces. Between the kids' non stop telling of the story and my detailing what had gone on in L.A., the guards changed their whole attitude towards us. They even went as far as to try and call the L.A. Airport Authority as well, to place a formal complaint, but as I said earlier it was closed. Talking to Sean, the guards settled him down by promising they wouldn't be taking him away from me at all. They allowed us through with no more complications and we went to board our plane. Getting home had never felt so good.

It was a good trip, and a long one, but all of us shall never forget it. Without the wish foundation we could never have afforded such a holiday. I did call the LA Airport Authority the following Monday and they refused to acknowledge that something like this would occur there. After a few minutes of arguing that it did in fact happen, I gave up and hung up on the man, frustrated beyond reason. Thanks to Lynda we have a beautiful scrapbook to remember our trip by and let's not forget Sean's pair of pilot's wings. It was our first holiday and overall it had been a great success leaving us with many wonderful memories.

Within a couple of days of returning from our trip, we moved into our own place. It was a condo that was owned by Lynda's mother. It was a great little place, even if it was only a two bedroom it did us fine until we could get into low income housing. After we moved it was time for me to return Doug's car to him, so I called him and arranged a meeting. Over the course of this reunion Doug tried everything to get me to come back. He offered to support me fully, to buy me a new car, to marry me, but he only had one condition; Marie could not come with me, she would have to go live with her dad. As if I would ever give up my child to be with anyone. And frankly anyone who would even suggest such a thing is not someone I would want to spend my life with anyways. That would be the very last time I ever saw Doug. I think of him sometimes, just wondering how he is doing, but they are just fleeting thoughts that come and go with the breeze.

Chapter 18

During the fall of nineteen ninety six I found a new form of social interaction for a mother stuck at home; I discovered the internet, and specifically a website strictly for chatting, a place called mIRC. From there I found a chat channel devoted to my home town and that's where I laid my hat for over a year. Many of the group who frequented this channel would meet for BBQs, coffee, and I too went once when I was able. They were a good bunch of people who helped me through a rough period in my life by someone almost always being available to chat online, no matter what the hour.

In September of ninety seven we had someone new join our group online, a gentleman by the name of Tyler. He was only a year younger than I, very polite and funny as hell. After only talking online for about three weeks, I agreed to meet him in a pub close by my home, for one drink. We hit it off quite well, but I didn't really put too much into it as I wasn't about to put my kids through another bad situation with a man. Slowly though we got to know each other and then he began to get to know my children. He was unlike anyone I had ever met. He was friendly, kind, and playful with the kids. He would take them to the store for Slurpees, they went go carting, and sometimes just for nice long walks. He befriended them and the boys took to him like glue, although Marie was definitely much more cautious. Still, the more I saw, the more I liked and eventually the day came when Tyler and I discussed getting married.

That winter we found a cute little house to rent that we could afford. It was an old wartime house that would have been built before there were any such thing as building codes. It had been very tiny but over the years people had added onto it, making it much more liveable for a small family. Currently it had two good sized bedrooms, but with Tyler's renovation experience, we got permission to turn the attic into a third bedroom that would become Marie's. We moved in, taking all my furniture and household items with us as Tyler, having been living in a furnished suite really had nothing except his clothes and a old truck. Things were going pretty well for our family, except that Marie just refused to really accept Tyler into our family. She really had an issue with him that I couldn't understand and at times it caused a lot of tension in the home.

During Easter of nineteen ninety eight the kids school had a family dance night that we all decided to go to. Tyler didn't dance a whole lot but it was nice that he had joined us. Marie and Daniel spent the evening dancing, running around and just socializing with their friends, apparently having a good old time. Sean and I however spent the whole night on the dance floor. Whether I was holding his hands and spinning his chair around, side to side, back and forth, or if I carried him and spun around in a fast waltz type dance, dipping him dramatically, making him laugh crazily, we never stopped. Towards the end of the dance a lady approached me introducing herself as someone whom worked for Easter Seals. She was at the dance with her son, but had been watching Sean and me all evening. Our obvious zest for life and laughter had caught her eye and she wondered if we would ever consider having Sean become an Easter Seals poster boy. We agreed to meet the following week to discuss the possibility. Both Sean and I thought the idea sounded exciting.

Sean chose to take the job on as a poster child and some days it felt like work to be honest. There were long photo shoots either with just Sean and me or sometimes with famous sports celebrities. Other times were taken up with appearances made at special events. I was even convinced to give a speech based on what it was like to raise a child with a disability at these same affairs. For someone with serious self esteem issues and such fear of crowds, this made me extremely uncomfortable. Even still, it did make Sean and me feel like we were helping an important society and for that reason alone we kept it up.

In June, the Easter Seals 24 hour Relay was happening and it was a huge event. Sean had been asked to come and start the race by cutting the tape and I had been requested to give my speech once again. It was a beautiful day so we decided to make it a family affair, all getting out for the afternoon. Everything went off without a hitch and after a few hours we headed home, hot, tired and needing a break. When we first went inside our home, everything appeared fine and we all went our separate ways. This lasted all of about twenty seconds, when Daniel went into the living room to play a bit on his and Sean's Nintendo 64 and discovered it gone. The poor little guy was devastated, as was Sean. They had pooled their allowances and saved for almost a year to buy it and had only had it a couple of weeks. After calming the boys down a bit Tyler and I proceeded to look around but advised everyone to not touch anything. In our search we discovered almost all our cds were gone, as well as Marie's Discman and believe it or not, Daniel's new clothes from his birthday a few days prior. The strange thing was that both the doors on the house were fine, neither had been broken into, so how had they gotten into the house? After a bit more investigation we found the window above Marie's bed wide open, which of course, it shouldn't have been. Tyler called the police and we sat down and waited for them to arrive. I thought about what had happened. We hadn't lost much, and obviously it had been kids, but you still feel violated when a stranger has been wondering around inside your home and I didn't care for that feeling at all.

When we told the officer where we had been and what we had been doing during the robbery, he suggested we call the media. He felt that with them behind us, someone might come forward, so I made the call. THAT turned out to be much more stressful than giving a speech to hundreds of people. Being interviewed and filmed, knowing thousands are going to see it, put every nerve ending at attention causing me to shake uncontrollably. The response we got from those couple minutes on TV though was unbelievable.

The news station had numerous calls of people offering to replace the boys games system as well as Marie's Discman. In the end the station took the offer for us, made by a local funeral home, of all places, to help with the boys' loss. Just three days after the robbery, as soon as the boys got home from school, a limousine showed up at our home to pick us all up. After a drive around the city, they went to a Toys R Us where the boys were presented with a brand new Nintendo 64, an extra controller and two games. It was quite the moment for the boys and both still talk about it today. In a decision made by the boys, they asked all the others who had offered to help to donate the N64's to the Paediatric Unit at the Rehab hospital.

The next day, unexpectedly, a gentleman showed up at our door, confirming we were the people who had been robbed. When Tyler confirmed we were, the man went back to his car, grabbed some things and came back to our door. He then presented Daniel and Sean with two gift bags overfilled with new Nintendo games. I tried to explain to him that the boys had only lost a couple games and that they had been replaced already. He said he knew but that one local store chain had wanted to help out as well, so the boys were to take the gifts. He then gave Tyler and me a gift certificate worth over two hundred dollars to help us replace all the CDs we had lost. When Marie saw that his hands were now empty, she put her head down and walked slowly to her room, saddened by peoples supposed disregard for her loss. But the man wasn't finished, he just needed both hands to bring her gift because instead of giving her a Discman like she had owned, he had a Sony Boombox so big she could barely lift it.

The generosity of the community floored us all and there has never been a chance for us to properly thank everyone. Simple saying thank you just didn't seem enough. Even when we experienced something so disturbing as being burglarized, our city had come together to make it a much more liveable experience.

Chapter 19

One day I was home cleaning up, just doing the housework when my mom called. She just wanted to let me know I had some mail at her house, and it was addressed to my maiden name. Weird. Curiosity took over and checking my watch I figured I had enough time to run to Moms and back before the kids got home from school.

When I got back home, I took the legal sized envelope to the table and studied it, confusion marking my every feature I'm sure. According to the envelope it was from the government's adoption agency. Not being able to stand the suspense any longer, I ripped open the envelope and pulled out the papers inside. It was not what I expected at all, although I must admit I'm not sure what I had expected. It was an application to register with them in order to possibly locate my birth parents. Now why in the world would they be sending this to me now? As far as I remembered I had actually applied when I turned eighteen. What was going on? Knowing no other way to figure this out, I looked up the telephone number for the agency and called.

It turned out to be one of the strangest telephone calls I had ever had. First off they had no record of my ever applying to register before whatsoever. So what happened to my first application? Secondly they were going through all their old files and cleaning them up, getting ready to close a lot of them. Before doing so they offered each person a chance to register and that was why I had received the package now. They only had my parents address on file, along with my maiden name, so that settled that issue. What was odd though was how pushy the woman on the phone was for me to sign up. She did so in a very friendly manner, don't get me wrong, but she kept saying things like, "What have you got to lose?" or "The papers only take five minutes to fill out, it's really very simple." After this conversation went on for ten minutes or so I finally agreed to fill them out and send them in honestly just to shut her up.

When I hung up the phone, I felt so... off. Not intentionally, this woman had left me feeling very unsettled. I didn't know what to make of it all. "Should I even bother?" I wondered. If I didn't though I would never find out..."ah hell." Sitting down, I quickly filled out the form, sealing it in the provided envelope. With a mailbox fifty feet from our front door, I went and mailed it before I could change my mind.

Eight days later I was picking up toys in the kids room when my phone rang. Answering it I found it to be that same woman I talked to a week ago at the adoption agency. "Hi Lee, how are you?"

"I'm fine thank you."

"Good, good. Well, I have some news for you. Are you sitting down?"

"No, I'm not, but I am now," I said as I sat down on Sean's bed.

"Lee, we have matched you up with not just your birth mother, but also your birth father." I felt the air leave my lungs as the shock hit me. "wha...really?" I gasped.

"Yes Lee, really." I could almost hear her smiling. As I sat there stunned a thought crossed my mind, "You knew all along that they had registered already, didn't you?" "When you phoned and gave me your name I put it in our system as we talked and yes, it came up with a match but I couldn't tell you that. Not without you registering." That's why she had been pushing me to fill out the papers, I realized. We talked for a few more minutes about how I would like to make contact, or if I even wanted to. I agreed to a telephone call that night which really didn't give me much time to let all this sink in. After thanking her, I hung up and just sat there for at least another thirty minutes, lost in thought. It was unbelievable. I had gone from not even thinking about my birth parents to finding them in eight days. Is this what I really wanted? I wasn't sure at all, but it was happening none the less. I was going to have to explain it all to the kids and Tyler when they got home, but worse yet I was going to have to tell Mom and Dad. I didn't want them thinking for one minute that I was looking for a replacement for them; I needed them to know how much they meant to me and that they would always be my parents. Ugh, so much to think about without the time needed to work it all out. Ah well, isn't this what my life was always like? On with the show, I say.

The phone call between my birth parents and me lasted about three hours. At first we were all so tentative, not knowing what to say to each other. Slowly the conversation came with each of us trying to learn as much as possible about the other. I did learn quite a bit that night about them, things I didn't know already and it was quite the story really.

When I was born my mother was seventeen, my father nineteen. This I knew from the non identifying papers I had been given many years ago. He had been in a band and she was his girlfriend. After I was born they split up, going their separate ways. Both would marry others and have children, but then both would get divorced. On about what would be my eighteenth birthday my birth father searched for and found my birth mother. He wanted to find me, and he was asking for her help. They did register that year, hoping someday to meet me, to know if nothing else, that I was alright. Meeting back up for them however turned out to be a blessing in disguise. I don't really know how long after they reunited but eventually they would fall back in love and marry. Between the two of them, from their previous marriages, they had three children, two girls and a boy, which would mean I had half sisters and a brother, so to speak. It was all so much to take in, and after three hours I felt ready to burst.

We arranged an actual meeting the following weekend, in their city. It would cost us a lot of money to go there and stay for the three days, but I felt it was worth it. To be able to see where I came from, or maybe I should say from whom was extraordinary and something I had never fathomed would happen. After hanging up I went and told Tyler and the kids all about the call and the plans for the next weekend. I was surprised to find just how excited I did feel about the whole thing, but I didn't feel badly for feeling this way. I loved my Mom and Dad, nothing could ever change that, but this was different, it was a unique experience I just couldn't pass up.

The next weekend we let the kids stay home from school on the Friday to allow us the time we would need to drive to the other city in time for dinner. We had a date with all of my birth parents family and we didn't want to be late. When we arrived I phoned my birth mother to let her know we were at our motel. She said they would all leave right away and would meet us at our room. This felt a little more personal than meeting for the first time in a restaurant and I liked that idea. About twenty short minutes later there was a knock on our door. I was too scared to open it, so Tyler had to do it for me. The kids were sitting behind me on a bed, quiet as mice. They were as nervous as I was I think. As she walked in, it was like I knew her, that I recognized her, as strange as that may sound. I suppose it was the likeness in our looks that made me feel that way. She too was short in stature, both of us also having average builds. We had the same nose and similar mouths as well. Her hair was red as well but I found out later that it wasn't her natural color like mine was, she was normally a blonde.

After her, came my birth father. I couldn't really see much resemblance between us, but when his daughter came in after him, it was scary. Our facial features were so similar. Then came my birth mom's daughter. Again, there were definitely some likenesses between us but this time more the build of our bodies. It was all so strange, almost too much to handle, and yet there was that eerie familiarity about it all as well.

The initial few minutes went really well, everyone crying, laughing, hugging, and shaking their heads unable to believe this was actually happening. As a very touching gesture my birth mother brought me and all three of my children teddy bears. I hardly let go of mine that night, I just couldn't seem to put it down.

We all made our way to the restaurant, which was in the next motel over. I had felt that all was going well, but that would soon change. Over the course of dinner my birth mother got quieter and quieter, almost to where she wasn't speaking at all. This brought on many moments of uneasy silence at the table. When dinner was over, she just couldn't seem to leave fast enough, begging forgiveness for being overwhelmed a bit and tired. As we walked back to our room Tyler and I couldn't understand what had gone wrong and even the kids were unusually somber. Within twenty minutes of arriving back at our room, my birth mother called to tell me she was cancelling the rest of the weekend's plans with each other and said I could go back home if I wanted. After hanging up I just sat there trying to take in this new development. When I eventually told Tyler and the kids what was going on, my kids began to cry, wondering what they had done that was so wrong that she would do this. This infuriated me, that my children should even feel anything remotely close to this, having done nothing wrong. I called my birth mother back immediately. When she answered I demanded that she meet me in the morning in the parking lot at nine a.m. with an explanation or she would never hear from or see me again. I would not put up with this shit from anyone else, and I sure as hell wasn't going to from her. None of us had done anything to deserve this kind of treatment and she had no right to behave like this towards us. I mean technically, we were all just innocent victims of one woman's rash actions, whether it be from today or thirty two years ago.

She did show up in the morning, but wouldn't get out of her truck, instead insisting I get in alone and talk to her there. That was when she unloaded on me, expecting me to understand and forgive her, when in reality it hurt somewhat but not as much as she thought it would, or even should. She began by telling me a story. One of two young kids who like all youth sometimes made mistakes. It was of her and my birth father, a time when they were going through a rough spell in their relationship. They had broken up for a short period as teens often do. In order to get back at him, and hopefully make him jealous, my birth mother had a one night stand with another guy she knew. After that they got back together, but it wouldn't last. When she became pregnant, they decided to give me up for adoption and they stuck it out together through the nine months. Once I was born though, as I said, they would split up. You know what happened after this and life goes on, as they say.

As she had finished her story, I still had no clear picture what had triggered such a negative reaction for her, in seeing my family and me. I told her as much, showing the confusion clearly in my face. Taking a deep breath, looking away from me, she went on. Everything had been fine, she had been very excited and nervous to meet me as well, right up until she had stepped foot inside our motel room. That was when she took one look at me and in her mind knew I was the daughter of her one night stand thirty two years ago, not her current husband. She said I was the spitting image of him and she had no doubts. I asked if she had told her husband and she said yes, she had admitted to the one night stand and the results, right after they got home last night. I then asked for a DNA test to be done, still unable to see anyone else as my birth father and wanting some finality to this. She said her husband had requested the same thing, but she denied us both insisting there was no need. The shock of this realization and its obvious ramifications had blind sided her and she said she needed time to deal with it all. Then, after giving me the name of her one night stand, she was gone and we were going home. What a great weekend.

It would take a month for her to come around and agree to talk to me again. I can't deny I found her behaviour extremely selfish, always saying she wasn't ready, she needed time to heal. How, I wonder, did she think this had affected her husband and me? He had lost a daughter and I had lost a father. What had she lost except a bit of pride? I would see her three more times in my life, the visits all going fairly well, that I recall, but what happened after that I have no idea. I think we just stopped talking, but I could be wrong. Knowing myself, something might have been said that hurt my feelings and I might have written a letter to her saying some things I would later regret. I really just don't remember. One thing I do recall though is that I found the man whom she said was my father and I did call him. It was a very strange conversation, more so for him I'm sure. I started off by asking if he had ever lived in a particular city. When he said yes, I then asked if he had known a woman by the name of my birth mother. That was when he asked me who I was and what this was all about. I had my answer. After that I told him exactly what she had told me, including exactly where and when I had been conceived.

He was overwhelmed, as I'm sure anyone would be, but he also said he had no memory of ever going "all the way" with my mother. Either way, the conversation went well, him being ecstatic that he might just in fact have a daughter, let alone three grandchildren as he had never had any others. I asked him about his medical history, that being the most important thing to me to be honest and he told me with no qualms. We agreed to talk again soon, and hopefully set up a meeting between us and then said our goodbyes. I called him a week later, as we had agreed, and this time the story was a bit different. No longer was he friendly, nor did he want to meet. He believed, as his girlfriend had suggested, that I was just out for money. I never talked to him again.

Was it that important that I find these people, to justify a curiosity borne of decades of not knowing? I did, after all, have a mom and a dad who loved me very much. It was, I believe, but only to stave that inborn need we have to know where we came from and what kind of people had brought us to life. Years ago, when I was about fourteen, I was given some papers that gave me non identifying information of my birth parents. It gave me their ages at my birth, the color of their hair, if they had any siblings, what they did for a living and a bit of their medical history. For eighteen years this was all I knew. As an adoptee, having these tiny hints into who had given birth to you, you develop a sort of attachment to these unknown people. You envision what they would look like back then and now. And sometimes you even daydream about meeting them. They are real to you, a part of you, even if they are strangers. I now know who my birth mother is and somewhat, the kind of person she is. I did try contacting her a few months ago, through her sister, to let her know she technically has three great grandchildren, but I never heard back from either of them. As for my birth father, I will never know for sure, but for this adoptee it will always remain the man whom I had grown to know for all those long years by that little bit of information I was given as a gift towards knowing where my life had begun.

Chapter 20

In July of nineteen ninety-eight Lynda and her mom decided to hold a bridal shower for me which would take place in my home. Tyler would take the boys out for the afternoon, but Marie would remain to attend and also help Lynda's mom with all the preparations. I was honestly surprised she wanted anything to do with it because she was so against me marrying Tyler in the first place. At first she helped out a lot, doing whatever was asked of her, along with Lynda's mom asking her advice on ideas as well. After a little while though she chose to go outside and hang out with her friends instead. Once the party started she did come back in but I just don't know why she bothered.

Throughout the afternoon Marie made snide, rude comments for all to hear, whether it be about a gift, or something I said. The worst though was about half way through. Someone had commented on my outfit, and very loudly, in front of everyone, Marie proclaimed, "I don't know why you wore that Mom, I wouldn't be caught dead going out in public looking like you." Wow. I didn't know what to say. The whole place went dead quiet. Looking up at Marie with tears in my eyes, she just laughed and walked outside. It was then that I began to realize just how much my daughter hated me. Not even when she was little and would tell me she hated me, did it affect me like this had. Little ones say many things without fully understanding how they can hurt, but a thirteen year old knew damn well what she was saying. Lynda's mom broke the ice and got everyone busy after Marie's revelation, but the damage was done. Once again I had been humiliated beyond belief.

After the party when I confronted her about the way she had acted during my shower, she just sloughed it off, more or less ignoring me. Finally I asked her what she wanted from me, why she hated me so much. The anger and hurt that she was feeling was written all over her, in her face, her posture and then in her voice. She said she was still "pissed" that I had split up with her dad and that she hated Tyler and couldn't believe I was still going to marry him knowing how she felt. She also pointed out how tired she was of all the attention that Sean got because of his disability and being the "Easter Seals Poster Boy." And finally she told me how much it hurt her that the boys were so close and she had no one. She finished by dropping a bomb in my lap. She told me that she wanted to go and live with her dad and Cindy and that she had already talked to them about it and they had agreed to it. Oh, how I felt like I had failed her. I had had no idea how deeply seated her pain was, nor had I known how long it had truly been going on for. I should have paid more attention, I should have known.

But I too was hurting. I knew she used to blame me for splitting with her father, but I had thought that was behind us now. I guess I was wrong. She had made herself clear about how she felt with regard to Tyler from the beginning, having always treated him with disdain and callousness. I had hoped we could get past this, but again, I guess I was wrong. As for the boys, it had been becoming increasingly more evident how much the relationship they shared hurt her. She had become mean towards them, teasing them, and hurting them whenever the situation arose that she felt she could get away with.

Then there were other incidents that I had to force myself to face head on now instead of trying to bury them under a rug thinking they had been dealt with. There was the fact that the boys who had robbed us had been friends of hers; that our things were still in their basement according to another boy. Had she left the window open on purpose? I'll never know, but I can't deny the doubt was there. Then there was the time she took Daniel to the park with her and proceeded to start a bonfire in the school yard. They got caught that time and a firefighter came to talk to them, asking "if they thought fire could do magic." And because of that incident, when someone set fire to the billboard in her school, she automatically got blamed, although this time I could honestly say she was with me.

The most serious matter we had to deal with happened just a few weeks before my bridal shower. Marie had been hanging out with some older guy that came by the school. I hadn't known at first but when I did find out, I forbade her to see him again explaining to her the only real reasons older guys hung out at schools. Well, of course she didn't listen and kept on seeing him, learning to smoke pot, skipping school and the like. One day though she pissed off the wrong person when she was with this guy and that's when the more severe issue came about...

...Coming home in the middle of the afternoon one day, Marie came rushing in the house, crying and very obviously scared to death. It seemed she had managed to anger the leader of one of the city's biggest gangs and now they were out to get her. Did I believe her? You bet I did. I knew she was messed up in the wrong crowd and no matter how hard I had tried to get her to come around and smarten up, but nothing had worked. Well, now maybe she would understand because she was clearly frightened. Not knowing what else to do, I called the police. Believing every word I said, especially when I mentioned the name of the gang involved, they sent over two of their "Gang Unit" officers to have a chat with Marie and our family.

After they had a very serious chat with Marie about staying away from these kind of people, they proceeded to tell Tyler and me just how scary a situation she had placed our family in. According to the officers this was a gang which had no qualms about doing drive by shootings, whether there were children present or not. Right at that time they were under suspicion of one such shooting. A mother of a sixteen year old girl who had become mixed up with them, had been killed, shot through the head as they drove by and shot up the house. It was the girl they had been after, but they had missed her as she never got up out of her bed. The mother hadn't been so lucky, having sat up in bed when the shooting started and was hit as they bombarded that part of the home.

Whether they were telling us all this to scare us or just forewarn us, it managed to terrify me. What about the boys? They were innocent in all this. I said as much, worried sick now. One of the officers told us that the boys would not be able to play outside anymore until this situation was rectified and no, he didn't know how long that could take. The thought of the two boys being cooped up indefinitely made me furious and that feeling unintentionally went straight to my daughter. How could she do this to us? Did she even care what she had caused? Daniel would be lost if he couldn't go outside and play with the dog and Sean loved spending his summer out on the front lawn, playing, watching people go by. I almost felt myself growl at Marie when the officer spoke again and brought my attention back to reality. It was then that they actually asked us if we had somewhere out of town that we could go for a while until this all blew over. They said it would be the safest solution as they had explained, staying inside did not guarantee our safety. The only place I could think of was Peter and Cindy's. They lived about five hours away in a little hamlet. I told the officers that I could call them and ask, and they requested that I do so immediately. Dear God, help us.

After hanging up I let everyone know that Peter had said yes, of course we could go there if need be. This seemed to relieve both officers. They asked us to pack up and leave at once, saying they would watch the house until we were gone. They took down Peter and Cindy's phone number and said they would be in touch as soon as they had any news. The feeling of dread that had accompanied Marie in that afternoon at that point buried itself deep inside me and refused to leave. As I got everything ready to go, I couldn't decide which feeling was stronger, my anger towards my daughter and her nonchalant attitude or my fear for our family.

We arrived at Peter and Cindy's late that night, exhausted. Going through such emotional experiences drained a person and without rest, we were all showing its effects. Hugging both Peter and Cindy, I thanked them profusely for taking us in on such short notice. We put the kids to bed, then the four adults sat down and I told the story of what had brought us there. They were as appalled as I felt and agreed we would talk some more in the morning. Peter also added he wanted to have a chat with his daughter.

The next morning Marie did have a long chat with her dad, alone. I have no idea what was said, but if he managed to get through to her where I couldn't then that was all that mattered. Afterwards he came to tell us he had an idea. By getting hold of Marie's older friend he hoped to be able to get a number for the leader of this gang. He thought if he could talk this guy down and off of our family then we would be able to return home. As he said, could it get any worse than it was now anyways?

After a couple of calls to different people Peter finally managed to find this leader and get him to accept his call. He planned on treating this kid as an adult, more like having a man to man talk with him about the stupidity of children, mainly his daughter.

The call lasted about fifteen minutes with a lot of "Ya man, I know," and "I hear ya," going on, but I didn't really care how stupid it all sounded from our end because it worked. The gang leader agreed to forget about Marie and to leave our family alone, as long as she stayed out of their business. We were safe to go home. It was a long ways to go to find an answer, but it had been worth every mile. Peter had managed to accomplish something that I would never have been able to, nor could have the police, I'm sure. Some would later question our faith in the gang leaders word, but there was one thing Peter, Cindy, and I all had in common. That was we knew what your word meant on the street. We went back home that afternoon and at first I was still a little nervous to let the kids outside. That lasted about a week and then I relented that all was good. And what was even better was that we never heard hide nor hair of that gang again, all thanks to Peter.

With all things considered, especially what we had gone through lately, I didn't really disagree with Marie's decision to go live with her dad, at least for a while. I hoped it would do both her and me some good, getting some distance between us and give us both a break. I also was very curious to see how she would behave for them, compared to how she was with us at home. I called Peter and discussed everything with him, including that she might need a counsellor or someone to talk to, to learn to deal with her anger. I pointed out as well that I was getting married in less than a month and after what she had pulled at my shower, and considering how far away she would be, it was probably best if she just stayed put with them. I was honestly terrified that if she came to my wedding she would do everything in her power to ruin it. He didn't disagree and said they would be up to get her in two days. I went to tell Marie the news and her excitement over our answer hurt me much more than I had expected it to. It just goes to show that despite what we are put through as parents, we will always love our children, but in return we hope they will love us back.

On August eighth of ninety eight, Tyler and I were married. It was a simple ceremony on the front lawn of our Legislature Building, surrounded by freshly cut green grass, tall majestic trees and the scent of all the blossoming flowers filling the air. The boys were groomsmen and Lynda was my maid of honour. We added a little special part where Tyler asked the boys to accept him into their family and with their acceptance he gave them each a cross on a chain. During the service, many times, I found myself looking over beside Lynda, to where Marie should have been. Each time I felt that empty spot in my heart get bigger and bigger and tears came to my eyes. I'm sure everyone thought they were tears of joy with regard to the moment, but if only they knew. It was wrong of me to not have had her there, no matter how she felt. She was a part of this family just as much as the boys were and if she hated me before I could only imagine how much she would now. Deep down I felt as if I had lost a child and the pain of that almost had me walking out on Tyler during the ceremony. I think he must have sensed something was wrong because he squeezed my hand as if to reassure me, giving me the strength I needed to go on with it all. The reception went off without a hitch as well, with no one really getting overly drunk. Throughout the evening however I would find myself thinking of Marie and wondering what it would have been like if she had been there. Would she have behaved? I'll never know, but I do regret terribly not having her there. It was a special day that should have been shared with ALL my family and because it wasn't, the day lost its shine.

Chapter 21

October fourteenth of that same year would mark an incredible change again for my children and me, a very unforeseen one. While at home after his workday, Tyler began feeling unwell. Within hours he would be in the hospital, in ICU, having suffered a major heart attack. Over the next four weeks he would have two more, smaller ones, which would also send him to the hospital. Our life was being tilted on its side and shook and the kids and I wouldn't find flat, safe ground again for two years.

Someone warned me back then that when a person has had a major heart attack it changes them, specifically their characteristics that had always made up who they are. I don't know if it was the attacks that altered Tyler, or if the real Tyler finally emerged after them for whatever reason, but he was not the same man I had married, not even close. One thing you're going to learn about me, if you haven't already, is that I'm either a slow learner, or far too stubborn.

The first difference I noticed in Tyler took place in our bedroom. It was about four months after his attacks and he went from a caring, gentle lover to one who openly told me that I didn't excite him or satisfy him like his ex had. Up until that point I had heard no complaints what so ever, so this revelation came as quite a shock. He then convinced me that maybe it was he that was different and that we should try new things. How could I have been so naive? At first it wasn't so bad, as we only tried new positions but that only lasted for a short time before he wasn't content again.

One day I had a friend over for coffee who had been my neighbour at one time. We didn't see each other that often so it was nice to see her. She was a bit younger than me, but people said we could have easily been sisters, we looked so much alike. She was married, like me, and had two children. It seemed a good fit for a friend, although it was too bad she wouldn't bring her husband into the friendship because she was embarrassed by his callousness and rude behaviour. We were hanging out in my bedroom, talking to Tyler while he worked on his computer. Running out of coffee, he asked me if I would go make some more, and I said sure. As I walked back into the room after putting coffee on, I actually stumbled when I saw what lay ahead of me. There, on my bed, was Tyler, shirt off, but what was more disturbing was what he and Maggie were doing. Sitting up on the floor, laughing outrageously, was Maggie, shirt almost completely off as Tyler tugged on the sleeve, pulling at it until it came right off with a flourish. Both giggling now, she went to join him on the bed. Seeing me finally, Tyler smiled and told me to come and sit down on the bed with the two of them. At that point I think I just went numb with overwhelming emotions that I couldn't handle or face, so without saying a single word, I walked over to the bed and sat down.

I'm sure you can figure out what happened from that point on. Let me just add though that during this escapade I let go of all emotions, and was as flat and dead as one could be during something like this. It may be one time I CAN remember, but for me, when I do think of it, it is like watching it from someone else's eyes. I don't feel anything except sickened by what I see in my mind. Call it denial or whatever you will, but this became my way of dealing with the disgrace, the hurt and the obvious heartless actions of my husband. When Maggie left that day I never saw her again and good riddance is all I can say.

After having to stay home for months, Tyler was becoming more and more difficult to live with. He was moody, almost manically so, and when he was upset about something it was like watching a grownup having a temper tantrum. The boys were starting to show signs of the changes in Tyler as well. They avoided him as much as possible and did everything they could to try and please him so as to not become victims of his wrath. The stress level in our home became almost palpable and I started avoiding having anyone over for fear that they would see right through our façade of wellness.

Finally in late summer of nineteen ninety nine I had had enough. Something had to give soon or we were going to collapse as a family unit. It would be Sean's doctors who would give me the idea on a last ditch effort to save my family. Due to Sean's Cerebral Palsy and his weakened immune system, they had suggested that getting Sean out of such a severe weather system as where we lived would be very beneficial to his wellbeing. Suggestions of either going south or west to where the weather was much milder and never had such severe temperature swings as we did here at home. I choose to go west. But I also wanted a whole new lifestyle for us as well, something dramatically different from what we had here or moving would make no difference to our family's current situation. I became stumped on how to go about this, but it would be Tyler who would come up with the answer.

Initially I fought him tooth and nail on his idea. In my eyes he had nothing to lose and I had everything. Selfish of me really, but I didn't care. If this didn't work, there would be no family left, and I would once again be alone with my children and I didn't want to have to start from scratch again. Eventually though, seeing no other answer and with Tyler's insistent nagging that it was the best idea, I gave in. Within a month of making that choice, we had sold everything I owned, bought a new twenty seven foot fifth wheel, a used truck and were headed to a long term campground out west.

The move seemed to have been the right choice. Each of us was thoroughly enjoying the big change. Daniel quickly made friends with the campground owners' children and learned to ride a dirt bike. Sean got an old scooter and toured the grounds daily, greeting any newcomers and visiting with the long timers. Tyler built us a deck that impressed so many people he had requests from many of the permanent campers to build them one, giving him a job he could do at his own pace. I just sat back and watched it all from the sidelines, so to speak, happy to see all the positive changes in my family. Now if only Marie were there, it would have been perfect.

In order to help us financially I took a job with the park cutting and looking after the upkeep of the greens of the nine hole golf course they had. I also took a sideline job with them clearing weeds away from all the empty campsites. This was tedious work, but I liked the solitude, the quiet, and the alone time. At one point I also agreed to look after the washrooms on site, but after a while the bleach started bothering my asthma and I had to stop. I did all I could though to keep busy, and to give Tyler and me some time apart. This worked well for a while, getting us through to early spring of the following year but then things started falling apart.

By December I had noted that the long days were getting a little rough. With the home schooling, the jobs and the close quarters it became too much on us all. Again, looking for a solution I put the boys in a regular public school, giving us all a break from each other for at least seven hours a day. This helped some, but that too didn't last. Tyler went back to his ways in the bedroom, treating me like his little whore with no care or respect for me or my body whatsoever. As long as he liked it and he was happy, all was good in his eyes, no matter if I liked it or not. He had become another Peter, but far worse, forcing me almost daily to do things that were extremely painful and even grosser than anything Peter had ever done. In reality I had just become his little bitch because I was too beat down and weak to fight another losing battle.

The problems between Tyler and the boys started up again as well. He just turned downright mean towards them. He pulled stunts like tickling Sean until he begged Tyler to stop and when he did finally quit Tyler would forcibly shove him away, sending him sliding down the hallway of the trailer, saying, "Fine, if you don't want to play then fuck off." Another thing he took to doing to Sean would happen when Sean would be sitting on the couch, watching a movie. Tyler would come up, put his arm behind Sean and throw him off the couch, then lay down on it himself and ignore Sean's crying. Eventually Sean just stopped using the couch and sat on the floor.

For Daniel, he seemed to not be able to do anything right in Tyler's eyes. He never had a kind word for Daniel and was quick to anger. When this happened, when Tyler would get mad, and understand we are talking about a man who is six foot four and two hundred and forty pounds, he would rush after Daniel in our little trailer, going at him like a Mack Truck. The only thing Daniel could do was jump on his bunk, crawl as far into the corner as he could to get away and sit there crying and pee himself. Yes, life had taken another terrible stumble in mine and my children's lives and somehow, sometime soon, we were going to have to find the strength to stand up again and walk away.

My grandmother died peacefully in her sleep during August of two thousand. Unsure of what to do, not wanting to leave the boys alone with Tyler, I called my dad and asked his advice, trying not to let on what was really happening at home. Using the excuse that lifting Sean was too hard on Tyler's heart, I said I could only come for the one night. I had a long talk privately with the boys before leaving, making sure they knew to behave and just stay completely out of Tyler's way. Daniel swore to look after his little brother, as he always did, and I left for the airport with nothing but worries running through my mind.

One thing I hadn't expected was for Marie to show up at the funeral. I was really touched that she had come and that Peter and Cindy had brought her so far for it. It was an odd day for me, feeling so happy to see my daughter and yet sad to say a final goodbye to my grandma. After the service I met with Peter and Cindy for coffee only to discover their coming hadn't been purely for the sake of Marie being able to attend the funeral. They were coming from a place I had been, a road I had travelled and they wanted out of the car. Marie had worn out her welcome with them, causing hell and havoc wherever she went and they were done for. She had been kicked out of school, sent away from Cadets and had gotten mixed up again with an older boy. They felt they had tried everything that could have been suggested and only hoped I could do better. Like it or not, and I'm not saying I didn't, Marie was coming back with me to live. God help me find a way through to this girl and set her on the right path.

When Marie and I arrived back home, everyone was very surprised, but happy to see her. I understood the boys feelings, but not Tyler's, especially when he knew how she felt about him. Either way it was going to be really tight quarters with another person in the trailer, and as bad as things were before I could only imagine how much worse they were about to get.

We were actually saved by a couple who also lived in the park. They had an older, small trailer that they didn't want anymore, so they gave it to us for Marie to have. It was like having her own room and she loved it. We went in, cleaned it all up, decorated it and viola, Marie had her own space. It was nice, too, for when we just wanted mother and daughter time. We would sit there, drink coffee, play cards and listen to music. We were bonding again and I couldn't have been happier with how things were going with her.

One night, when we were all in our trailer, Tyler got mad at Daniel again, although I really don't remember why. He stood up and went to go at him, like he always did. Daniel took off for his bunk but this time as Tyler went to chase him, Marie stood her ground in his way, refusing to move. Tyler screamed at her to move, but she just screamed back, "NO!" Almost growling at her, he picked her up by the shoulders, moved her out of his way and went after Daniel. By this time everyone was screaming at Tyler to stop, and Marie crawled on his back and was clawing at him, to get him to get away. Standing up, almost throwing her off his back, Tyler swore at us all and stormed out of the trailer. This was the first time Marie had seen this, although her brothers had told her about it, and she was pissed. Turning her anger on me, she raged at me over and over as to why I hadn't taken the boys and left Tyler already. Trying to calm her down, I talked to her quietly, and explained how we had nowhere to go, no income, and that I had nothing left, after selling it all to buy this trailer and come here. After a bit more talking I put the boys to bed, then walked Marie back to her trailer. She wanted me to call her dad, ask for his help, and I said I would think about it. The problem that maybe Marie wasn't realizing was that if I told Peter everything that had been going on, especially between the boys and Tyler, I was concerned that this could turn violent and I really didn't need more of that in our lives. That worry played at me, not letting go. I knew Peter and Cindy's tempers and how volatile they could be. That fear alone would cause me to hesitate in making that call even more.

A few days later, while the kids were just messing around, I looked over at Tyler, checking on his mood. Being on the ready to intervene if he got upset, I watched him closely for a minute. However, instead of finding him actually reading the book he was holding, I found something much more frightening.

Following his eyes, seeing what he was looking at, I realized he was following Marie's every move. No matter where she went in the room, or what she was doing, he just stared at her, never looking away. At one point he even cocked his head to get a better view as she bent over to help Sean sit up! Seriously? Are you fucking kidding me here? I could not believe what I was seeing and I was not going to let this slide. Standing up, I asked him to join me outside on the deck immediately. It was time we had a little chat.

I confronted Tyler about his actions and initially he denied everything, saying I was seeing things, paranoid and crazy. Knowing I was right though I continued with my questioning and eventually he broke. Admitting he had carnal fantasies about Marie, he tried putting the guilt on others. He blamed his mother and sister, alleging they both sexually abused him when he was a young boy. Did I believe him? I had no idea, and could never prove it either way. But one thing I couldn't swallow was that this supposed desecration as a child gave him an acceptable excuse to the perversion he was dreaming of with my daughter, let alone any other child. Just the thought of it all made me sick to my stomach and I couldn't even bare to look at him, disgusted by what I saw. He tried the tears, almost begging for my forgiveness, but I couldn't nor would I ever be able to trust him again. Warning him to stay far away from Marie, I left him there and went inside to be with my children. I knew I would never leave him alone with any of them again and that it was about time I considered my options for making my family safe.

When Tyler went out the next day for a walk, I called Peter and Cindy. What I hadn't expected was to find they were already on their way to us, and would be arriving the next day. I wondered if Marie had called them sometime over the last few days, but never bothered to ask realizing it didn't matter and if so, at least she had got them coming sooner than I would have.

They got there just as they had said they would, by dinnertime the next night. Piling into Marie's little trailer, I sent the kids out to play so I could talk privately with their father and his wife. Pulling out a bottle of rum, Cindy poured herself and Peter a drink, settling in to listen to my story. I talked on and on, telling them close to everything that had ever gone on during my marriage to Tyler. I talked about the sexual aspects and the fact that he admitted I didn't excite him. I told them about the changes towards the kids and how he scared them so badly they would pee themselves. Finally I admitted to what I had just discovered about his feelings towards Marie. By the time I was done, Cindy was drunk and angry, Peter was cold and livid and Tyler chose that moment to come knocking on the trailer door.

Begging them both to keep their silence, I let him in. It was the most strained, ridiculous half hour I have ever experienced. Peter's stare should have been an obvious warning to Tyler, and Cindy had gone insane. It took everything I had to keep her from jumping across the little table and strangling Tyler. She never came right out and said that I had told her anything but she continuously made comments pointing in that direction. Finally I convinced Peter that it was time that Cindy got some sleep. I grabbed Tyler and out we went, leaving them to their drunkenness and giving them time to process all that I had told them.

When we got back to our trailer, Tyler went and laid on our bed, feigning chest pains. I say feigning because these supposed pains had become a constant attention getter for Tyler and he used them almost daily to get pity from all the people in the park. After making sure the kids were all settled, I quietly went and laid down beside Tyler, but found it impossible to sleep. I was so tired of all his B.S. that I decided it was the time to end this charade. Having Peter and Cindy there, and after telling them everything, did cause me some major concerns in their ability to keep this non violent, but it also gave me a strength I hadn't had before they came; I wasn't so alone anymore. I spent the night trying to plan out in my head what I would say, where the kids and I would end up, how we would live but in the end, before morning came, I knew it didn't matter, we would survive, just as we always had.

The next morning after getting the kids all off to school I went to face Tyler. Standing in the doorway of our trailer, watching him pretend to be asleep like he always did each morning, I spoke up. I told him it was over, that our marriage was finished, I wanted out. He must have known it was coming. He didn't argue the point, but he did cry, or at least he appeared to be. I couldn't see his face which I found convenient, especially when he never turned to face me. It was at this point that I made a huge mistake. I said we would leave as soon as I found somewhere for us to go. I should never have even suggested this, and instead insisted on his leaving. That trailer by all rights was mine. I'm the one that sold everything to buy it. I'm the one who traded in my vehicle on the truck to pull it and I was the sole supporter of our family. At that point in time though all I could think about was getting out and as far away as possible.

Tyler went into the hospital that day, supposedly for chest pains, once again, but also the doctor said, for depression. Did I care? Honestly, no. It actually made things a whole lot easier, allowing me the time and space I needed to find the financial help we would need financially and a place to go. It wasn't easy and required me to swallow my pride and admit to a few people the abuse I had been allowing to carry on in our home. It paid off though because two days before Tyler was to be discharged, with the help of Social Services and Peter and Cindy, the kids and I were moving to our new home. We had no furniture initially but a home for battered women in the community helped us out with what they could, as well as a teacher at the kid's school. By getting the word out, she managed to get us quite a few donations and before you knew it we were doing alright. A local pastor had also gotten us an old minivan from someone in his parish, which was truly an amazing gift, with having Sean and all his equipment to get around. It was done finally, and after approximately one month of endless stress, we were free of Tyler and all his machinations. It was all thanks to Peter, Cindy and the people of the community we lived in.

Tyler tried to get me to come back, or at least to start over, many times during the next year or so. Never once did I relent, always being upfront and honest saying it would never happen. He eventually asked me if I wanted a divorce. I told him I didn't care, that it meant nothing to me because I would never marry again. Letting him know that if he wanted it, he would have to pay for it, I ended that issue quickly and without regret. I have only seen or talked to Tyler three times over the last eleven years and we are still not divorced. To be totally honest, I really couldn't care less if I ever heard from him again nor do I care how he is doing.

Chapter 22

Over the next few months I began to have a lot of trouble dealing with what life had dealt me. I found it getting exceedingly harder and harder to be the good, loving parent I had always wanted to be and instead began feeling grumpy, impatient and depressed most of the time. One night, while just sitting on the couch, I broke down. No matter how much I tried, I couldn't stop crying. Not knowing what to do for me and being the only one who knew I was in such a state, Marie went into the boys bedroom, got Daniel to follow, picked Sean up, carried him out to the living room, sat him on my knee, and sat down, along with Daniel and held me. It will always be one of the most touching moments in my family's life and one that I shall be forever grateful to my daughter for. Her simple actions allowed me to see the goodness I had in my life and gave me the strength I needed to carry on. I would not feel so lost again for another eight years all thanks to the love and caring of my three children that one night.

During those few tough months one very trying development would begin and continue to haunt my family for the next two years. It would all start when Marie lied to me one night about where she was going and instead chose to go to a party that I had forbidden her to attend. There would be no parents there as the girl having it lived on her own with her little girl. Call it parental intuition or just common sense but I had known that it would be a bad scene. What I hadn't counted on is just how much that one night would forever change my daughter, our relationship and her future.

The house was filled with kids mostly of legal age, ranging from eighteen to twenty two, with the odd exception, like my daughter, who was only fourteen. Drugs were rampant, with everything available from pot to ecstasy to crack. Up until this point I had known that Marie had tried marijuana, but I don't believe she had ventured to any other substances. Then she met Cody. Having spotted each other across the room that night, he had approached her, smiled, handed her a short, thin pipe and introduced her to the two drugs that would almost ruin her life, crack cocaine and himself.

Over the course of the next two months Marie became a very different person than the girl I had raised. She had never been an easy child to care for, as I've well explained, but now she had become completely heedless to anyone or anything outside of Cody and his friends. She had almost entirely stopped going to school, instead spending those hours with her new role models. The rules at home meant nothing to her, as she would do whatever she pleased regardless of the consequences, which were useless anyhow because she just went out no matter what I said. Her language at home became embarrassing and humiliating to the point where I didn't want the boys anywhere within earshot of her. The clothes she chose to wear out now had gone from your average teen girl wardrobe to one of a young adult out on the town, looking for a good time. And finally, her honesty, what she had left, was forever gone, replaced with words that even she herself believed although everyone else could see right through them. I had lost my daughter to Cody and drugs and eventually, unable to bear another day of torment, I had kicked her out with the understanding that only a serious change in her actions would allow that door to once again be open to her. It was one of the hardest decisions I have ever made as a parent, and to this day I'm not convinced it was the right one.

Marie spent Christmas morning with us that year, but refused to stay for the afternoon and dinner. We had been at odds since I had asked her to leave our home and up until that morning I didn't know if she would come. To be fair to her, I'm not sure she really knew if she was even welcome. Not knowing what else to do, but wanting her there, I had driven to where she was staying and asked her to join us. She agreed to spending some time with us, but as I said, only for a short time. Sadly, even for those couple of hours, Marie couldn't face us, or the day even without getting stoned first, so our time together was awkward and stressed. It seemed we all tried too hard to get along and in the end it only made things worse. It was a very sad year and one I wish we could all forget.

The longer Marie spent with Cody, the more I lost what was left of her. She became emaciated, making her look like someone else entirely. Her face was covered in a type of acne that comes from excessive drug use and she began getting in trouble with the police. Cody turned out to be a real gem with what seemed to be a destiny to destroy a fifteen year old girl's life. He had had an affair with one of his teachers while in high school, and was still seeing her at the same time that he was seeing Marie. He was the town's drug dealer, leading Marie by the hand to her addiction to crack. When the time came to make deliveries the bastard made her carry the drugs so that if they got caught he would get off and my daughter would get charged. He taught her ways to hide them, new ways to do them and how to mix and match different ones. Together they led a life of criminal activity and debauchery, never caring who they stepped on along the way. Cody also managed to have such control over Marie that if he threatened to leave her she would fall to pieces, crumpling to the floor crying, begging forgiveness for something she hadn't even done, saying over and over again, "Please baby please, I'm sorry." He even went so far as to have Marie call the teacher and say nothing was going on between her and Cody. He was low, as low as a human being could be, he was out to destroy my daughter, and he was succeeding.

During the spring of two thousand and one Cody took Marie and moved into a house they would share with two of his friends. The downstairs was rented by a single mom, Angie and her son, Mark, both customers of Cody. One warm August evening the two groups had decided to get together and throw a house party. Many people came and went, drugs were prevalent and alcohol was consumed faster than it could be brought in. Through all this Marie had sat in a chair in the corner of the living room taking hoot after hoot of crack. She had become like a robot: Take the glass pipe, stuff Brillo in one end, then place the rock on the same end. Use a lighter and melt it down a bit till it makes a crackling sound then put the other end to your mouth, downwards tilt at first. Light it again and suck it back steady, while turning the pipe in your fingers. Your face and lips go numb, slowly you lift the pipe at an upwards angle, still inhaling, then when you've got enough, take the pipe away and hold your breath as long as possible, and remember, blow out slowly. Mmmmm, it always took her back somewhere familiar, one distinctive taste, a childhood memory of buttery popcorn or was it just the drug talking again?

Finally, at around three a.m., people had started to leave and Cody came to take Marie to bed. He had always told her something he thought was funny as he tucked her in, and she had always looked forward to it. She never said a word though, not wanting to break the one moment in the day where he was actually nice to her.

"Downstairs they were watching Scream. You know, Angie, Mark, Shay and some freak. Then the freak laughs and says "Wouldn't it be messed if that happened in real life?" What the hell is he on?"

"Shit, I know it isn't any of my stuff, but still was kinda funny imagining someone running around in that fucking mask brandishing a knife." What Cody found funny that night had instead left Marie sure that she would have nightmares. The mental pictures he had created along with all the crack in her system was sure to play havoc. Her euphoria was gone, replaced with a fear of what could happen.

Humor was the last thing on any of their minds later that night. The freak Cody had been referring to had added some meth to his drug martinis made up of coke, crack, and pot. It sent him flying over that fine line between sanity and madness, and forever instilled a night of horror that none of them would ever forget. When the police finally arrived, initially only one officer, the addict had already stabbed Shay multiple times while she was in her bed, and then had chased Angie all over the suite until finally catching her in the backyard and stabbing her. Having lost his knife in the struggle with Angie, he ran back inside and kicked in the door to the upstairs suite, running straight into Marie and Cody's room. When Marie had opened her eyes, they had been clouded from sleep so what she initially thought was a nightmare scared the hell out of her. Standing beside her bed was some guy, totally naked, covered in blood, with a crazed look in his eyes. Then he had smiled and spoken.

"There's some crazy shit goin' on down there, someone got stabbed."

He had run off after that, heading in the direction of the kitchen which had allowed Marie, Cody, and the others their chance to escape the house. The lone officer found the attacker in the backyard where he had cornered everyone else; he had another knife, and was waving it around frantically, threatening them all. Pulling his gun, the officer called out for the man to drop his knife. The assailant just grinned at him though, laughed manically, and then had turned the knife on himself. Proceeding to try and cut out his insides, he eventually gave up and slit his own throat.

Everyone would live to see another day except the man who had gone crazy; he died on the way to the hospital. When Marie had finally been allowed to re-enter the house later that day to get her things, she had been faced with another nightmare. Blood spatter covered the inside of the house, along with bloody footprints, handprints and smears where Shay had dragged her bleeding body upstairs in search of help. Pieces of skin and muscle could be seen scattered on the floor as if they had simply fallen off of someone. Grabbing what she could out of her bedroom and leaving behind anything in the other rooms, Marie walked out of that house and attempted to leave Cody's shadow forever.

Chapter 23

Over the course of the next two years, the boys and I would move three times. The first move would be for two reasons; to be closer to town and their new school and also to make it easier on me financially. This was done by my agreeing to move into a big old farmhouse with Peter and Cindy, where each of us would have our own room and we would equally split the expenses. It had sounded like a plausible idea. The place had tons of room for the kids to play with the home being on a tree farm. We would also be allowed to finally get a dog, which was something we had wanted for a very long time. Given the money we would all save by sharing it would allow us much more freedom and stability, something we had been lacking throughout our lives. It all sounded so perfect, what could possibly go wrong? Everything.

Shortly after moving in, things started to slowly fall apart. One of the biggest ongoing issues was the friction brought on by all three adults trying parent the kids in our own fashion. Very rarely did we agree on anything which usually caused either Peter or Cindy to get quite mad, or me to feel terribly down and frustrated. I had never managed to gain a lot of courage when it came to those two and would usually let them walk all over the kids and me. When their harshness brought tears to my children's eyes, quietly, behind closed doors, I would show them love and compassion explaining that yes, Peter and Cindy loved them very much, in their own ways.

The arguing between us all got worse each day and the boys began to fear every time Peter or Cindy were nearby. It wasn't that they were physically abusive, because they never were. Nor do I believe that they ever intended to be mentally abusive. They really just had no understanding of what patience, understanding and acceptance meant when it came to a child. The slightest misstep, or the tiniest bit of misbehaviour brought on such anger with either of them that the boys had begun to talk back at times, and stand up for themselves, regardless of the consequences.

When the stabbing happened at Marie's place she came home to us looking for help, love, and reassurance that life wasn't all bad. She was tired, sick, hungry and very scared, although the later I doubt she would have ever admitted to. Peter and Cindy were not all that ready to let her just move back home with all that she had put us through in the past, but I was of a very different mind. It had been too long since I had lost my daughter and I wanted so badly to re-establish a relationship with her, no matter what the circumstances were that brought her back home. I still had dreams of saving her from herself and all the bad influences out there in the real world. So, going against what Peter and Cindy wanted I let her move back in, sharing my room with her so as to not cause any space issues.

Had I made another big mistake in my family decisions by letting Marie come home? I don't think so, but with how fast the situation between Marie, her father and Cindy became toxic one would think I had. The relationship between Marie and Cindy was especially brittle as both seemed to have a grudge against the other that neither could let go of. After being on her own for almost a year Marie had become very independent and was by no means ready to come back into a home with rules. She had become tougher, stronger, colder and unforgiving. She refused to put up with any type of discipline or lip from Peter and Cindy, instead choosing to be just like them, unyielding in her stance, antagonistic towards each of them, appearing heartless. I don't think she lasted a week before she and I sat down and realized the truth. She couldn't come back, at least not as long as I lived with her father and his wife. We both cried when she left this time, feeling it deep down inside that our hearts were being ripped open. I think we both needed saving during that time and yet neither of us had a lifeline to send to the other. My daughter had grown a lot in the last year, just not necessarily in the ways in which a parent wants to see their fifteen year old grow. As she walked away, she looked back at her dad and reminded him of the one thing he had always told her for the last eleven years, "It's okay dad, don't sweat it, like you said, Cindy always comes first, not me."

With the family at such odds with each other, and composures quickly failing, it was like a blessing when I found out I couldn't get content insurance in that particular home for all of Sean's equipment. We were having a lift system put in the bathroom, in order to help get Sean in and out of the tub, but part of the agreement was that it had to be insured. Knowing it was a good idea anyways, as between his wheelchairs, walkers and lift there was thousands of dollars tied up, I made the necessary calls to find the best rate. What I hadn't expected to be told by each and every insurance agency was that the farm house we were living in was considered uninsurable due to its age, its illegal woodstove and obvious other safety issues it lacked. With this development, I saw an escape for us all from this stress induced lifestyle we had managed to put ourselves into and announced my choice take the boys and move out. I think anyone within a mile could have heard the audible sigh that erupted from the kids and Peter and Cindy's mouths as I stated my intentions. With the help of a realtor, I soon found a house to rent that was actually just down the road from the farm and which I had thought I could afford. It was a perfect setup, a bungalow, hence no stairs and had enough bedrooms that Marie could come back home to live some day if she wanted to. Things seemed to be getting back on track and everyone settled down minimizing the arguing and making life a little easier until we moved.

As I packed up our belongings I thought back over the last few months and knew, thankfully, that it hadn't been all bad. There were some very definite good memories that we would take with us, many of them hilarious situations we had fallen into living here on the farm. There was the time when old Jack, the groundskeeper, had been screaming in horror, saying over and over again, "LET GO, LET GO." We were sure someone was attacking the poor old guy so Cindy and I ran as fast as we could in the direction of his screams, scared of what we were going to come upon. As we came to a sliding halt in the dirt, we saw Jack standing there, apparently mad as hell, with his fists clenched and face as red as a beet. He appeared fine otherwise, and there was no blood anywhere. The confusing part that we noticed immediately though, as we looked around frantically, was that there didn't appear to be anyone else nearby who might have been threatening him. Now, unsure of anything, Cindy quietly asked, "J..Jack, what's wrong?" Without even looking at us, instead continuing to stare straight ahead, he growled back, "It's my damn cat." His cat? Had she attacked him?

"Your cat? Where is she Jack? Are you okay?" Now he gave us a look of utter consternation, "Am I okay? Of course I'm okay. But that bloody cat isn't going to be when I get my hands on her." Say what? She must have attacked him, why else would he have been yelling, "LET GO, LET GO." Searching about, we tried to spot the cat, figuring we were going to have to intercede between the two just so Jack didn't kill her, or she didn't hurt him. Suddenly Jack lunged forward, arms outstretched, losing his balance in the process and slamming down into the ground, face first. Worried now that he must have hurt himself, Cindy and I ran over to him. Instead of showing signs of pain and agony though, Jack was wrestling with the cat he held in his hands. Again he hollered at her, "LET GO!" but this time we could somewhat see that she wasn't biting him, or clawing at him, so just what was he talking about? Finally Cindy couldn't take it anymore and needed to know what was going on, "Jack, what the hell is the problem?" Struggling a bit more, curses flying, Jack ignored Cindy completely. Then, after another few seconds Jack loudly and triumphantly declared, "GOTCHA!" released the cat, who took off like a bullet, and slowly got to his feet. Grinning like a Cheshire cat, Jack proudly looked over at us for the first time since this escapade had started. The looks of befuddlement on our faces must have been comical because he just started to laugh outrageously at us. "What's wrong you two?"

"Jack..." I suddenly didn't know what to say. His obvious happiness had me totally confused. How did one go from such anger to this in two seconds flat?

Cindy would be the one to get clarity from him, "Jack, what the hell was that all about? Why were you screaming like you were being attacked and what did it have to do with your damn cat?"

"Oh, you two thought...oh boy, I'm sorry, you got the wrong idea here. I wasn't the one getting attacked, she was!" With that he held out his hands that he had been cradling, to show us something hidden within. Stepping closer Cindy and I peered into his cupped palms to see what had caused such a commotion. There, shaking with fear, and quite assuredly hurt, but alive, was the most beautiful, precious little hummingbird I had ever seen.

Jack spent the next few days looking after the tiny bird until it was ready to go on its own again. He never forgave his cat, constantly cursing it and calling it names, but still showing it lots of love because he was a big suck for all living things. We tried jokingly, yet kindly to explain to him that it was just natural for a cat to hunt birds but he wasn't having any of that talk, saying that his cat was no cougar and had lots of food that he provided for it. Either way though that day brings a smile to my face every time I think of how scared Cindy and I had been for Jack's safety and it was the cat's we should have been worried about.

As I said Jack had a love for all animals, big and small. Having been the grounds man and caretaker of the tree farm for so many years, he had some pull with the owners and they allowed him some courtesies. One such indulgence involved four, very large, ostriches. Treating them as his pets, Jack cared for and adored each of them, giving them names and buying them the best food available. Visitors to the farm could go and see them in their pen and often we would also go for walks in that direction to take a peek. The noises they made could be loud and annoying but after a while you learned to not hear it anymore, forgetting sometimes that they even existed.

One early morning, as I was getting Sean ready for school, I heard the telltale beeping of his driver's van backing up to the ramp at the door. The ramp was set up at a door that went directly outside from the boys' room, making it much easier to get Sean in and out of the house, instead of having to use the front door where there were numerous stairs. It was a beautiful morning, the sun was shining brightly spreading light in all directions through the windows that fully encompassed three walls of the room. Situating Sean in front of the door, I went to open it, ready to block my eyes from the direct sunlight. As the door slowly swung open, I held my hand up across my brow to allow myself to see. Looking straight ahead at the van, I opened the screen door wide and watched for his driver to come out. Jumping out of the driver's side, he turned to come towards the back of his van, and stopped suddenly as he looked towards me. Sean's driver had always been a very proper, respectful gentleman who loved to smile, so you can only imagine my shock when he quite audibly announced, "What the hell?" followed by a, "Holy crap, it's alive!" Unsure of what in the world he was talking about I looked around to see what he had seen. Following the direction in which the driver was looking I glanced to my right and instantly fell backwards a step in shock and let out a uncontrolled, "Holy shit." Standing there, not more than three feet away, looking back and forth between the driver and me was one of Jack's ostriches. How I had not seen it there in the first place, I have no idea. I mean seriously, how does one miss a giant bird nearing nine feet tall that's standing within arms reach? Between my outburst, Sean's callings of concern, and the drivers mutterings, we must have scared it as much as it had scared us because within five seconds, the ostrich took off running in the opposite direction of its pen, heading deep into the tree farm.

After a lot of nervous laughter at ourselves and the drivers retelling of how he had thought the bird was a statue, we loaded Sean into the van and off he went to school. Cindy, Peter, and I would spend the majority of the rest of our morning helping Jack wrangle up the four escapees and returning them to their home. I have to be honest though, throughout the whole process I was scared as all get out. Knowing you are chasing, and sometimes being chased by an animal that has been known to kill a lion by breaking its jaw with a single kick, causing it to starve to death, can be somewhat intimidating. We were outweighed by over a hundred pounds with the females and closer to two hundred with the males. What it eventually came down to was basically a game of tiring them out because there was no way any of us could dream of catching one when they can reach speeds of up to sixty m.p.h. and none of us wanted to get that close to one anyway. It was a crazy, dirty, and very tiring morning and not one we will soon forget.

Yes, there had been some good times here. I would miss all the long walks through the property with our two dogs and two cats, whom I must add always accompanied us of their own accord. The nightly bonfires, with tall tales, lots of laughter and sometimes, for some of us, mainly meaning Jack, a few too many drinks followed by his walking into trees all the way back to his trailer. Upon waking the next day, usually with at least one black eye, Jack would grab a chainsaw and proceed to cut down at least one of the trees he had walked into the night before.

The boys would miss the freedom they had felt here, along with the special things, like the actual tiny tractor a friend had given them to ride around on. So many times they had gone out onto the land and come back proud as anything, pulling logs behind them for that nights fire. Here was where Peter had taught Daniel to play baseball and learn well he had. By the age of fourteen Daniel was taken out of the boy's and put into the men's league to play alongside his dad, meanwhile harbouring a silent dream of playing in the majors. At least we had some positive memories to take with us as we left, because how awful it would have been if, as a family, we couldn't have even accomplished the few good ones that we had.

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Chapter 24

December first, two thousand and one the kids and I moved into our own place. Thankfully we had left on fairly good terms with Peter and Cindy, all of us knowing that it would take a lot more effort from each of us to be able to ever live together again. When you're struggling through life though, hardly ever able to make ends meet, you tend to do what you can to better the situation for your children. Most people we have come across over the years have felt our family is just plain weird because of the relationship the three adults have shared. It has never been more than friendship and sometimes not even that, but for the sake of the kids, we have always tried. At times I have felt resentment and anger towards them both. I'm sure they too have felt the same towards me. But, how many children of divorce can say that they have lived with all their parents at one time and felt the benefits of such a relationship. Ups and downs, sure we've had them, many in fact, with the downs probably outweighing the ups. It's not so much those times that the kids remember now though. Instead they talk about the times that made them laugh, that brought joy to their hearts, and made them proud to be in the family that they are. And when it seemed everything was against any of us, they tell of how we all stood together, to get through what were extremely trying events in our lives.

On Christmas Eve I was busy getting ready for dinner so when the phone rang I asked Sean to answer it. It was Cindy wondering if we needed buns for dinner. I told Sean to say yes and went back to what I was doing. Less than a minute later Sean got really worked up and upset about something. I went over to him and asked him to calm down and tell me what was wrong. Taking a couple deep breaths he grabbed my shirt and said, "Call 911 Mom, hurry, Cindy and Dad's house is on fire!" Thinking he must have misunderstood, I took the phone from him and ignoring his protests, I called Cindy back. After about three rings she finally picked up and I immediately asked her if Sean had heard right and was her house was on fire. "Yes, oh my God, Lee, I smelled smoke and I didn't have a fire going, not since six a.m. The living room is on fire Lee; I have to go and get the animals out, please come and help!" With that either the line went dead or she had hung up on me. I called the fire department and found out that Cindy had already called and they were on their way. Calling Daniel to come to the kitchen, I told him to look after his brother, not to leave the house and that I would be back as soon as I could. I took off outside, jumped in my car and drove faster than I ever have before down the gravel road to Cindy and Peter's house.

When I arrived there was smoke coming out of the open windows upstairs and I couldn't see anyone, not even any of the animals. Strangely old Jack wasn't around either. Running in the back door, where there seemed to be the least amount of smoke, I called out for Cindy. Through the haze coming from the living room I saw her come running into the kitchen, fear written all over her face and tears pouring down her cheeks. "I can't find Maria! I got the dogs and Tia out but Maria is missing and I'm sure she's upstairs in your old room." Nodding to her, I grabbed her arm and pulled her along with me, heading back into the living room and the suffocating smoke filled air. Before I could do anything though, Cindy took off towards the stairs, heading up to look for her cat. Covering her mouth with her shirt, she started to slowly crawl up, keeping as low as she could. About half way up however Cindy knew she had to turn back. She was coughing almost uncontrollably now and gasping for air. Her eyes were burning and she had to fight to keep from squeezing them shut, needing to be able to see where she was in the house in order to get out. She came almost tumbling down the stairs just as I reached the bottom and together we headed back through the living room and went rushing out the side door.

Drawing in big gulps of air in between hacking our lungs out, we both stood and looked back at the house. I was worried about Cindy and the amount of smoke she had inhaled but she didn't seem to care. "We have to save something Lee. I'm going back in for the Christmas presents." With that she took off back into the house through the door. Standing there for a minute, I realized that the room she was entering through had been the boys bedroom. That freaked me out thinking they could have been in there. Giving my head a shake I went in after Cindy, looking for anything I could save.

Running out with a few presents caught in her arms, Cindy threw them on the ground as I came out with a couple as well. Then, you could almost see the light bulb come on as she thought of something. "What the hell are we doing? Who gives a shit about these, lets save the photo albums." Each taking a deep breath, we ran back in together. You could hardly see anything in the small room because the smoke was so thick, but we felt our way to the entrance to the main part of the house. Turning to the right, Cindy led us to a shelf unit and started taking out the precious albums. Chancing a quick look around I saw for the first time just how bad of a fire this was. The other side of the living room, the walls and the alcove where the stairs were, were all engulfed in flame now. As I watched, mesmerized by the fluid dance, I began to feel the heat that was radiating off of it. This was not good, we had to get out, screw the pictures. Shaking Cindy's shoulder roughly, I started to yank her up in order to head out the way we had come. Pointing down, she bent to grab the binders and folders full of family photos. Reaching out, I too picked up what I could and again, as if a team, we made our way outside.

My asthmatic lungs were screaming for air. Making my way to my car, I found my inhaler on the passenger seat, took two puffs of it, and looked back towards the house just in time to see Cindy run back inside. What the hell was she doing? Screaming for her to come back, I headed towards the side door. As I was crossing the short space between my car and the house, one of the dogs ran past me, heading towards the back door. With desperation and hoarseness cracking my voice, I called out to her, begging her to come to me. Ignoring me completely she ran up the few steps and in through the open back door. Almost roaring in frustration and helplessness I went to the side door and screamed for Cindy. As I was about to go in to look for her, she came stumbling out, landing in my arms and almost toppling us both over. Holding her up, we made our way over to my car. As Cindy choked and gasped for air, I wondered out loud where in the hell was the fire department? It felt like forever since this had all started but in reality it had been less than fifteen minutes. Hearing an approaching vehicle we looked up to see Peter's car come careening almost out of control down the driveway, then suddenly come to a screeching halt. Peter jumped out of the driver's side and without so much as glancing our way ran into the house through the same door Cindy and I had been using.

As we both focused on the house looking for Peter, we were met by the scariest but most amazing sight either of us had ever seen. On the other side of the massive plate glass window, in the living area, the fire had taken on a new appearance. The orange and yellowish colored flames that had been licking away at the walls just a few seconds ago were changing. Appearing to be dissipating, the fire lowered itself down off the walls. In their place was a thundering rolling mass of the deepest red and grey that seemed to have taken over the bottom three or four feet of the room. Watching in awe, we both shrieked for Peter to get out but even as we yelled, he came running out of the side door and kept going until he was far away from the blaze. Suddenly, within seconds of Peter's exit, the air was filled with a roaring sound not unlike that of a volcano erupting. Looking back at the house, the tumbling core of destruction inside had begun to almost boil. Backing away, but unable to stop watching, Cindy and I held onto each other with fear, not knowing what to expect. As Peter came running across the yard the world exploded all around us, sending him flying across the lawn and Cindy and I were thrown backwards into my van, more from the shock of the explosion than anything. The blast inside the house had blown all the windows out, sending thousands of shards of glass in all directions. Thankfully we were all out of range when it blew so none of us were seriously hurt. As Peter stood up and began to make his way towards Cindy and me the first of three fire trucks entered the yard. The Calvary had finally arrived.

Living in a community with a volunteer only fire department, the response rate is lowered dramatically. Peter had received the call at work, which happened to be directly across the street from the fire station, after the department had, but still managed to beat them there. The cat that had gone missing, little Maria, was found dead underneath what had at one time been my bed in the upstairs room. When the fire was almost out, as we stood watching the firefighters work, from out of the backdoor came a black figure slinking low to the ground, obviously terrified. Calling to her, Tequila came over to us, shaking and whining. The kids and I had decided to leave her on the farm with her sister knowing she would be happier. I was sure we had lost her the moment she had gone back into the house. How she had survived, we weren't positive but one firefighter thought she may have hidden behind the washing machine. Peter told us how he had felt such a need to go into the house when he arrived, to save something, anything. When he had entered the living room, he instantly realized he was almost completely surrounded by fire and he too had seen the churning flame and smoke. In fact that was what had brought him to his senses and chased him back outside. The fire chief told Peter just how lucky he was. When the explosion happened, the fire had reached flashpoint and the accompanying reaction is very similar to bomb. He said Peter never would have survived had he remained even another few seconds.

As soon as the firefighters all left, Cindy, obviously in shock, went into the house, straight to the kitchen, and under the sink found her bottle of vodka, still amazingly full. Opening it as she walked back outside, she began taking huge swigs from it, only stopping to breath. Peter took it away from her after a few swallows and together the three of us got into my van to go home to the kids. As I began to drive away, unable to help myself, I slowed down to a crawl and just as Peter and Cindy were, I stared at the charred skeleton that had been their home. It was Christmas Eve, and for what is usually a time of giving, they had had so much taken away. They had lost a cat and everything they owned, with the exception of a few pictures. I wondered if they would be able to find it within themselves to be thankful for all that they had managed to save, mainly their lives. Looking away sadly I started the van moving again, heading to what was now a home for all of us.

As we drove up to my place, the boys came out to meet us wondering what had gone on and why we had been so long. Peter and Cindy just put their heads down and walked on right past them, into the house. I quietly and quickly explained what had happened and the results. I told them to leave their dad and Cindy alone, they were in shock, let them be to try and fathom what they had just gone through. Both boys started to cry but agreed. As I walked through the front door, I stood there in dumb silence as I saw Marie and what she was doing. Just over to my right, in the front room, Marie was bent over stoking a newly lit fire in the fireplace. I instantly looked for Peter and Cindy knowing this would be just too much for them to handle but thankfully they seemed to have gone right through to the kitchen, not even noticing Marie. Whispering rather harshly, I asked Marie what the hell she thought she was doing. Looking at me like I had finally lost my senses, she returned my question with one of her own, "What the hell does it look like I'm doing? What's your problem Mom?" Just as I was about to retaliate, Daniel came up and reminded me that Marie had no idea what was going on, that she had only been home a few minutes. Feeling like a complete heel, I apologized to my daughter, told her the tragedy of the day's events and then asked for her help to put out the damn fire in the fireplace.

Entering the kitchen I found both Peter and Cindy sitting at the table, tears running down their cheeks, both as silent as a forest after a snowfall. Cindy, having gotten into the Vodka again, took off suddenly for the bathroom, and Peter followed behind to care for her. Practically falling into a chair, I let my shoulders fall and my head drop to my crossed arms on the tabletop. Through my mind, over and over, I kept reliving the last few hours, unable to fully comprehend what had happened. If I was this shaken up, I couldn't even begin to imagine how messed up my two friends were. Hating the feeling of helplessness and loss, unable to find any words to say to them, I vowed to spend the night figuring out a way to make tomorrow special for them both. A little while later, after getting the kids all in bed, I checked in on Peter and Cindy who had ended up in my bedroom. Cindy was asleep, passed out from all the alcohol and Peter was just sitting beside her, holding her hand. He glanced up as I peeked in, and the look of utter dismay on his face was almost too much for me to bare. I quietly inquired about Cindy and he said she was fine now, sleeping. Nodding to him I softly stepped back and closed the door, giving Peter his time alone. God, how do people get through this? I had no idea but would do what I could to help them, no matter what it took.

The next day was the most somber, yet loving Christmas Day we would ever spend together. Peter and Cindy's misfortune seemed to have drawn us all closer to each other. It's so sad to think that something so serious has to happen before a family realizes just how lucky they are to have each other. Peter's words spoken during grace at dinner that night reminded us all of that exact thing, along with how thankful he was to have the family he did. He managed to bring us all to tears and together we sniffled our way through the meal and the remainder of our Christmas night. Over the next month I would learn just how strong Peter and Cindy were, facing what had happened head on and refusing to let it take them down.

It was determined that the fire had started from an old, paneled-over cleanout for the woodstove that was not supposed to be in use anymore. At some time they had replaced the chimney but had not blocked off the top of the old one, allowing hot creosote to fall down it, igniting the panelling in front of the old, open cleanout. When Cindy had said to Sean on the phone that she smelled smoke but that she didn't have a fire going, it had been three p.m. The only fire that had been lit that day had been one made up of a single log at six am that Peter had started in order to take the chill out of the house. The creosote from that fire smoldered all morning and part of the afternoon before finally starting the devastating fire. Just as I had not been able to get insurance, Peter and Cindy did not have any either. The homeowners would not be getting much of a settlement from theirs because the woodstove had been an illegal one. In fact the insurance actually stated the house was not allowed one at all. Feeling bad for Peter and Cindy because they had been lied to about the safety of the home, the agency that held the policy for the homeowners gave Peter and Cindy a cheque for five thousand dollars; only five thousand less than the owners got. The fire hit the news and within days donations started piling in, filling up a complete room in my home. Thanks to the generosity of the community and the insurance company, Peter and Cindy were in a new place within a month. Even though this disaster had not directly affected me, I would never forget it and the results it had caused. I did what I could for Peter and Cindy to help them get back on their feet, but I would never feel I had done enough. In the end though all I could hope for was that should I ever be faced with such adversity, that I would have even half the courage and determination that I had witnessed in Peter and Cindy.

Chapter 25

Some of the most stressful years of our lives can come when our children hit their teens. If you're lucky then you have kids who stay focused, for the most part, and get involved in sports and extra curricular activities. Hopefully they stay far away from violence and drugs, instead choosing to be cool in a much healthier fashion. You still want to allow them to be their own person, to feel that independence and learn all its consequences. We just pray they have the common sense to use it wisely. For a good percentage of you, this will be just the case and you will all make it through those hormones induced times with only a few minor scratches; the ones that provided good learning situations for your child yet didn't leave them scarred for life.

Some of us, though, will have children who do not handle peer pressure well and instead choose to give in to it, allowing it to change who they are and letting it take them in a very dangerous direction. Not all, but many of these children will come from low income, broken families where every day survival is an issue that the children are forced to face, along with their parents. These obstacles just make it tougher for the kids to fit in, which in turn creates more stress than a child from an affluent family will ever have to face. Stereotyping doesn't just live in the Bronx, it's everywhere. Find a low income housing project and within it you will see children who cannot look you in the eye for fear of who you might be and what you might do, because deep down they know they are seen differently by everyone around them. There are also the children who have learned to act as if they fear nothing, again in reality hiding, and will get in your face the minute they think you could pose a threat to their family; a threat that could be as simple as a bill collector knocking on the door. Oh sure, they might never actually come out and say anything, being too embarrassed, but just talk to them alone about it for five minutes and you will discover just how much they feel they need to fight back, screw the world so to speak, or keep to the shadows in order to stay hidden. These are just a couple of the reasons that so many end up in gangs or addicted to drugs. They offer forms of protection and power where there had once only been weakness and defeat. In the case of drugs, no longer able to face it, they find a way to escape from the realities of their lives. Both of these answers that the kids find to replace their deeply buried self worth can and will bring violence into our homes. Sadly, this only adds to the already extremely stressful lifestyle that the teens were originally trying to escape.

My daughter Marie was unfortunately the epitome of one such soul, lost and confused, unable to find her way back out from the cave she had backed herself into. Granted, our lives had been anything but stable from the beginning. The kids having lived in foster homes, seen their mother hospitalized over and over during their younger years and having had to deal with the abuse that came along with someone mommy brought home. It's really no wonder one of my children would react the way Marie did and to be honest, I blame myself for at least starting her off down the wrong path.

Having only been home for a short time, a few weeks at most, Marie was struggling to be the daughter she knew I wanted her to be, that I knew she could be. One of the biggest obstacles that would keep pushing her back into that cave though was Cody. Even having walked away from him after the stabbing, it had only lasted a few days. For some reason I could never fully understand why Marie had become one hundred percent dependent on him. I knew he had always supplied her with drugs, anything she wanted really whether it be pot, crack, or meth but this was more than the need to feed her addictions; this was complete abandon. I lost track of how many times she completely crumpled to the floor having what appeared to be a nervous breakdown. Should he show up in the driveway, the boys and I became literally invisible and she would do what he asked without even looking in our direction. What pissed me off more than anything though was knowing Cody knew he had this control over her and he used it constantly, almost as if it was all a game.

Every few days Cody would do something that would cause Marie to become hysterical. It could be refusing to come and get her, not answer her calls or out and out telling her to grow up and leave him alone. When these hysterics hit it was all of us who would pay the price, not just Marie. The violence that came out of her during these times was unbelievable and most definitely unacceptable. Should either of the boys even look at her wrong she would verbally and sometimes physically attack them. Daniel had actually got to the age where he refused to let her get to him and had begun to stand up to her causing increased friction between the two of them. Sick and tired of the way she was treating me, one day he asked my permission to fight back should she come at him or any of us ever again. Thinking it might be the only way she learned that you can't behave like this towards others without someone fighting back, I agreed, but only as so much to allow him to defend himself and try and stop her from going crazy. It didn't take long for it to come about, actually it happened within a few short days. Marie, caught up in her emotions towards Cody lashed out at first me, then Daniel, taking a swing at him. Before doing anything, he looked at me, silently asking my permission one more time. Marie picked up on this facial communication and asked what was going on. Calmly I told her that should she hit Daniel again, if she refused to get along with him anymore, he had the right to defend himself. "So" she said, "you're saying we can fight each other, right here, in the house?"

"If that's what it takes to get you two to get along, if that's all you need is to finally get it out of your system and your both willing, then go right ahead. You can do it in the family room since it's currently empty." Both smiling almost wickedly, they walked into the room and before he knew what hit him, Marie was on him fighting with all she had.

It didn't last very long, maybe five minutes at the most, and neither of them got seriously hurt. Mostly it was a lot of punching and squeezing but nothing that would truly hurt. I believe they knew they didn't really want to hurt each other, even if it was only subconsciously, and that controlled their actions. Funny thing is that by the time they were done, they were the best of friends again laughing and even giving each other a hug. It seemed to have relieved a lot of the stress between the two of them, but how long it would last, I didn't know.

Peter had left one of his cars in my driveway because he only had room at their new place for one. It was an older car, a two door Gran Marquis that he was slowly fixing up. I had the keys in case I had to move it for any reason but had never had to, so just kept the keys on top of my fridge. One morning, very early, around five I was woken up by Marie crying beside me on my bed. When I asked what was wrong, she babbled on about Cody and having cheated on her and how she had caught him with another girl. Now I was not only half asleep but I was also very confused. How had all this come about when she was supposed to be at home asleep? Sitting up, I asked her how she knew all this. Very sheepishly she replied, "Because I went there."

"What? How? Who drove you?" Looking down at my blanket, playing absent mindedly with my pillow she whispered, "I did." Now I was awake.

"What do you mean, you did, you stole my van?" I said as I quickly looked out my bedroom window to assure myself my vehicle was still there.

"No Mom, I took Dad's car." Oh great.

"Seriously? You stole your dad's car? You only have your learner's license and you barely know how to drive as it is!"

"I know Mom, I know, but it's ok, I got it home fine, look outside and see for yourself." I already was.

"Marie, where exactly did you go with it?"

"Out to the condos at the point." Holy crap, that was a good thirty minute drive from here on a very twisty road.

"And you made it there and back, on your own?"

"Yes Mom, but you would be proud of me. I almost crashed once because I was going too fast, I hit the brakes and slid around but managed to stay on the road. I slowed down after that." I'm supposed to be proud of this? Thankful that she had a guardian angel, maybe, lucky that I hadn't lost my daughter, most definitely, but not proud. Now I had to make the decision of whether or not to tell her father what she had done. He would be understandably furious but could he be happy with just feeling grateful that he still had his daughter? I wasn't sure.

It wasn't long after the car episode that we went through one of our worst days ever. As a parent it was a nightmare that I wouldn't wish on anyone and one I have had a hard time completely forgetting and accepting both my and Marie's actions. As the parent though, I really don't think I can ever fully forgive myself.

The topic of Cody and drugs had become an ever increasing detriment to our family's wellbeing. Many times it had caused arguments between Marie and me, or even Marie and Daniel. Every time that either came up, and they usually did together, I would get on the offensive trail while Marie stuck to the defensive one, refusing to admit or see anything negative about Cody what so ever. She still lied constantly about anything and everything and usually it didn't even make sense why because she knew I was aware of the lifestyle she and Cody liked to lead. She had also begun to steal money from my wallet whenever given the chance. This is normal for drug addicts, but still a tough one to swallow when it's your child doing it to you.

That morning started off terribly and ended in shame. Having learned to check my wallet every morning, I went to do so and once again had found money missing. My stomach rolled into knots and my emotions almost consumed me as I stood to face my daughter. I found her in the kitchen, as usual on the phone with Cody, arranging for him to come and see her. I asked her three times, calmly, to get off the phone as we needed to talk; she choose to just ignore me and even went as far as to turn her back on me. The last time I added that it was quite important and that she could call him back. Still, no response. Not willing to go through this, already in my pissed off zone, I reached over and pushed the little button down, disconnecting the call and held onto the phone. That got her attention. She immediately started yelling at me, pushing at me and trying her damnest to get the phone back out of my arms to call Cody. The noise caused by all this carrying on got the boys attention and they came running in the room to see what was happening. Not knowing what to do to help, both boys stayed frozen at the opposite end of the kitchen as Marie and I struggled. Finally, after a couple minutes of this going on, tired of this ridiculous behaviour, I yelled back at her, " Enough!" and I pulled away from her completely, almost falling backwards because of such a sudden change in my balance. Almost growling Marie answered back, "Give me the fucking phone now, Mom." This time it was my turn to do the ignoring, "Marie, there is money missing from my wallet again, you wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

"Christ Mom, you always think it's me, you blame me for everything. Maybe you should ask my brothers for once." Wow, it sure didn't take her long to respond; there had been zero hesitation.

"First off I didn't say you took it, did I? I simply asked if you knew anything about it. And yes, your right, I should be asking your brothers as well, so, boys do either of you know anything about my missing money?"

"No, Mom,." they both responded.

"Marie, let me ask you this, what would either of the boys do with that money when neither of them would ever have the chance to spend it without my knowledge?"

"I dunno Mom, I'm not them, I don't know what they do. Now give me the phone back, I need to call Cody back, he is gonna be so pissed at me, thanks to you."

"No Marie, not until we get this straightened out. And if we can't, then no one leaves the house today until my money re-appears in my wallet."

"You can't keep me home Mom, I'm going out."

"Not if I say you're not. Marie, do you have my money? I'm missing thirty dollars."

"No Mom, I fucking don't have your goddamn money."

"Okay then, until I get it back, no one leaves."

"Mom, you probably just fucking lost it. Quit thinking it's me all the time." I was so tired and frustrated; I just wanted this to be over with. I couldn't resist one last point made and then I was walking away, "But Marie, it has been you every other time, so why wouldn't I think that now?"

"Fuck you Mom!" and with that she picked up a kitchen chair, flung it towards the boys, smashing it into the cupboards and just barely missing them. She then took off into the living room, threw her cup of coffee at the wall. It shattered it on impact, splashing brown stains all over the walls and floor. Storming off into my bedroom, she slammed the door and locked it, leaving the boys and me to clean up her mess.

Within seconds after Marie had run into my room, the boys and I all heard glass breaking, over and over. What the hell? Going straight to my door, I called out, "Marie, open this door right now!" Nothing. Just total silence. "Damnit Marie, open this door."

"Fuck off and leave me alone." Another crash could be heard through the door. With such obvious disregard for my property and feelings, I was suddenly furious, more so than I had ever been before. To be totally honest though, I was also a little scared of what Marie was capable of. I had seen episodes of her violence in the past but she was starting to lose complete control and that really bothered me. Not knowing what else to do, but knowing I had to put a lid on this as soon as possible, I took on a new tactic, "Okay, that's it Marie, I have seriously had enough. I want you to leave. Right now."

"You want me to leave? That's your answer for everything, isn't it Mom? Kick me out. Screw you, I'm not leaving."

"Oh yes you are Marie, and I suggest you go now."

"Or what, Mom?" That was when Daniel decided it was time he stepped in, "Just go Marie, leave Mom alone."

"Fuck you Daniel" I couldn't take it anymore, I felt myself losing it and that wasn't like me at all. Without another word, I walked back into the kitchen, picked up the receiver and called the police. If she wouldn't leave on her own then I would have her removed before she did any more damage or seriously hurt someone. As I hung up, I leaned on the counter, suddenly exhausted, and began to cry.

When the police arrived, they asked if I wanted her charged with mischief or uttering threats but I said no. I just wanted her gone. Amazingly she didn't fight anyone when they knocked on the door and asked her to come out. Instead she calmly opened the door and walked out of my room. As I glanced in, I saw the damage she had done. There was broken glass everywhere. I would discover she had taken some ornaments out of a box that I had yet to unpack and just thrown them at the walls. As I walked out into the living room, Marie looked at me and quietly said, "Mom, don't do this."

"Marie, please, just go, before things get any worse between us."

"Worse Mom, really? You've hated me for years, you're the one who made me what I am when you kicked me out almost two years ago. If I'm a bitch it's because I've learned from the best."

"Maybe I am a bitch for kicking you out. Maybe it was a huge mistake. It's too late now though, isn't it? You have never made it easy for me Marie, always lying, stealing, getting in trouble with the police, the fire department, being mean to your brothers and me. Christ you attacked me once and left claw marks all down my back just for telling you that you couldn't have a friggin Eggo five minutes before supper! And let's not forget that you even tried to suffocate Sean once too, and you weren't even in a stupid rage like you were today, you just decided you didn't want him around anymore. You were jealous because of all the attention he got. Is it my fault that your brother was born disabled Marie? What was I supposed to do, give him up?" I suddenly stopped there, realizing that Sean was in his wheelchair right behind me. Ah shit, now what had I done by rambling on? I turned to look at him, my apology clear on my face but I needn't worry, he just smiled at me and said, "It's okay mom." Marie took my hesitation though as her chance to fight back. "Well, you gave up on me, didn't you Mom?" Sighing, I responded, "No Marie I have never given up on you, I just couldn't deal with you anymore, like I can't now. You never listened, you did what you wanted, you got mixed up with the wrong crowd, and you became an addict bringing drugs into our house. What else would you have me do?"

"Try harder Mom, show me you loved me too. Fuck, I hate this, just leave me alone." Turning away from me, with the officers following close behind, Marie walked out of our home.

Chapter 26

Enjoying a whole house to ourselves was really nice, and something we had never had before. It had always been townhouses or apartments, where you had neighbours on the other side of the wall, or someone else had been living with us. Privacy was an amazing concept. There was lots of room and a big yard to enjoy as well, giving the boys a great place to hang out. In so many ways it was the perfect place to call home, but it unfortunately had one major downside that would eventually send us packing once again; the costs of the utilities.

Having had no experience with being responsible for everything, when the bills started coming in I was taken completely by surprise. I thought I had planned my finances well, as I was usually very good with making what little money we had last, but not this time. There just wasn't enough to go around. Initially I started cutting back on our groceries, in order to pay off the bills, but even that became impossible because it got to where it would have taken all of our food allowance. So, I started falling behind on everything, the power, gas, phone, and even our cable was cut off. My debt just grew and grew until one day, after threatening phone calls saying we were going to get cut off, I admitted defeat. I first called the realtor who had helped me find this place, then called my landlord. It was a hard lesson to learn and one I would never allow myself to get caught in again.

The biggest obstacle our family faced in finding a new home was coming up with a place that was wheelchair accessible. The little community in which we lived didn't have any high rises with elevators, but it had quite a few walk up apartments or main floors, which sadly almost always came with stairs to at least get into the home. After searching for three weeks and having only one week left to find a place, I had almost come to my wits' end as to what to do when Peter and Cindy approached me once again.

They had come upon a huge ranch style home on a large acreage that would be exceptional for all of us, according to them both. It had only one small step up into the house, a bedroom and full bath on the main floor along with three more bedrooms and a bath upstairs. There was even a liveable shed out back that had electricity that they had been told could be turned into a guesthouse or workshop for Peter. The only downfall was that they couldn't afford it on their own, they needed a roommate and that's where I came in. The big question though was whether or not we could live together, again. Giving myself some time to think about this offer, I asked to see the place first. Within a few minutes of arriving at the acreage, I had to agree that the home was beautiful, probably the nicest I had ever had a chance to live in, and it was perfect for Sean. As they dropped me off back at my place, I said I would give them my answer in the morning, but I think we all already knew what it would be. After all, the boys and I had nowhere else to go.

Amazingly, the initial few weeks that makes up what is referred to as the honeymoon stage, we all got along remarkably well and it lasted much longer this time around. We had some good times in the first few months and some funny ones too. When we had first moved into the house, there was an antique, full sized Brunswick snooker table in the middle of the living room. We had been told it was ours, to do with what we wanted, as it had been left behind by a previous tenant. Initially we were all really stoked to have it, especially Peter who had been an avid snooker player for many years. Problems started to arise eventually though as it was so big, Sean couldn't maneuver around it at all therefore he could never really spend time with us when we were playing, nor could he ever have tried to play himself. That room had become out of bounds for him and that just wasn't fair, something had to be done.

After some discussion we all decided the pool table had to go. Our first attempt was to try and sell it, but that bombed terribly as we never got even one call. Then we tried to give it away, offering it to pubs and a local Legion with the only hitch being they had to come and get it. Nope, no one wanted it. Now we were stumped. What does one do with something they don't want and cannot be removed due to it weighing over one ton? Why, you remove the legs on one side, ever so carefully, allowing the table to fall over with a resounding boom onto that side where you can now remove the rest of the legs on the opposite side. Then three of you amazingly lift the one corner just enough to have someone else, maybe a son, push a log under the edge of the table, allowing you to drop it onto the log, where it balances quite nicely. The three adults then all retire to the far end where all together now you heave forward rolling the table further onto the log while your son once again positions another log under the side of the table. You continue with this process, adding more logs and pushing with all your might, until the table is outside the door and leaning on the guardrail of your porch. Now comes the fun part or at least for one person it is. You walk over to your shed, retrieve the gas powered tool you need, return to the porch, and start'er up. The noise made by a chainsaw cutting through an almost two inch thick piece of marble, along with another few inches of wood is an unbelievably loud, almost screeching sound that pierces your eardrums deep inside, forcing you to squeeze your hands tight overtop of your ears. I remember thinking, is this what dogs feel like when someone blows a dog whistle? It didn't take Peter long to turn that one huge piece into eight smaller ones that could be lifted onto his truck bed to be taken to the dump the next day. As sad as it was to destroy such an elegant piece of furniture, we had a lot of fun doing it and are also quite proud of our ingenuity in doing so.

Where the beginning of our long driveway met the main road there was a little shack of a house occupied by a gentleman we shall call Mark. Now Mark was a curious sort, sometimes in a great mood, but many times in a dark one, all controlled by alcohol, which was his diet of choice. Being that he had been living on the "property" longer than we had, he felt he had all say in what went on way down at the other end by our home. Having already confirmed that he in fact had no say, we chose to ignore him and his musings for the most part. One of the most annoying controversies was over whether or not the water should be continuously running into the pond, in order for there to be water for the fire department to use in case of a fire. Concerned that we do the right thing, we called the fire department and discussed this matter with them. They knew the land we lived on and were aware of the size of the pond. They told us that as long as there was a couple of feet already in it, we shouldn't have the water running all the time, just to allow nature to keep adding to it. Happy with our new found knowledge we went outside and turned off the tap to the pond.

Apparently Mark didn't agree because he came and turned it back on. Frustrated, Peter went to explain to him what we had been told. Upon returning, satisfied with the way the conversation went with Mark, Peter again turned off the tap and then left for work, leaving Cindy and me, along with the boys, at home for the day. A couple of hours later, as Cindy and I were working in the yard, Mark appeared, went to the pond and again turned the tap back on. We watched as he staggered back down the road, shaking our heads in amusement. This time it was Cindy who went to the pond to fix our little problem and I went to make us some lunch. While we were eating, through our kitchen window, we were greeted with the arrival of Mark once again. This time though, after turning the water back on, he continued towards our house. Knowing this couldn't be good, being he was so intoxicated, to avoid him coming in our home, we went outside together to meet him in the driveway.

We decided to make light of what was going on, hoping to refrain all together from any conversations regarding water. Before he had a chance to say anything, Cindy went to one side of him, and I to the other, with her putting her arm gently around his shoulder, directing him around and back the way he had come. Very politely she asked, "What's up Mark?" all the while slowly walking him away from our home. At first he didn't say anything, allowing her to move him forward. "Maybe you should go home and lie down for a bit, eh? The sun's pretty intense right now."

As she said this, I was watching him out of the corner of my eye. This time he muttered something neither of us could hear. "What's that Mark, I couldn't hear ya?" Sensing movement on my side, Mark's right, and before I could yell a warning, Mark yelled out, "Bitch!" and swung his right arm towards Cindy, punching her hard in the cheek, just to the right of her nose. I'll give Cindy credit for two things. One, she can take a punch like any man and two, damn is she fast. Before he could swing again, Cindy had him in an arm lock, pulling him down to the ground with her on top. This didn't deter him in any way though and he just kept on swinging and punching Cindy as much as he could while she hit him back in the side of the head, then resorted to grabbing his hair and throwing his head back and forth into the gravel. Not being able to really get in to help Cindy as they were a tangled mass of arms flying, I directed my recourse into the side of his ribs with my foot, over and over, even accidentally kicking Cindy once and apologizing in the middle of the fight. In the end it was Mark who gave up, throwing his arms in the air saying, "Okay, okay, I'm done, I'm done." As soon as he stopped, so did we, but Cindy refused to get up until he promised he was going to be good and just go home.

What both Cindy and I had failed to notice throughout this whole affair was that at sometime during the altercation Daniel had come out, seen what was going on and had run inside to call the police. Before Mark got a hundred feet down the road, a police car drove up, stopping him from going any further. Brushing ourselves off, Cindy putting her shirt back on after having it ripped off by Mark, we went back into the house to clean ourselves off and assure the boys that we were fine. Shortly after a police officer came to our door, wanting to talk to both of us. After hearing our side of the story, he told us Mark would be charged and a restraining order would be put in place to keep him from coming back down the driveway at all or within a hundred and fifty feet of either of us. He also added a bit more, "You know, Mark is in far worse shape than either of you. You really did a job on him." Almost rudely, more from nerves than anything, Cindy replied, "We stopped as soon as he did."

"Well, to be honest ladies, you're the ones who should be getting charged here, for using excessive force." I'm sure both our jaws felt the coldness of the floor when he said this. "If it wasn't for the fact that he came on your property, and attacked you, we'd have a very different outcome here." Unable to believe what we were hearing, neither of us said a word, instead choosing to just sit and listen, although, we did sneak a look at each other, both fighting not to smile. The officer left after that, allowing us to release the energy and anxiety that had started when Mark had first came down the driveway. We discovered we were both shaking almost uncontrollably and neither of us could stop giggling. The more we discussed what had transpired, the more we believe we had done no wrong. We had simply been defending ourselves, especially Cindy, and we had stopped immediately when Mark did.

It didn't take more than a few hours for the story to go around town, telling of the two women who beat the shit out of some guy. No one really knew who we were, and as most gossip, the story changed with each passing on of it from one person to the next. Only once did some people learn who we might be. As we stood in line at a local drug store, Mark came in through the front door, coming within ten feet of Cindy and me. We didn't say anything, but we didn't have to either. Looking up, he saw us immediately, and as most alcoholics cannot control their speech, nor could he and very loudly he exclaimed as he pointed in our general direction, "Ah shit, they're here. Now I have to leave and I just wanted a pack of smokes. Fucking cops and their restraining orders."

We have many more memories from that time. Two boys from a Scotland Cadent Regiment came to stay with us. The BBQ we had for them and all the local Cadets was definitely a highlight. There were the walks in the forest that Cindy and I took on occasion, always going somewhere new, always finding a creek to sit by and just talk. It seemed all was going well even after all these past months, and that maybe we had finally found our happy medium in living together.

Chapter 27

In December of two thousand and two, Sean underwent another surgery to hopefully release the tension in the muscles in his legs. With the surgery being done in a different city, I stayed with him throughout his hospitalization. We never expected any visitors because of the distance they would have had to travel, so we were shocked one evening when Marie and two of her friends walked into his room. I was pretty sure they were all high so I was on my guard and suspicious of why they had come. I didn't have to wait long to find out. Marie proceeded to introduce the kids who had come with her. One was a girl whose name I don't remember, and the other, a boy named Cameron. Knowing something was up, I choose to ignore her friends, only giving them a very quick, "Hello," and then looked at Marie and asked her directly, "What are you doing here Marie?" Contemplating her next words, Marie hesitated only a moment before answering, "I came to tell you something Mom." "I'm pregnant." These last words were spoken with a smile on her face as she looked towards Cameron. There went my stomach again, curling up into itself and obviously pushing on my lungs because suddenly it was hard to breath. Sean, unable to control his reactions, got so excited he went into a full extension, stretching every muscle in his body to its full potential and ripping open the stitches on both legs. He cried out in pain, instinctively reaching for the area where it hurt. Cursing out loud, I grabbed his hands before they could do more damage to his incisions, told Marie to push the button to call the nurse and then did all I could to calm Sean down. The nurse, appearing quite angry, kicked us all out into the hall while she worked on Sean and called a doctor.

Using this opportunity to walk Marie and her friends out and away from the hospital, I suggested we go outside for a smoke. While we were having our cigarette I inquired as to what she intended on doing about the pregnancy. The first thought that had come to me after the initial shock was that she knew she was pregnant yet here she was stoned out of her mind. I repeated as much to her, showing my obvious disgust. "Mom! I'm not stoned! They are, but I'm clean. I haven't had anything since I found out this morning. I've just had a really long day and night, as I'm sure you can understand and I'm really tired." I didn't know if she was being honest or not, but for my own sanity I chose to go with believing her, at least for the time being. "So, what are you going to do Marie?"

"I don't know Mom, that's what Cameron and I have to figure out."

"Well, my only advice to you is to make the right choice for all of you, including the baby. If you choose to have it, stay clean for Gods sake. If you don't want to have it, then that's your choice and you will have to talk to the doctor about it. Just do it soon Marie. This can't wait."

Not really giving her the response she had hoped for, Marie nodded her head, saying quietly, "Okay" and then grabbing Cameron's hand, with a quick mumbled, "Love you, Mom" she was gone.

After she left I started to feel guilty for the way I had acted towards her. I didn't think of it at first, probably because of the shock of seeing her and hearing her announcement, but now that I thought about it I realized her showing up was more than likely a cry for help; one which seemed to have fallen on deaf ears. What kind of parent was I really? Had I not always told her that she could come to me for anything, never to be afraid to tell me anything? And when she finally chooses to take me up on that offer, all I did was show her a cold shoulder and even colder heart. Once again I had failed my daughter and I wondered if I would learn to forgive and be more understanding towards her before I lost her altogether.

I wouldn't hear from her again for a week, and by then Sean and I were back at home. We were all sitting around one evening when there was a knock on the door. Daniel was the first one there and came back into the living room announcing Marie and some guy were here. Surprised, I went to the door to meet them, Peter and Cindy following close behind. Not sure how she felt towards me after our last meeting, I quietly said "hi" but hesitated in giving her a hug, not wanting to make this any harder for her. Marie stood stock still before us for the longest time and then began to cry. Seeing her so open and bare, not hiding who she was for once, I couldn't stop myself from going to her and holding her while she cried uncontrollably into my shoulder. Cindy too came and gently rubbed Marie's back, hoping to help comfort her. A little uneasy, as men often are when women cry, Cameron and Peter took this opportunity to walk a little off to the side, introduce themselves and start to get to know each other.

After a few minutes and when Marie had finally cried herself out, we all made our way inside. Marie said that she and Cameron needed to talk to us adults, so I sent the boys outside to allow us some privacy. After a couple of deep breaths, Marie explained why they had come, "Mom, Dad, Cindy, we need your help really bad." It was Peter who responded first, "Okay, we'll try Marie, what's going on?" Looking at me she said, "Mom told you what I told her in the city, right?" I nodded yes, but slowly, not knowing if she was going to be mad at me or not for doing so. "Well, we've decided what we want to do but we can't do it on our own...we want to keep the baby." Was I surprised? Were we all surprised? Definitely. This was something none of us had expected and so were not prepared for. The astonishment must have been showing clearly on our faces because Marie's next words were quite defensive. "Mom, you always said you didn't believe in abortion and I know you and Dad were adopted, but I couldn't handle knowing I had a kid out there and never seeing him...or her."

"Marie, I never said I didn't believe in abortion. I did however say that in my opinion it really depended on the circumstances and that I felt that adoption was a better, more moral option some times. But there's more here than just simply wanting to keep the baby guys. You have to be ready and prepared to stay clean and be responsible people. I mean one hundred percent, nothing less. Otherwise you're intentionally hurting the baby and I can't be a part of that. I'm sorry."

"We know that and we are prepared too. We want to do this Mom, we need to." The three of us didn't say anything for a minute, allowing this all to sink in I guess. Peter then looked to Cameron, "Is this what you want too, Cameron?"

"Yes sir, it is." he said but his eyes read differently and there was no emotion what so ever in his voice. In fact one thing we all noticed was that Cameron's eyes said nothing. They were as cold and dead as steel. When he looked towards me, I didn't know what he was seeing but it felt like he was looking right through me as if I wasn't even there. This discovery was not lost on any of us and frankly made each of us nervous, or at the very least, doubtful, and distrusting.

It was Cindy who broke the silence, "What is it you want from us, Marie?"

Shy now, almost scared, looking down at her lap she said, "We need a place to live, where we can stay clean. Cameron will get a job, to help out with money. I have my allowance that I get every month from the government, so I can help too...we have nowhere else to go and you guys always said I could come to you if I ever needed help." Wow, I hadn't seen that coming either. Now it was time for the parents to talk alone, because man did we have some serious decisions to make. Ones that would affect not just our daughter but a baby as well.

After discussing the situation for over an hour we had finally come to a decision. They would be allowed to stay as long as they stayed away from drugs completely, contributed some money towards the food bill, both tried to find work and they got along with everyone as best as they could. We were put off by Cameron's apparent lack of feeling, but we were also impressed by his sticking with Marie. All we could pray for was that they were ready for such a huge responsibility or at least that they would be by the time the baby was born; we would do what we could to help them stay clean and teach them all we could about becoming parents.

Chapter 28

Over the course of the next few months we would experience many trials that would bring disorder and turmoil to our family. The first of these would centre around Daniel. Having just started in high school, that first year for so many being particularly hard, it would turn out to be no different for Daniel. Having always struggled through his schooling, Daniel was initially placed in the Learning Disability class, making him an instant target for ridicule. He did however make a good friend there and to this day they keep in touch on a regular basis. Unfortunately though, for the two of them, somehow, they made enemies with a group of boys from the local reserve. I don't believe they started it, but I do think in trying to stand up for themselves, their mouths made it worse than it might have been. Both Daniel and Rick were of average height but very thin and not very strong physically. What they lacked in strength though they made up with heart, determination and pride. They stood up for who they were, refusing to be brought down by others who tried so desperately to keep them under the heel of their boots. In order to stay out of trouble though they learned to try and never go places alone, to stay out in the open, refraining from alleyways and unlit roads. At school the vice principal got involved, trying to keep the peace between the two groups, but in the end we would all fail. Thankfully no one would die, nor would they go to jail, but the results of a few events would forever change both boys.

A few times Daniel and Rick found themselves surrounded by a group of four or more kids with their backs against a wall. Sometimes it ended with nothing more than harsh words and threats but sometimes it would come to blows, although Daniel's fearlessness always seemed to get the others to stop before anyone got seriously hurt. Sadly, during separate occasions, both would find themselves alone and up against a mob of angry, ruthless teens that were hell bent on hurting them and there was nothing they could do to stop it. For Rick it would be in the evening as he was walking home from a friends. Five of them would find him, encircle him and beat him senseless, sending him to the hospital with a concussion, cracked ribs, cuts, and abrasions covering his face.

For Daniel it would be in the middle of the day, in a mall parking lot, right near the mall doors and in front of many bystanders who initially choose to do nothing. Attacked, tripped and thrown to the ground, all he could do was try to protect himself as the boots kept kicking him over and over. It would take a stranger finally stepping in to stop it, but by then the damage was done. He tried to get up and walk away, but only managed to drag himself inside the mall doors where he collapsed. Taken to hospital by ambulance, Daniel would find out that he had come very close to having his back broken in a few places. Even still he was badly hurt with almost his whole spine bruised and swollen. To this day he suffers from back problems, but that isn't the most severe change that came as a result of that afternoon. Before hand he had been cocky, yes and very protective of his friend, but he wasn't what you could call tough, or a fighter. From that day on however Daniel became a very hard, angry person who seemed to always be looking for a fight. He began working out, and teaching himself to box. Inside he swore to himself never to be on the underside of another boot. He still had heart, and had no problem showing love to his family, but he didn't put up with anything from anyone any more, not even from his parents.

It was this new attitude that Daniel had developed that came out in full force one night at home, when he had a disagreement with Cindy. Having a girlfriend who lived in another city, Daniel used the phone a lot to keep in touch with her, unfortunately charging up a large long distance bill that had come in that day. Cindy chose to confront Daniel that evening and as happened so often between the kids and her, it escalated to yelling, cursing and threatening statements, but they had almost always come from Cindy. Having very little patience for kids, she tended to get far too worked up and hence the result was that the children developed a very large and real fear of her over the years. This night it was different. With no fear of confrontation any more, Daniel fought back, yelling and cursing just as much as she was, ending it by calling her a whore. When his father heard this last word, he too went overboard. Chasing him through the house, screaming after him , "I'm gonna rip your fucking head off" Peter sent Daniel running out of the house in boxers and bare feet.

Yelling back at his father, a loving, "Fuck you", Daniel kept running until he came to the highway. He hitch hiked to a friend's house from there where he stayed until later that night when he called home and worked things out with both his dad and Cindy.

During April of two thousand and three, the three kids, Cameron and I went home to see my parents. The drive was long, taking a good sixteen hours but even with the arguing that went on in the car, due to lack of space, we had fun. Getting to see their grandparents after so long the kids had a great time filing them in on their lives. Marie was especially proud to be giving them their first great grandchild and even with her being so young, I think my parents were a bit excited as well. Life had not been going too well for Mom and Dad for the last three and a half years since we left and its weight showed. They both looked older, more tired, especially Dad. After having a silent heart attack a few years back, they had done an angioplasty on him, sadly killing his kidneys with the dye they used because they were already weak from being a diabetic. Having had to be on dialysis since then, you could definitely see the change in him. He just didn't look...well. We all felt so sad for him too, having to go around with the tube sticking out of his neck where the blood cleansing was done from. Still we all put on brave faces, enjoyed our time with them both and after a week headed back home.

Four days after we returned home my sister called and told me I had better come back; Dad had suffered a setback and it didn't look good. Unable to face what was happening, Daniel chose to stay back, staying with a friend, while the rest of us returned. I drove all that night and went straight to the hospital when we arrived. Finding Dad in ICU, unable to speak, using a white board to communicate, very confused, machines everywhere, it was a sight that none of us handled very well. We stayed with Mom, taking her back and forth to the hospital for another week, while Dad appeared to rally and was taken out of ICU and put in a semi-private room on a medical unit. On Good Friday, or April eighteenth, while visiting Dad, he asked me to move back home, to help care for him and Mom. Knowing they needed me, I agreed, but explained I would have to go back first to get things in order and pack up what I could. He accepted my answer, thanked me and told me how much it meant to him and that he loved me. That was probably the nicest thing he had said to me in over twenty years and it was the last thing he would ever say to me as well. That night, on April nineteenth, he passed away peacefully in his sleep.

We stayed for another week. My sister and I arranged as much of the funeral as we could for Mom. Two days after it was time for the kids and me to return home, Sean had to get back to school. Leaving my mom had been very hard but I trusted my sister to look after her to the best of her ability and I knew that she would. One thing that didn't occur to me until years later though was the true meaning behind my father's last words to me. When he had asked me to move back, I understood that he needed help getting to and from the hospital for his dialysis, since he couldn't drive any more or to take Mom shopping and that sort of thing. When he died, I stupidly assumed I didn't have to move any more since he was gone. One night many years later as I lay awake in bed I thought back to that conversation with my dad, the way he had acted and how sick he had been at the time. It was then that I realized the true request he had been asking of me. I believe now that he had known he was going to die, and that what he had really wanted was for me to move back to look after Mom, not him, because he knew she would be alone very soon. Possibly the doctor had even told him he had little time left, but he never would have told any of us this. Either way, I do know now, with all my heart and soul, that I failed him terribly. I never did move back home to help Mom, allowing my sister to take on that responsibility. In fact, I would only see her a couple times over the next five years until two thousand and eight when so much would change for me.

Chapter 29

For as much as we could see and know, Marie stayed clean throughout her pregnancy. We were all very proud of her and tried to let her know it as often as possible. She ate healthily, almost eating us out of house and home and took her vitamins. Overall she was doing quite well and didn't get in many arguments with anyone. Cameron, on the other hand, we discovered did not refrain from drugs completely. When going into the shed one day we found the paraphernalia used to melt down crack and when confronted, he admitted to it being his. We can only hope that the two of them were being honest and that Marie had had nothing to do with the drug use. Otherwise, Cameron followed the rules and respected the people, but really had little conversation with any of us, choosing instead to keep to their room and himself as much as possible. It was a long, but not terrible few months that we all managed to make it through unscathed.

When Marie was about thirty two weeks pregnant she started having labour pains. After taking her to the local hospital, they flew her, Cameron, and me by helicopter to a much bigger hospital in the city. There, they managed to stop the labour and after a very long forty hours or so they released her and sent us all home. At thirty four and a half weeks she again started having pains and again the three of us were flown back to the city. This time though they chose to let nature take its course. After thirty seven and a half hours, but with no complications, at nine thirty a.m. weighing in at six pounds even, little baby Anthony was born.

My favorite phone call of that day to announce Anthony's birth was the one to my son, Daniel. When he answered the phone, my response was, "Happy Birthday, Daniel, or should I say Uncle Daniel." Born on the same date, the two boys would be forever close, Anthony relishing any time he got to spend with Daniel.

It was a strange feeling, being called Grandma at the age of thirty seven. I had thought myself ready for it, but I don't think I really was. Out in public, I still had people questioning if they had heard right when one of my kids called me Mom, so imagine the responses I received now when I was referred to as Grandma. It's a whole new feeling though, one you've never experienced before, the love you have for a grandchild. It's so hard to explain, because it is so different than the love we feel for our children, at least it is for me. It's as deep and encompassing, but somehow more...open. Maybe it's because we are not responsible for them to see that they grow to be decent human beings, we can leave that part of the relationship behind. With this sense of freedom it allows us to just enjoy and love the child for all the goodness it represents and offers. Whatever it was, I liked it and embraced it, opening up my heart to the beautiful little boy I called Grandson.

When Anthony was a couple of weeks old Cameron's mother and siblings came to visit. We were all a little nervous to meet the other grandmother having not heard a whole lot about her. We set up a nice summer lunch outside in the back yard, and when they arrived we took them back there to enjoy some sun and food. Things were going alright, the conversation flowing somewhat, although Marie seemed very on edge. One thing I'd like to point out is something Cameron's mom had done while she was at our place. Her daughter was under the age of two and the little one still liked to have her bottle. When I first saw it, I thought it had chocolate milk inside of it, being a caramel colored liquid. This alone I found rather strange or at least unhealthy. A little while later, as I went into the kitchen to get a drink of water, I found Cameron refilling his little sister's bottle...with coffee. Who in God's name feeds a one year old coffee with cream and sugar? Cameron tried to justify it by saying that he added some milk to it as well but that it was the only thing she would drink. This whole idea I found so distressing that I instantly lost any respect that I had been forming for his mother.

Approximately two hours after they arrived Marie took the baby upstairs to change him. When she got up to their room she called Cameron from the window, asking him to come up and help her for a minute. Both Cindy and I knew this meant she actually wanted to talk to him about something, probably in regards to the way his mother was being so cold to her, almost literally turning her back to Marie. Whatever the case, as Cameron started to leave to go see what she needed, his mother put her arm out and grabbed his arm, stopping him. When he looked to her in confusion she let us all know what the problem was, "You stay right here, you don't have to jump every time that little bitch calls you for Christ's sake. Jesus who the fuck does she think she is? I'm sure she can change a baby without your help."

Before she even finished this tirade and much quicker than I, Cindy jumped up, hands slammed down on the table, leaned over towards his mother and said, "Who the fuck do you think YOU are? How DARE you come into our home and talk about our daughter like that! You are no longer welcome here, and you need to leave right now." With that Cindy stormed into the house, looked over at Cameron's brothers and sister and told them, "Pack up boys, you're going home," then continued up to see Marie.

Seemingly speechless, Cameron's mom just stood there allowing me to have my say as well, "How could you come into my home and talk like that about Marie, the mother of your grandson? Cindy is right, you're not welcome here. Please leave and do not bother ever coming back." Turning my back on her and her son, I too walked into the house.

We chose to stay inside as Cameron's family packed up their SUV and got ready to leave. I couldn't hear what was being said, but by the looks of it, Cameron was getting ready to go as well. Seeing this, Marie ran outside crying and called to Cameron, asking him what he was doing. Rudely, he replied, "What does it look like I'm doing?" This put Marie into a fit and Cindy quickly took Anthony from her, and went inside, taking the baby away from all the tension. I tried to calm her down but it was no use. Leaving her with her brother I walked over to the SUV to talk to Cameron for a minute before he left. I had something that had to be said.

Completely ignoring his mother, I walked up to the passenger door where Cameron was sitting and opened the door. "Cameron, it's your choice if you want to leave, I can't stop you, but there are a couple of things you should think about before you go. Firstly, no matter where it comes from, when someone insults the mother of your child like your mom did today, you should be the first one stepping up and defending her. When you don't, one can only think you don't give a shit. Secondly, if you leave today, if you walk out on Marie over this, not only will you not be welcome back here, but I will do everything in my power to make sure the time you spend with your son is under supervision only. I know you're still doing drugs Cameron and I have proof. It would be very easy for me to prove you're unfit to be alone with Anthony. And frankly, if you are willing to allow someone to talk about Marie like you did and if you're willing to walk out on her over something like this, then you don't deserve any better." Not really caring that I had probably gone overboard, I turned and walked away, shaking with cooped up emotions. I couldn't believe the gall of him and his mother. My daughter was far from perfect, but she did not deserve this.

The SUV began to pull away and Marie cracked, falling down to the ground crying uncontrollably. It moved about twenty feet down the driveway and then stopped. The back door opened and Cameron stepped out. Closing the door, he started walking back towards us. He had made the decision to stand by Marie and I was impressed. It couldn't have been easy to choose between his mother and his girlfriend. Running out to meet him, Marie fell into Cameron's arms and they stood there motionless for quite some time just holding each other. They were so young and had so much stacked against them. All we could do was pray they lasted, for Anthony's sake.

Within a couple more weeks I knew the living situation was going to have to change again soon. The level of tension in the house seemed to have quadrupled just since Anthony was born. I knew Peter and Cindy weren't handling all the things that came with a baby, things like crying, dirty diapers, and just how demanding they were. Cindy was frequently making her snarky comments, which put everyone on edge.

After being told my son Sean was going to be using powered mobility from now on, I was informed I would need a vehicle that could handle a power chair. With no other option, because you can't put a power chair in the back of a Sunfire, I traded my car in on a new minivan. Lynda helped me by co-signing, but the cost of this vehicle versus my old one was astronomical. The new van would cost me six hundred and fifty dollars a month for the next seven years but regardless, it was needed. With the money I got from Social Services and Child Tax, I could manage.

When I came home with the new van, and Cindy saw it, she made one comment that really hurt and I have never been able to forget, "Geeez, I wish I was on welfare and didn't have to work so I could get a new van." She had no understanding of what was involved in looking after someone like Sean, and what kind of costs were involved. By getting the minivan I was taking up any extra funds I had normally had to get us through a month, but I did it because I HAD to. I would have had no other way to get Sean around once his new chair came in. It was a heartless comment full of jealousy, was totally uncalled for and not something a friend would say to a friend.

It was after Cindy said this that I started looking at other options to house my family. My other concern was to get my kids out of the area we were currently living because of all the bad influences and profuse amount of drugs. I wanted Anthony and his parents to have a fresh, clean start somewhere new to give them the best chance possible they could have to make it. I was also getting worried about Daniel, having recently found out that he too was now smoking pot on a regular basis. Yes, it was definitely time to move on and thankfully they all agreed with me.

Through the internet I was able to find us a place quite a distance away, two and a half hours to be exact. It wasn't the greatest but it would do for now. Everyone would be moving except Peter and Cindy, and to be honest, I think they were pretty upset that we all left them with that house. What were we to do though when no one was getting along anymore? We had tried this so many times and it never seemed to last. It was, once again just a difference of opinions and attitudes between Peter and Cindy versus the kids and me. So, on September first, two thousand and three the six of us moved away to a new life, or at least that was our hope.

Chapter 30

I learned two things during our time in the new place. First, I found out how much of a true gentleman my son Daniel was. Having had the same girlfriend for over a year now, I got to know her and her family quite well. In confidence Daniel also told me about the side I didn't know, the side that troubled him terribly. Having seen it for himself, Daniel had been made aware of an ongoing issue between his girlfriend and her mother, mainly being the mother abused the daughter on a regular basis. By abuse I mean constantly screaming at her, talking down to her, slapping her over and over, and even going as far as to throw furniture at the poor girl. His girlfriend was considerably neurotic and I had always wondered why, but then started to understand more fully as Daniel opened up to me about her life at home.

The day eventually came, as I knew it would, where Daniel asked if she could move in with us, to get away from her mom. Initially all I would agree to was a chat on the phone with her father, to see how he felt about everything. After a two hour long call we both agreed to let them try it for three months, here at my home. This made the kids ecstatic, but I really wondered what I was getting myself into, having already committed to helping Marie and Cameron. It didn't take more than a week for me to realize that Daniels girlfriend, as much as I liked her, would drive me crazy if she was to stay with us long term. I already had so much on my plate and to add an anxious, erratic person to the mix was just going to be too much. I had promised them three months though, so I shut my mouth, gritted me teeth and carried on as best I could.

Arguing late one night, Daniel's girlfriend stormed out of the house and ran away before anyone could stop her. The area of the city we were now living in was anything but what one could call a safe haven. For that reason especially, and also that she didn't know this place at all, Daniel took off after her spending hours combing the streets, talking to police officers, anything he could think of to find her. The ruckus of what was going on woke up everyone else and because we cared and were worried, none of us could sleep. Eventually she came back on her own and I really don't know where she had been, nor did I care. All that mattered was that she was back safe and sound and now I could give her a talking to about safety and the consideration of everyone else in this house.

Two months after she moved in, and after hearing numerous fights between Daniel and her, I was at my wits end and ready to crack. I had never really become involved except to knock on the door to the room they were in and ask them to please quiet down. One day though I couldn't just sit back and listen anymore, and besides that, the sounds coming from the room were far worse than any that I had previously heard before. Instead of knocking this time, curious as to what I would find if I could sneak in without been seen, I very cautiously opened the door and peeked in. Standing in one corner of the room, his back to the wall, I saw Daniel. His arms were raised in a defensive stance and he was asking his girlfriend to stop what she was doing. He had marks all over his face that were a combination of cuts and red spots that would soon turn into ugly bruises. There were scratches all down one arm and God only knows what wasn't showing underneath his clothing. Looking in front of Daniel, I saw his girlfriend. She was standing about three feet away from him, throwing books, CD cases and whatever else she could get her hands on that she thought might hurt him. Then as I was about to intercede she moved in closer to him and began punching and clawing at him, screaming incoherently. That was it for me, now it was my turn to lose it, but I did so in an adult, parental fashion. Coming up from behind her, I grabbed her by the shoulders, swung her around, and pushed her down onto the bed, very loudly saying, "Don't move!" It must have been the look in my eyes because she sat there stock still, with only the heaving of her chest as she fought for breath showing any signs of movement. Going over to my son, I instantly asked if he thought anything was broken. He said no, but winced openly as he tried to move. Helping him at first I sent him out into the living room to find his sister and get some help with all the cuts and scratches. Closing the door behind him I turned on his girlfriend and took a deep breath, trying to inwardly assure myself that I wouldn't go too far. "I don't know who you think you are, but in this house we do not hurt each other. What you have been doing to my son is abuse, plain and simple. I understand that you have been dealing with the same thing for years at home, but that does not make it alright for you to do it to others. Let me ask you one question, has Daniel ever hit you back? Thrown anything at you? Pushed you?" Openly crying now, she shook her head no without any hesitation. "Well, I guess we know who is a true gentleman then, don't we? Even at only sixteen he knows enough to not hit a girl, and yet here you are beating the shit out of him. I'm sure you figured out a long time ago that he wouldn't hit you back and then you took advantage of that, going at him more often, am I right?"

"I dunno, I guess."

"Well, I'm sorry you have had to face this kind of thing for years, but my son never has, nor will he. You will NEVER touch Daniel again in anger, nor will you throw anything at him, do you understand me? Because otherwise, I will go to the police and your father, even if Daniel won't and if anything even remotely close happens like this again, I will pack your bags for you." Nodding her head in agreement, I stood for another moment over her, trying to decide if more or less should have been said. I probably should have shown a little more compassion knowing her history but I just couldn't bring myself to, I was far too upset with her. I was proud of myself though because I hadn't lost my temper. Turning my back to her, I walked out of the room to check on my son, leaving her there alone to think about what she had done.

I was never so proud of my son as I was that day. He took a real beating because he refused to hit a girl. I had a chat with him about the whole incident and found out it wasn't the first time it had happened. I explained to him that he was right in not hitting a girl, but at the same time it wasn't right that he get hurt either. Having never faced this kind of thing before I really didn't know how to advise him on this particular subject but I did the best I could think of at the time. I told him that should he ever be put in that position again, to do what he could to constrain the girl. If that didn't work then just keep pushing her away, even if it does put her on her ass. Basically my point was to not just stand there and take it, that guys can be abused as well as girls and that neither should have to deal with it. He seemed to understand and I think he was relieved that someone had actually caught her in the act and that it was hopefully over. Within two weeks Daniel broke up with her and she moved back into her parents' house. We all learned some valuable lessons about ourselves during her stay, but unlike her, ours were mostly positive. I have never believed in having being abused gave you an excuse to become an abuser yourself. I had no pity for what she had allowed herself to become, only for what she had been through in the past. I haven't seen her in many years now, but I do know she has a child, another baby on the way and a fiancé. I can only pray she learned to control her anger and that abuse is wrong but I really have no clue whether or not she ever did.

The second thing I learned in the year we were in that house was just how much stress a person can take without breaking. Somehow, even with the history of being mentally unstable, I managed to keep it together throughout all the negativity that seemed to invade our family. Sean has started having massive temper tantrums that honestly scared the hell out of me. They were uncontrollable, with no rhyme or reason as to why they started. Many times he threw his back so hard into the backrest of the wheelchair that he tipped over and then I had to try and lift him and his chair back up if no one else was around to help me. He would turn so red in the face and neck in his anger that I was sure he would have a heart attack or stroke. Unable to stop myself I would cry in fear for my son and would almost beg him to stop this insanity. Before long the inner rage turned into outward violence and he began taking swings at me, trying desperately to lash out at something I couldn't see or understand. He connected a few times, mostly in the side of my head as I was usually doing my best to stop him from throwing himself and his chair over again. He was fourteen and solidly built from all the years of using his upper body to get around so when he hit you, you felt it. The only person who seemed to be able to calm him down was Daniel, but if he wasn't home, I was screwed and the fit would continue until he completely wore himself out, almost passing out from exhaustion right in his chair. The only cause for this behaviour that I could come up with was that Sean was fighting against the reality of his situation; I do believe he was only just learning how limited he was and had yet to discover how much he could really do.

The level of frustration within the family of three, meaning Marie, Cameron and Anthony, was becoming almost continual and very disheartening. If it wasn't an issue between the parents, then it was their inability to calmly deal with a fussy baby. I did all that I could think of to teach them to talk, not yell at each other, to accept one another's imperfections and just to accept the life they had chosen but sadly I think my advice was ignored. When little Anthony was upset, as all babies will get at some time during the day, I showed both Marie and Cameron ways to calm him, to sooth him as best that I knew, but it seemed to end a lot in either the parents arguing over what to do for him or my taking the baby to rock him quietly in a darkened room. Don't get me wrong, they definitely tried their best for their son, and I had no doubt what so ever that they loved him. I didn't question Marie's feelings. Cameron's I was never sure about. Their tumultuous relationship however interfered much too often to allow them to really learn and behave as good parents should causing me to have to interfere and assist in the care of Anthony far too frequently.

After Daniel split up with his girlfriend he seemed to get madder at life than he had ever been. He was far too quick to lip off anyone who didn't fit into his mold of what made a decent human being. If he even had the slightest inclination that someone was upset with or even the tiniest threat to our family, he could easily go from calm to uncontrolled rage in seconds. Many times it was his own anger though that brought problems down on our house and he didn't seem able to see the trouble that he was causing or the hurt that I felt from his impassioned, frenzied actions. I know he meant well, and there was never any doubt the love he felt for us all. I just believe that too many times in our past had we been beat down by others, by the system and by people in authoritative positions that Daniel had lost all sense of that invisible fine line between right and wrong behaviour. Instead he saw himself to be doing what he had to, to protect us all no matter how small or trivial the situation was to everyone else. He became our biggest advocate and his own worst enemy during a time when all I really wanted for him was a normal, fun filled teenage life devoid of violence and hate.

My life had become so overrun with constant erratic emotions that I was wearing down slowly. At times I didn't want to be in my house at all, wishing only to run as far away as possible, but knowing full well that I didn't dare leave these kids alone for long; There was far too much that could go wrong in a family so caught up in just trying to survive. At other times, depending on what Daniel had been up to, I was either too scared to go out or even too embarrassed. I knew our family was so dysfunctional that it was a miracle that we hadn't imploded yet. Just the fact that we were all still together, and hanging on, even by such a thin thread, showed me just how much love there really was between us all. Maybe that is what kept me from giving up, I don't know for sure but I like to think so anyway. Then there was the fact that I knew deep down just how much they all still needed me, how much they all still had to learn, and that not one of them was anywhere close to being ready to go out into the real world of adulthood and responsibility alone. In so many ways they were all still children who required the love, attention, patience and direction that only a parent could offer. I could only hope that I was able to give what they all so desperately needed.

Chapter 31

During the summer of two thousand and four we were moved by our landlord because the house we were in was inundated with mould. All of us had been suffering from severe, constant, flu like symptoms. As well I had developed a terrible rash. He put us into two different apartments, one for the boys and me and one for Marie, Cameron, and Anthony. We would be in the same building, just on different floors. To be honest, these places were not a whole lot better than what we had just moved out of. They were so run down. The cupboard doors in the kitchens were almost all broken, the flooring torn and full of holes, and the both places smelled musty, as if they hadn't been lived in for years. All complaining aside, at least we were away from the noxious fumes that I'm positive had been making us all sick.

Whether it be from their sudden release from my watchful eye or the stress of having to be responsible adults, Marie and Cameron did not do well right from the time they walked into their own apartment. Within two weeks the fighting between them had increased tenfold. Thinking it might help the financial pressure that Cameron was suddenly under, Marie also got a job at a local 7-11. The time in between when one would go to work and the other got home, I would babysit. Initially this helped them find a happier medium, but that too didn't last more than a couple of weeks. The arguing between them became somewhat violent, with both pushing and shoving, neither willing to back down. Finally, after probably their most severe disagreement, where Cameron punched holes in the walls and broke furniture, he left, moving into his own apartment in the complex next door.

The loss of Cameron appeared to hit Marie extremely hard, or maybe it was just the realization that she was now a single parent. Her behaviour started slipping quite fast and she began reverting to old habits. Having had chronic pain in her abdomen due to cysts bursting in the past, Marie began abusing the knowledge of this condition in order to acquire Percocet, a narcotic pain reliever that gives the user a similar high to that of heroin, from the local hospital and clinics. Suddenly my life became so much more complicated. I had to try and care for Sean at home, which in itself was a full time job, be there for Daniel when he needed me, but at the exact same time, be at Marie's place to make sure she was okay and that Anthony was cared for. It was an impossible situation that I tried my very best to succeed at, running up and down the stairs between our apartments several times a day just to make sure everyone at each home was alright. Unfortunately, no matter how hard I tried, I failed someone or another. So many times I would enter Marie's place to find her passed out on the floor in the living room. I would try to rouse her, but it was never any use, the drugs had taken effect and sent her into the world of euphoria once again. Anthony would be either in his swing, his diaper soaked and full, his clothes wet, his face covered in tears from his incessant crying or he would be in the same condition but in his crib. Oh, the anger that I felt towards my daughter during these times was unbelievable. I just wanted to grab her and shake her, making her wake up from this downward spiral she was so determined on taking.

I had hoped that leaving Sean alone for short bursts of time would be alright, as he so adamantly insisted it would be. I guess I let his age override my common sense. He was fifteen, almost sixteen though and trying so hard to be independent like his brother was and in all honesty I wanted him to be able to be somewhat free of constrictions as well. For the first week or so things went alright. I was never gone long and Sean was usually just watching TV or on the computer. During the second week however, just one incident would show me just how wrong this whole situation really was. I had asked Sean if he was okay for a few minutes while I ran upstairs and he had said yes. As I entered Marie's place, I once again found her sound asleep on the living room floor. Anthony was in his swing, watching cartoons, throwing cheese and ham every which way. After checking on the baby, I went over and tried to rouse Marie. I called her name out quite loudly, I shook her somewhat roughly but the most I was able to get out of her was a mumbled, "I'm sorry Mom, I'm just so tired" and then she was gone again. Sighing in resignation, I went and got all the things I would need for Anthony, cleaned him up and headed back downstairs. I couldn't have been gone more than twenty minutes. As I opened the door to my apartment, I was instantly struck by a very acute, overpowering smell that actually made me gag. I knew what it was, but was afraid to go in and see what had happened. Taking a bit of a deep breath before entering, I walked in and looked around to see where Sean was. Realizing he wasn't in the living room, I looked down the hall towards the bathroom. The door was closed, which could only mean one thing, that's where he was. Settling Anthony in the playpen I had, with a few toys, I headed towards my son. Swallowing hard, I knocked and called out, "Everything okay Sean?" knowing damn well it wasn't. A very quiet, shaky voice barely made it through the closed door to me, "No, Mom, it's not."

"Can I come in Hun?"

"Yes, Mom but don't be mad at me okay?"

"I'm sure there's nothing to be mad about," I said as I opened the door.

While I had been gone upstairs to care for my grandson, my son had been downstairs in desperate need of a bathroom and no one to help him. For someone who spends all their time in a wheelchair, because of their lack of movement, this need can come on fast and without any warning as it did for Sean that afternoon. Having no other option available to him, Sean made his way down the hall on his own. Normally I would be there to quickly lift him out of his chair, carry him into the bathroom, and do all that was necessary to get him sitting on the toilet in time. But that day I had failed him by not being there to help him and the results of that neglect were right in front of me, everywhere.

He had done the best he could to make it in time, but it wasn't to be; it would have been very hard for him to do it by himself as we had no bars in place for him to use to pull himself up off the floor. After having the accident, he had then tried to clean up the mess, but in his efforts had only made things far worse. It was everywhere, all over him, the floor, the toilet, the bathtub, the walls, and sink. The smell permeating the room was so strong that I had to swallow a few times in order to stop myself from getting sick. But the worst part, the part that tore at my heart, was the look on Sean's face. He had the saddest eyes, but he wouldn't even really look at me, obviously afraid of what my reaction was going to be. There was something else there as well, a sense about him that I had rarely seen. It was in the way he kept moving his eyes slowly down, only peeking up at me briefly; it was in the slight tilt to his head and the frown on his face. Sean was humiliated and embarrassed beyond measure and there was nothing I could do. Seeing from his point of view, I could only imagine what he must have felt like. He was a fifteen year old young man, naked on the floor of the bathroom, covered in his own waste and he was helpless. How could I have ever possibly gotten mad at him over this, especially when it was my or Marie's fault, not his.

Daniel came home shortly after I found Sean in the bathroom, and boy was I glad to see him. Right after I had entered the bathroom, Anthony had started crying. With the cleaning I so desperately wanted to get done, the last thing I needed was an upset baby. What blew my mind though was that Daniel didn't want to look after Anthony, but instead insisted that he help with his brother. So, while I calmed down the little one, Daniel bathed his brother. When we were both done, we traded and I cleaned the bathroom while Daniel amused Anthony. I will never forget that day, but most especially I could never forget how much Daniel so obviously loved his brother, to do what he had done and at the young age of sixteen.

That night, when Marie came downstairs, we had a very serious heart to heart talk. What I meant to do and what I had been hoping for was that Marie would see the troubles her problems were causing and also make her realize that I did believe in her. I knew she could be and had been a great mother, if only she would give herself a real chance. Somehow though my plans totally backfired. Later that evening Marie packed up some of Anthony's things, walked over to Cameron's house and handed him his son, saying, "I can't do this anymore, it's your turn."

As soon as she returned home, Marie came down to see me and told me what she had done. Not only was I flabbergasted, but I was also furious. She knew full well that Cameron was back doing some serious drugs and was only very rarely straight. He couldn't handle his own life, what made her think he could handle a baby? After I managed to upset my daughter and she took off to go God knows where I went right over to Cameron's. I told him I was there to get Anthony; that he could come and stay with me. Cameron didn't even hesitate, in fact he was so obviously relieved, and handed me all I would need and the baby.

As we walked back home, I was hit suddenly by a wave of emotions. Although I felt a real sense of relief, knowing now that Anthony would be looked after, I was also dealing with a deep sense of loss. I knew I had lost the war I had been fighting to bring Marie back around to herself, to the good person and mother I knew she could be. I had no idea how long I would have the baby for; a month, a year? I had no clue how I would afford everything that came with raising such a young child either. What I did know was that no one would be getting him back until they could prove to me that they were clean and ready to be a parent to this beautiful little man. From here, however, my life took a whole different turn. It was one that I couldn't have seen coming even if it had smacked me right across the forehead and it was one that would change the direction my life would take completely. Damn, that sure seemed to happen to me a lot.
Chapter 32

When you're the parent(s) of a severely disabled child, your life becomes much different than it would have been had you had a "normal" child. Emily Perl Kingsley said it best in her poem, Welcome to Holland. There she describes a life born and grown with the need to go to Italy and see all that it has to offer. You even go as far as to learn the language. Then, when it's finally time for your trip, when you're on your plane and your descent is announced, the flight attendant says, "Welcome to Holland." You had never wanted to go to Holland. You didn't know anything about it, or the language. But, there is nothing you can do, in Holland you will have to stay. So, stay I did. I was a lucky one though, I got to go to Italy for a little while before been taken to Holland. In some ways however I think that by having a healthy child before a disabled one can make the transition a bit harder; you've experienced what you're now missing. What so many people don't realize or appreciate is the amount of freedom that you give up in raising such a special child. Gone are the days of just jumping up spontaneously and grabbing your jackets and kids and going out; there is far more planning needed now. You can't even go somewhere unless you know for sure that they have wheelchair accessible doorways, ramps, washrooms or even transportation. Holidays become much more complicated, especially when that child gets bigger. Try imagining having to lift your fifteen year old son every time he wanted to go in or out of the trailer with that tiny doorway, or having to use an outhouse because there were no other washrooms at the campground. Nowadays one of the most noticeable changes in family life is the lack of time we spend with our children due to both parents working, etc. Try adding months at a time spent at hospitals while your one child is in for surgery and therapy; any other children pay dearly for that loss of time when you're not available.

Don't get me wrong here, I'm not complaining. I'm only trying to show how much a family gives up or loses when you add in a special needs child. Sure you stand to gain a lot as well. You meet people you never would have otherwise. You and your whole family learn much more about compassion and patience and you will all discover just how truly strong and close you are as a family. But, as I said, it does make a huge difference on what direction your lives will take. For fifteen years, especially because most of that was spent with me being the only parent, every decision I made no matter how big or small was all based around Sean; Marie and Daniel rarely even came into my thoughts when a choice had to be made, or maybe I should say they didn't initially. Sometimes it was as simple as deciding if I had enough energy to actually take Sean out. The more major ones though would be, for example, if a home we were considering moving into was set up properly. Did it have large enough doorways, little to no stairs, a big enough bathroom to be able to get his chair into and still have room for me to move around? Sadly, with all this in mind all Marie and Daniel could do was come along for the ride, never really having any say or considerations made in their favour.

For the most part both kids were great about how much time, effort, and attention Sean required. Eventually Marie would grow to feel neglected, and who could really blame her? She couldn't win. She had Sean who took so much of me, leaving me drained and numb, and then Daniel, who needed most of what was left with his special needs as well. The one person however who never really appreciated how much we all gave, was Sean. Some would say maybe he wasn't capable of that kind of understanding, but you're going to have to trust me on this one, he most definitely was. Yes, he suffered from mental disabilities as well, but they were more in the academic side of things. His cognitive abilities were much more developed, even if they were a little off. By that I mean he lived more in the moment than we do, not really thinking about tomorrow. For him everything was right now, today, this second and it was always serious, very dramatic, and without patience. It was this way of thinking that would cause the biggest, most deliberate, hurtful action ever done against Marie, Daniel, me and even Peter and Cindy.

As Sean grew, it became harder and harder for me to look after him in the little apartments we had almost always lived in. Usually, when lifting him onto the toilet or into the bath, one of us would get hurt. This was because we just didn't have the room to manoeuvre, or his legs gave out as I held him under the arms, balancing him in order to turn, or even yes, sometimes I just didn't seem to have the strength anymore; I was getting tired. It was for these reasons that I had talked to Sean about our future and the possible outcomes. We discussed getting an aide to come in and help. We talked about getting a bigger place. We even wondered if, once Sean was an adult, would the government pay me to care for him, instead of someone else allowing us to highly improve our situation. All these ideas and more were talked about and in the end I decided to apply for funding through a government grant to get enough money to help me buy a home. Only then could it be renovated in the ways needed with lifts, ramps, and large rooms; ways that no landlord would allow a renter to do. In my application I showed the difference in cost of helping us to make it on our own versus Sean going into care. The difference was astronomical, literally over a million dollars and yet they gave us a flat out, no. Our future was starting to look dim, but I wasn't ready to give up yet; I still had a lot of fight left in me.

By bringing home Anthony to live with us, Sean abruptly fell from the top dog spot, or at least so he thought. All of a sudden there was someone else who required my attention just as much as he did, if not even a bit more. After all, Anthony was only just over a year old. This development really didn't sit well with Sean and he began to let me know as much by making comments like, "It's Marie's kid. She should be looking after him." Once again the tension in our home began to increase substantially. Sean started acting out, pulling stunts that only got him into trouble or in an attempt to get me in trouble as well.

He would tell me they were making lunch in his class that day, so he didn't need one, but then would go to school and tell them that I hadn't made him a lunch, and he didn't know why. Another issue between us became whether or not he was able to go to school on his own. We only lived kitty corner to the high school, but it required crossing two of the city's busiest roads. His teachers, therapists, and I had agreed that we didn't feel Sean was quite ready and we let him know that.

About a week later Sean came home from school and waiting till the school was closed, he then told me they had changed their minds because he passed the obstacle course and that he could try going on his own the next morning. He was very convincing and I fell for it totally. Watching him go for as long as I could see him, I went inside to look after Anthony. Twenty minutes later I received a call from the school and they were not happy. It turned out Sean had gotten stuck, unable to get his chair back up onto the sidewalk and caused somewhat of a traffic jam at the corner. Some students had helped him out, but had also let the school know what had happened. Now they wanted to know why I had let him go on his own after our agreement we made just a week ago.

There were also the times where I would be bathing Anthony, very distracted and Sean would take off on his own to "go for a walk." I would come out to find him gone, no clue where, so I would get somewhat panicky, only to get a call from some stranger saying Sean was either stuck, his battery dead or a flat tire. At this point we still had not purchased a lift for the van, so I had no way at all to go get a broken down power chair that weighs three hundred plus pounds. I would be forced to hunt down Daniel and get his help in lifting the chair into the van. I tried many times trying to explain to Sean the problems his "walks" were causing but he didn't seem to care what so ever.

Could I account for this terrible behaviour as puberty? Possibly. But there was also jealousy there, clear as day, over Anthony. Why else was he doing everything he could to get my attention, whether it be good or bad? Whatever it was, he had me ready to throw in the towel. I was run down, exhausted and not at all prepared for what came next.

Ever since I had got Anthony, getting Sean to and from school had become more and more difficult to do on my own, so eventually his workers and I arranged to have him transported by bus. It was much easier for me to only have to get him out to the parking lot, especially on days when he didn't have his power chair when it was being repaired. On this particular day, Peter and Cindy were in town, and had been for a few days. They were staying with us while they figured out if they were going to get a place in town or just continue living out of their semi. There were some tense moments between Daniel and them, but as usual, we survived. By the time Sean's bus was due to drop him off after school, everyone was at my place, including Marie and her current boyfriend, Rick. They were all there making a big steak dinner for me to celebrate my thirty ninth birthday, which was today. I went outside to meet the bus and waited.

I waited for fifteen minutes past the normal drop off time, then went inside to phone the school figuring Sean had somehow missed his bus. When I got through to the school, the secretary immediately put Sean's physio therapist on the line. Automatically thinking something had happened to him, as soon as she said hello, I asked what was wrong with my son. "Nothing is really wrong with him Lee."

"Then why wasn't he on the bus? I waited for fifteen minutes outside and it never came." "Sean isn't coming home on the bus today."

What?! "Why not? What's going on?"

"Sean actually isn't coming home at all right now Lee."

"What the hell are you talking about Suzanne?"

"We've had to phone child welfare due to some accusations made by Sean in regards to his family. They are with him right now in the office."

"What? What kind of accusations?"

"I can't really say Lee. I can tell you they have to do with all of you though."

"Seriously? You aren't going to tell me what my son said about us? Okay, you said he's in the office right now. I'm coming over there, so you might want to warn them. I expect to be able to talk to someone." Hanging up the phone, I felt myself slipping, and falling into a chair, I started to cry. Everyone around me had no real idea what was going on having only been able to hear my side of the call. When I calmed down enough to explain, they were all just as shocked as I was. Shrugging off all their questions, I grabbed my car keys and headed out the door, leaving them all there stunned.

About two minutes after I walked into the school office, Marie and Daniel came running in as well. I couldn't tell them anything because no one had talked to me yet, I had been told to wait. There were two actual closed offices in this area, one for the principal and one for the vice principal. One had solid walls so there was no way to know who was inside, but the other one had big windows with curtains and it was very obvious Sean was in there as we could see peoples shadows. I asked to see my son, and was abruptly and very rudely told by the Vice Principal that that wasn't going to happen. Apparently, by his attitude, we had already been condemned. A few minutes later, maybe because I had been somewhat upset by his response, my tone was not what you could call friendly, he called and had a police officer brought in to stand guard. Stand guard of what? Did he really think we were going to get violent? I hadn't yelled, sworn, or threatened anyone. Sure my kids were being a little brash, but who could blame them? They didn't have my age or experience to know enough to calm down, that they would only make things worse. All they knew was that they had been refused to see their brother, there was a cop standing right behind them and the people at the school were treating us like we had committed some heinous crime. This carried on for almost an hour, our being ignored and glared at before someone finally came out of the office Sean was in. It was someone I didn't recognize, a woman and she headed right for me.

Leaving Marie and Daniel in the waiting area, I went into the other office with the Child Welfare worker. In here I finally got some answers, but they were nothing I could have ever imagined would of come out of my son's mouth. He didn't leave anyone out, making sure to implicate each of us in some way, even Peter and Cindy. The only one that had some sort of truth to it was his comments in regards to Cindy. He said that he was very scared of her and of what she was capable of. Sadly, this had been true for all the kids for many years until they got older and braver. Sean, however, had never got past that fear and was terrified of upsetting her. Unfairly though he made it appear she had been violent in the past, and other than raising her voice a lot, swearing, and yes, sometimes even threatening, she had never laid a hand on Sean and only once had she slapped Marie.

His next attack hit Peter. What I would have expected was something similar to his one against Cindy, but what I never would have imagined was one pertaining to drugs. Anyone and everyone who knew Peter knew he was one hundred percent against them all. As a professional driver of over thirty years with a perfectly clean license, he never would have dared used anything stronger than Tylenol. According to Sean though his father was an avid drug user, smoking pot on a daily basis around the home and using God only knew what else.

To think that he would have anything negative to say against Daniel was ridiculous. They had always been so close, with Daniel swearing he was going to look after his brother for forever. Somehow however Sean still managed to find something terrible to say about Daniel. Using an argument that had happened between Daniel and his dad as a basis Sean proceeded to carry on about how violent his brother had become, and how much he was terrified of him. Daniel. Violent towards his brother. That was crazier than Peter doing drugs. The fight that had occurred a few days prior, I couldn't deny, had upset Daniel worse than I had ever seen him before and in his frustration he had broken a window BUT he never once turned his anger on Sean, Marie, or myself. Had he really scared Sean that night? Not that I'm aware of. In fact Daniel had to stop him from getting involved and telling off their dad. Either way, Sean used that incident to come up with something opposing his brother and he told it as if Daniel had gone absolutely crazy.

Now we come to Marie. Here Sean chose the one thing that he could against her. It was one well known already in the system, due to her unstable past, and that was drug abuse. Because Marie had a history in the Child Welfare system as being an addict, it wasn't a stretch at all to get them to believe his accusations. He knew what substances she had done before and chose to bring them forward, blatantly lying that she was again using and on a regular basis even around her son and family.

Lastly there was me. For that he mostly chose to accuse me of severe neglect. He told them how I would send him to school with no lunch. He went on alleging that I had not toileted him on numerous occasions, forcing him to try and go on his own, causing humiliating accidents. He went on to say that I rarely bathed him and even said that I had been known to kick him out, sending him out with no jacket or anything into the cold, in his wheelchair with nowhere to go. He carried on by adding how this had ended so many times in flat tires, dead batteries or him just getting stuck because he was, after all, new to driving a power chair. Everything his therapists and I had tried to teach him, the single incident where he had had an accident, he used against me, adding on more and more as he thought of things, making sure that the Child Welfare officer listened to him, believed him, and pitied him.

Somewhere along the line Sean had learned how to lie and how to do it well. Whether it was from his sister or the kids he had been chatting to online, it didn't matter, it was too late. Afterwards there would be arguments on whether or not he alone was capable of thinking this whole plan up. Did he have any idea of the implications and irreversible damage he had done to his family? Many believed, as I stated before, that Sean lived in the moment, only for today and that he didn't have the ability to see the repercussions of doing something like he had done. I did not and still do not agree. He may live for the moment, but I fully believe he knew what he wanted, he knew what the results would be and he went for it full throttle. I do however think that he had some assistance in the planning from the kids on the internet.

When the allegations were finally made known to me, and to my children, I was completely devastated but the kids were beyond reason, especially Marie. It took all of Daniel's strength to pull her out of the office, along with the threat of being arrested by the police officer. For Daniel, he was just deeply in shock and even as a seventeen year old male who tried so hard to be tough and cool, he cried openly not caring who was watching. When I asked if I could see my son, I was instantly and again rudely told no. Strangely, the Child Welfare officer was quite pleasant but the one who treated us the worst would be the school vice principal, as I said before, condemning us before we even had a chance to speak. I did get a chance to quickly talk with Suzanne, Sean's therapist. She too treated me kindly and looked on me with sorrow in her eyes. As I turned my back on the school to head home, I never realized at that point just how deeply Sean had severed the bond between us, let alone between himself and the rest of the family.

I went through my night totally numb, not being able to feel anything; I was an emotional train wreck. There was a picture taken of me with my cake that I saw many months later when it was finally developed and never have I looked so forlorn and pathetic. Everyone there tried so hard to ignore what had happened, refusing to talk about it, except in hushed voices they thought I couldn't hear. The truth of the matter was that I couldn't see or hear anything else other than the worker explaining to me what my son had said about each and every one of us. I couldn't understand it, and honestly I couldn't believe it either. I was completely dumbfounded on why or what had ever possessed my son to do such a thing. Was I truly such a terrible parent that he had felt he had to escape? I guess I was.

The next day I was called into the Child Welfare office to meet with a mediator and Sean. Supposedly it was to try and calm things between us, allow us to try and talk things out. In reality it was a forty minute attack on me by Sean that was fully allowed and instigated by the worker.

As I sat there and was forced to listen to Sean's bullshit tirade, again carrying on with what he had started the day before, the woman who was supposed to be keeping this from happening just sat there and said nothing. When I would begin to speak, never raising my voice, because let's face it, I was already beat down so low I could barely find my voice, the worker would literally tell me to stop talking and just sit and listen. There would be one thing though that I would hear, loud and clear from Sean that day and it was something he would repeat many times over the next six years. It was something that woke me up to the knowledge that my son was, in fact, one of the coldest people I would ever meet. Just before the meeting was over, Sean called my attention to him, making sure I was looking straight at him. As I looked up from the floor into his eyes that glared right into me, as if to burn right through me, he ever so eloquently said, "Get over it Mom."

The people at Child Welfare knew within forty eight hours that ninety five percent of what Sean had said was BS. It was too late though, the damage was done and he refused to come home anyways. I highly doubt Sean would have considered one of the repercussion of his actions and that was that we could have lost Anthony to the system. Because of all his allegations they had no choice but to open an investigation and put us all through hell. There was the never ending questioning, the expected and unexpected home visits, the drug testing and the medical check ups. They tried to make it less invasive and threatening by telling me over and over that it was just policy, but that didn't help at all. I had already lost my son and now felt on the verge of losing my grandson. After weeks of harassment they finally closed the file, saying Anthony was fine and I was a fit parent. They even had checked out Marie thoroughly, and thankfully only found her guilty of using pot and having Percocet in her system, which she did have a prescription for. When they left our home for the last time I held both Marie and Anthony in my arms letting them both know that everything was going to be alright.

Five weeks after Sean pulled his stunt, Peter and I would find ourselves in a government office, standing across the counter from a lawyer, both of us with official papers in front of us. Peter looked over at me, frowned, and shrugging his shoulders, signed on the required line. I have always wondered how anyone could apparently, with what seemed like such obvious nonchalance, sign over their full parental rights to their child. Now they all looked to me, waiting for my compliance as well. As I stared at the form in front of me, so many thoughts flew around in my head that it was literally making me dizzy. Grabbing onto the counter, I took a deep breath and steadied myself. I just couldn't get past something and it was halting my hand from making that signature.

For thirteen years I had managed to keep it together for the sake of my children, staying out of hospitals and slowly becoming a real parent. I had made many mistakes, I knew that, but at least I had learned from them and had not given up. So many sacrifices were made, especially when it came to Marie and Daniel, in order to make sure Sean would always have what he needed. How many hours or better yet days had I spent sitting by his side in hospitals or taking him to therapy and appointments instead of being at home with his brother and sister? It would equal well over a year, possibly even two, if you added it all up. Most of the last thirteen years I had done on my own, and let me tell you the job of a single parent is really tough, but try doing it with a severely disabled child as well as two others. Yes, I very may well be burnt out, both mentally and physically, and yes my body was so very tired and weakened, especially my back, but I had by no means been ready quit. I had actually been fully prepared to care for Sean for the rest of my days, or his, which ever came first. And then he did this. I felt much more than hurt. The feelings I had were so immense and severe. I felt betrayed in the worst way possible that a child could do to a parent, let alone one person to another. My heart was not just broken, it was partly deadened and nothing could bring that part of it back to life. He had left me unable to ever forgive him for his deceit but yet I couldn't stop loving him. He was my son and nothing could ever change that.

Blinking back my tears I again focused on the words in front of me. By signing I would be giving up all my parental rights to my son for forever. What a terribly harsh reality for any parent to have to face. Knowing I really had no choice anymore, I took a shuddering breath, picked up the pen and shakily signed my name on the dotted line. It was done. Sean was not only not my responsibility any longer but according to law, he wasn't my son either.

Chapter 33

Shortly before Sean's betrayal on my birthday, Marie had met a young man at her new place of employment. I couldn't figure out how these two managed to hook up being so completely different. His name was Rick, he was a year younger than her and so incredibly shy and naive compared to my daughter. He was a good boy, from a well off family, who had graduated from high school and had never been into drugs. He was physically active and very into sports. Probably the only two things they managed to have in common were their love of parties with friends and video games. What ever the case may be Rick was head over heels with my daughter and she was loving every minute of it.

Within two months of their meeting Marie was diagnosed, for the second time, with having cervical cancer. The first time had come when she was pregnant with Anthony. At that time they had done what's called a Leep procedure to rid her of the diseased cells in the hopes that it would not return. Unfortunately it had come back and now it was being questioned on whether or not she should have a hysterectomy. Scared that she would never be able to have another child when she was only nineteen years old, she went to Rick for advice and comfort. The next day they called us all together for dinner, explaining they had something to discuss with us. We were pretty sure she was going to forgo such a severe answer to her problem as the hysterectomy offered, but we had no idea what else she could have that needed discussion with all of us. You would think by now though that there was nothing else that Marie could do to surprise us but boy would you be wrong, just as we were.

As we all sat at the table, having eaten a terrific meal of spaghetti, made by Marie, she said it was time to explain why she had invited us all to dinner. Taking Rick's hand in hers, and receiving a reassuring squeeze from him, she carried on, "Well, as you guys all know I have cervical cancer again and I have to make a decision on what treatment to have. They offered me another Leep, along with possibly either chemo or radiation, or both. They also mentioned that a hysterectomy is a definite treatment option, despite my age. The thought of my never being able to have another baby terrifies me. I am only nineteen. But this is the second time I've had this and there is only so much that can be done before I'll have no choice but to have everything taken out. So, Rick and I have decided what should be done." She hesitated here and all that went through my mind was, "What do you mean you and Rick have decided? Isn't this your body, and haven't you only known each other for a couple months? How does that qualify him to have a say in such a serious matter?" Choosing to hold my tongue in order to keep the peace, I waited patiently for Marie to carry on. Taking a deep breath to gain some courage, or maybe it was just for dramatic effect, Marie dropped the bomb, "Rick and I have decided to have a baby."

I don't know how long it took for me to come around and actually speak but it was a while. Instead I just stared ahead directly at both Marie and Rick, unsure if I had heard them right, or if they were actually being serious. Rick appeared scared to face any of us, so kept his face down, seemingly very interested in the grains imbedded into the table. Unable to mentally process this new information I at last spoke, "Are you...you're serious?!"

"Yes, Mom, we are." I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Had the thought even crossed their minds that she already had a child and he didn't live with her? What made her think she could or even should have another one and how was any of this fair to Anthony? If she wasn't able to be a parent to one, how was she going to be one to a second child? This time I spoke my mind, feeling it was a very legitimate question and point.

"I know Mom, I knew you would be the one to bring this up, as you should be. I know I've screwed up in the past. A lot. But I'm better now mom. More responsible. More mature. We talked about Anthony too and we want him to come live with us as soon as possible. He belongs with me mom."

This was an argument I couldn't disagree with. He did belong with his mother, but only if she was ready, willing, and able to be there for him one hundred percent. Had she finally grown up? Had the cancer scare, along with Rick's apparently good influence shown her the error of her ways? I couldn't know for sure. But the thought of Rick brought up another concern I had. "Rick, what about you? Is this really what you want? You're only eighteen years old and you want the responsibility of a child already? Do you realize at all what you give up in order to raise a child? You give up the next eighteen years, Rick. That's as long as you've been alive for Pete's sake. All your freedom to do what you want, when you want, will be gone. Have you thought of all this?"

Silently he looked up at me when I was done talking and then very softly said, "Yes, I have Mrs. Dupuis and I know what it means. I still want to do this." Sighing in resignation, I asked Marie when she planned on telling her doctor her plans. She said as soon as possible and I was glad. Secretly I was hoping that the doctor would talk her out of this crazy idea.

I wanted to be there for my daughter, to be a support for her, but she really knew how to make that difficult. I couldn't put my head around this one, it was just too much. I didn't for a minute believe either of them were ready for this, but somehow they had convinced themselves that they were. Rick's family were going to instantly despise Marie, thinking she trapped him, and who could blame them. Because of her, their son was going to become a father while still being a teen and do so willingly. Rick was so enamoured with her however that I know it was blinding him to the realities of what they were planning. I could just see the romantic fantasies that they had painted for each other, especially Marie, of the perfect little family they would soon have together. How long would it all last? Was Rick really this sure of himself and their relationship after only two months? I knew my daughter and how quickly she fell into serious relationships but I wasn't so sure about Rick. In fact I really knew very little about him and that bothered me, to be honest. Either way, they had made their choice for now and all I could do was go along with it no matter how I felt and hope for the best.

Just over nine months later, on October fourth two thousand and five, weighing five pounds five ounces, little baby Ben was born. Anthony ended up staying with me, as did Marie and Rick until the baby was born, then the four of them moved into their own place to start the life of a happy family. Shortly after Daniel moved away with his girlfriend to a city four hours away and for the first time in many years I was all alone.

At first I had thought I would love the solitude, the lack of needy people around me and the ability to be able to do what I wanted, when I wanted and for about three days, I did. Then the silence became too loud, the freedom too condemning and life itself turned into a demanding, unforgiving entity that expected so much of me and yet haunted my every moment. I went through phases of depression that I couldn't find my way out of. Instead I would find myself coming back to reality, sitting or lying on my bed and having no idea how long I had been there for but when I checked the clock sometimes it had been hours. I would have no memory of those times, not really, but instead only a sense of a fog covering my eyes, feeling somehow detached from myself with not one of my thoughts being tangible enough to understand or even recall. I had been in a form of nothingness where so many people who suffer from depression find themselves on a daily basis. If it hadn't been for Marie and her family visiting me quite regularly or inviting me over for dinners I truly think I would have eventually lost myself beyond reach of any help.

One day during the summer of two thousand and seven, as I sat at home, surfing the net, I got a rather official phone call from a woman who called herself an EVO (Evaluation Verification Officer) with the Ministry of Family and Child Services. In other words it was one of those calls you get that instantly makes your stomach drop, your palms sweaty and your voice crack because these people didn't call unless they had good reason to. After introducing herself and requesting that I answer some questions, she jumped right to the point of the call and asked me if Anthony was still living with me. My mind immediately went back to shortly after he had come to live with me. I had called my Disability worker to let her know that he would be staying with me indefinitely and she had put me on a program for a child living in the home of a relative, giving me an extra two hundred and fifty seven dollars a month. Anthony had now been gone from my home for a year and a half but I had still been receiving the cheques and cashing them.

Before you condemn me as just another bum who was screwing the system please at least give me the chance to explain as did the woman on the phone. In two thousand and three, as you already know, I purchased a new van in order to be able to transport my son and his power chair. The cost of the loan was outrageous but I had done so regardless because it was necessary if Sean was to remain at home. While Sean was at home, it wasn't easy but I always managed to make that payment and get through each month with our bills paid and food in our cupboards. When he had lied to the school and child welfare though, which as you know ended in my giving him up to the Government, I lost all my funding for having him at home. It had never been a lot, actually no more than any other family when the one parent was on disability, but it had been enough. Once I lost all that however, suddenly there was no way I could afford the van, after all, I only received nine hundred and eighty dollars total for the month now and I had to support myself with that. But, I was stuck with the van too.

I couldn't take it back and take the damage to my credit rating because my best friend had co-signed and if I did it would affect her credit rating as well, or cost her the six hundred and fifty dollars each month for the remaining five and a half years. This was not an option to me. I could never have let Lynda down like that. Ever. So, when I had received that money for Anthony, it had given me just enough to make that loan payment and still live month to month. I should have stopped it, I know that, but I took the chance in order to not fail my friend. Call me petty or stupid, and maybe I am, and I know it was my own choice to keep doing what I was, but I blame Sean for putting me in that position to begin with. It had brought me to a place where I was knowingly cheating the system because if he had never done what he did, then none of this would have ever happened and we would have gotten through the years just fine, as we had been.

After breaking down on the phone, and through my tears, I told my story. When I was finished the woman asked me to come in to her office the following Monday. She gave me no inclination as to what would be the consequences for my actions and I was terrified of the results. Feeling I could never handle being put in prison I started to consider running away and leaving the country. Pretty drastic thoughts but having an intense fear of being seen as something less than acceptable I couldn't help it, I was so scared and humiliated. After talking with Peter, Cindy, and my daughter I chose to stay and at least see what this woman had to say. I wasn't a bad person; I was just someone who had made a big mistake and had to face the consequences.

Monday morning I found myself sitting in a waiting room to learn the punishment for my actions. There was sunlight pouring in through the many windows as if trying to mask the mood that these particular groups of offices would give to anyone who was forced to come in. While I sat there, trying not to let the stress of the situation get the best of me, I read the novel I had brought with me, as I always did anywhere I went. After a fifteen minute wait I was called in by a middle aged, kind looking woman. She led me through a maze of cubicles finally taking us into an office near the back of the large room. Once we were seated, very calmly, with a gentle look to her face, she asked me to once again repeat my story as to why and how I had ended up defrauding the government. Unable to help myself, I told her everything again but with tears running down my cheeks through the whole telling. When I was finished she sat there quietly for what seemed like an hour but really was only about three minutes, I'm sure, making notes on something I couldn't quite see. Fear really does cause a person to sweat because I was suddenly very aware of myself and the way my body was reacting to the situation. Wiping my hands on my pants, I clasped my hands on my lap and tried to stop myself from shaking. The first words out of her mouth were nothing that I had expected at all however and caught me completely off guard.

"Your very different from the people we usually get in here Lee. I knew you were from the minute I saw you in the waiting room. You were reading a book. People who we have to bring in don't usually read books but they especially don't carry one with them." Was she serious? She was talking about my book? "Umm, I don't go anywhere without one."

"Exactly and that's why I say you're so different. Well, that, and I also know you're currently in University taking a four year program. Look, I know you're being honest with me about what happened, Lee. I checked out your story with regard to your son, Sean. I'm not saying I approve of what you did, but I understand it. I think I would have been tempted to do the same thing. He left you in quite the bind. Even if I feel that way however, something still has to be done about it. I don't believe you deserve to be charged and go to jail Lee but you are going to have to pay it back." I wasn't going to be charged? I wouldn't be going to jail? The relief that flowed out of me was obvious as I choked out a "What?" unable to believe what I was hearing.

With a look of compassion on her face, the worker handed me a Kleenex and gave me a moment to compose myself, then continued on, "Since you're on permanent disability we will only be deducting twenty one dollars a month from your cheque as payment towards your debt. Should you ever get off of Disability and there is still moneys owing, you will be required to pay the remainder in full within three months. Do you understand Lee?" Still speechless, I nodded. After signing the agreement allowing them to deduct the money from my cheque every month, and many repeated expressions of gratitude, I was sent on my way with good wishes towards my attempt at earning a Bachelor's of Arts degree with a major in creative writing.

As I walked out of that office I again thought of how lucky I was that I had got someone who had taken the time to listen. I knew I had done wrong by keeping those cheques but couldn't see any other way out of the situation Sean had left me in. Now I would have to find one. I had no idea what I was going to do, how I would pay the van payments and still support myself, but even if it meant sleeping in the van, I still refused to give in and let Lynda down. A person rarely finds someone like her in their lives and I wasn't doing anything to jeopardize the friendship and trust she had given me all these years.

In September of the same year I would find out that I was going to be made a grandparent for the third time; this time by my son Daniel and his girlfriend. Wanting to be closer to their families they moved back home almost immediately. Daniel found a job with a local lumber company and was soon making enough to support himself and Amber. Knowing the predicament that I was now in financially Daniel and Amber invited me to come and share a place with them. I didn't hesitate in taking them up on their offer as it would allow me to pay the loan and still survive; they were very good to me, asking only for one third of the rent and utilities plus a share of the cost of food. We got along quite well, although the kids were still very young and had many moments of frustration and jealousy. Still, somehow they always seemed to pull it together and make up, I just wasn't sure if it was a true make up or more a fear of letting down their baby when it arrived.

I spent my days and nights almost completely locked up in my room. I didn't have anyone I was responsible for anymore and so lost myself inside my computer, playing online games like World of Warcraft almost non stop. I gained weight and was sick most of the time with at least a cold, if not worse due to my emphysema. After a few months of this neglect on myself, in February of two thousand and eight I would become suicidal, wondering what I had left to live for. At the encouragement and concern of my kids I went into the emergency at our local hospital and told of my thoughts of helplessness. By the next morning I had been admitted to the psych unit.

As soon as I walked onto the ward I knew I didn't belong there and wanted nothing more than to leave. After being shown around, I went and had a shower then headed outside for a smoke. As I stood off to one side of the smoking area, I glanced over at the others who were also out facing the ice cold winds and minus thirty temperature in order to satisfy their craving. What I saw struck deep inside me, filling me with disgust and self loathing; I saw nothing more than crazy people who repulsed me and whom I couldn't get far enough away from. I wasn't like any of them, was I? Looking again I was faced with an older man who mumbled to himself continuously and a woman who was dressed literally in rags and whose hands shook so badly she must have been suffering some form of palsy. Then there was the young girl, clothed in what appeared to be a summer dress with a leather jacket over top. She had multiple piercings all over her face, like her lips and her eyebrows as well as both ears being fully covered in them. Her head was covered in a knotted wild nest of obviously dyed bright red hair that had a lime green headband running through it. Feeling my stare she looked up and sneered in what I think was her way of asking me, "What the hell are you looking at?" Putting my head down, embarrassed, I again wondered if I was like these people. I had to be, didn't I? I was here, with them, after all, but the more I thought about all this, the more sickened I became at my own contempt for these people. Who was I to judge anyone? Normally, seeing any of these people out on a street somewhere, wouldn't have bothered me at all, except to possibly make me feel pity for the poor soul. Why was it so different now? Because, suddenly I was on level ground with each of them and that scared the hell out of me.

I don't ever remember being put through numerous interviews before as I was that day. I lost track of how many times I was asked to recount why I was there and how I was feeling. I started to get touchy, almost lipping off anyone who even looked at me. I mean seriously, did they have to question me so many times? Did these people not read because obviously the answers were all written down in my file already. And just as suddenly as those reactions came to surface so did an incredible sense of fear within myself. This anxiety had no real bearings but for whatever reason I was terrified of being abandoned here, forgotten, never to see my family again. Extremely frustrated I went to my room, pulled the curtains around my area, closing it off from the rest of the world, laid down on my bed and squeezed my eyes shut willing myself to fall asleep.

Not even five minutes later a nurse came in without asking, sat down on the chair beside my bed and loudly cleared her throat. Nearly growling, I rolled over, opened my eyes and asked, "Can I help you?"

"Well, yes, you can, actually," she said loudly enough for everyone in the room to hear. "We've had a complaint in regards to you and I've come to deal with it."

"A complaint? Seriously? I haven't done anything or talked to anyone other than staff, so how could there be a complaint against me?"

"The complaint is of a different nature, it's more of a...cleanliness issue."

"A what?"

"You have an odour about you and we'd like you to go shower." I was speechless. Not responding to her the nurse took this as an agreement to comply and stood and left the room. Instantly the tears started to flow. I was humiliated worse than I had ever been and didn't understand why. I had showered. I was in clean clothes I had brought with me. And yet, I stunk? Almost mechanically I got up, grabbed my still wet towel and toiletries, and headed out of my room. Before going to the shower room I made a slight detour to the nurses' station. I stood before the desk, tears once again streaming down, dropping unhindered onto the floor and waited to be noticed. The unit clerk looked up, realizing someone was standing there and inquired as to what I wanted. With a quivering voice, I answered, "First off, I already did have a shower and I'm wearing clean clothes. Secondly, when you're dealing with someone who already has almost non existent self esteem it might not be a bad idea to forgo telling them they have an odour about them, especially loud enough for everyone to hear but instead maybe just inquire quietly whether or not they had had a shower yet today." Not waiting for a response, I turned and walked away in the direction of the showers. The feeling of wanting to leave, whether or not they thought I should, grew stronger by the minute.

Over the next three days I was seen by multiple doctors and in the end they all concurred that I suffered from BPD (Borderline Personality Disorder). With the current treatment for someone such as myself being to not keep them hospitalized more than three days, once the initial crisis was over, I was released immediately. During the one and a half hour bus ride home many thoughts went through my mind. One was of Dr. Schmidt. I was trying very hard to convince myself that he hadn't won; that my short stay over the last few days could not be classified as "going back". Similarly I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I would never again step foot inside a hospital for mental health issues. I could not go through again what I had felt and experienced these last days. I had been to hell and back over the last thirty some odd years. I have borne the stereotype of one marked as a child, throughout my adulthood, labelled at one time or another as either being Manic Depressive, Sociopathic, Psychopathic, just plain crazy or having Borderline Personality Disorder. I was fed so many different drugs throughout my life that it's a wonder I can still speak let alone put a thought together. A huge part of myself was torn from my soul and thrown away by those who pretend to be there to help you. But, I had also managed to stay relatively stable for the past seventeen years, burying any and all signs of my past experiences and their effects. Now I hoped I would be able to cope with what life dealt me from here on in; that I had learned enough to be able to, because I was done playing their game. This was my life and I was keeping it that way, no matter what that entailed or meant for my future; at least it would be mine.

To add to my lifelong string of bad luck, while I had been in the hospital, my son Daniel had smashed up my van. Like a total dork, and impulsive young person that he was, he had taken Amber out in the vehicle to a local mall parking lot and had been driving fast over speed bumps, trying to induce her labour. With the ground covered in snow and ice and he an inexperienced driver, it wasn't surprising that he lost control and ran into one of the corrals for shopping carts, causing eighteen hundred dollars damage. Lynda was good enough to bail him out by paying for the repairs as a loan to Daniel that he would make payments on until the debt was paid in full. It was a hard lesson for him to learn, and just another bump in the road for me to get over.

Chapter 34

On March eighth my third grandchild was born, a little angel named Arianna who weighed a very healthy eight pounds eleven ounces. Was either of them ready to become parents? I don't think so, but they were trying their best. They had one huge obstacle though that kept standing in their way of truly making a go of it and that was Amber's mother. Having disliked my son from the beginning, you can only imagine how she felt when her daughter had a child with him. In fact, her reaction to the baby being born was not what any of us actually expected. While Amber had been in labour her mother had done everything she could to get Marie, Daniel and me to leave the room. When Arianna was finally born, it wasn't my son who ran down the halls yelling, "I had a baby!" it was Amber's mother. This got the attention of all involved including the nursing staff. It clearly showed where her mother's mind was at with the whole thing and we couldn't have been more right.

During the first few months, when everyone comes to visit and see the new baby, many of Amber's family came by, usually accompanied by her mother. As with most families they asked to take them out to lunch or tea to get them out of the house. That's all fine and dandy, but what wasn't okay was that they almost always left out Daniel. In fact they hardly acknowledged him at all. He didn't deserve that. He was doing a good job at being a first time dad. He was working full time to support his family and yet he still got treated like dirt.

Ambers mother had the two of them over for dinner one night and we thought maybe there was progress being made in regards to how she felt. During dinner though, she proved she hadn't changed at all, in fact she had gotten worse. She proceeded to call Daniel a 'thug', a 'terrible father' and a 'drug addict'. This all being about the young man who worked from seven a.m. till sometimes seven p.m. only to come home and have to cook his own dinner because Amber didn't and wouldn't cook. Then, after spending a bit of time with his daughter before she went to bed, he too would crash only to have to get up most nights and do the feeding because Amber refused to saying it was his turn because she looked after her all day. Yes, he was such a terrible daddy. Needless to say this continuous harassment by Amber's mother started to play havoc in the kids' relationship. Amber would defend her mother while anyone else told it like it was; she was a bitch, a cold hearted bitch who was a recovering drug addict. While raising her own child she had been a serious cocaine user and very neglectful towards Amber. She was the first to throw stones at Daniel who sometimes was known to smoke a bit of pot before bed, but only after his daughter was down for the night.

Things started falling apart in June for Daniel and Amber. Mostly it was due to the financial stress that came with having a child, along with the problems contributed by Ambers mother. Daniel was at his wits end with everything and suddenly he was faced with another huge issue; if he paid the rent they would be broke until the next payday. We had food, they had what they needed for Arianna, but just the idea of having no money in his pocket frightened him. I did my best to explain to him that the only good decision was to pay the rent otherwise we would all end up homeless. It seemed my advice and plea meant nothing. Thanks to a friend of theirs offering them a place to go, Daniel chose to not pay the rent, leaving me homeless within the two weeks of receiving the eviction notice. I was so hurt, so disappointed, and let down by my son's choice. I had never before experienced this kind of emotion when it came to Daniel, especially with him always being eager to make me happy. I didn't like this change at all. It wasn't that he had, for once, not thought of me first. That I didn't expect, but that he hadn't thought of me at all is what hit me hard and I wondered where my son was heading in life with the attitude he was developing.

It was Marie and Rick who saved me from living out of my van by offering me a room in their home. It felt so strange, going from raising my kids, to living on my own, to having to live with my grown children in order for me to survive. It was a very humbling experience, especially when any of Rick's family would come over. I was embarrassed to be who I was or maybe a better way to describe it would be to say I was ashamed to let anyone see what I had become. I was forty two years old, had never really had a job, relying instead on the government to support me as they had forced me to do so, so many years ago and I couldn't even live on my own. I felt so sorry for Marie having to introduce me to his family and then having to face the always curious questions like, "Oh, and what do you do Lee?" or better yet, "And where do you live?" God love her, I know Marie handled it like a trooper, but I also know that Rick didn't. He considered himself far too superior, taking after his mother, to accept someone like me and had only done so at Marie's insistence I'm sure.

I had always known Rick was different than our family and anyone else I had ever met before. He came from a world completely unlike ours, a class that we could never have belonged. He had never wanted for anything really and didn't have any understanding of what it was to struggle in life. The hardest thing he had ever experienced was the splitting up of his parents and his eventual realization of what kind of person his mother was; a gold digger and a snob. Sadly though he took after her much more than he did his father, whom I might add had always shown our family respect and decency. I do however wonder how Rick was treated as a child sometimes. The way he was and still is with children is almost cruel and far too harsh. I learned a lot about both my daughter and Rick while I lived with them and unfortunately most of it could not be seen in a positive light.

I had always known Marie was not an easy person to live with; she was very demanding and controlling. I had had no idea how much it had gotten worse however until the time I spent living under the same roof as her once again. She had to be in charge of everything from the grocery shopping to all their financial matters. The latter was a definite mistake as she had no self control of her spending and eventually she managed to put them in debt with the utility companies, their landlord, and friends. This caused a lot of stress between the two of them because, as I said before, Rick had never before dealt with debt and its consequences.

One thing I have to give Marie is that during this time, these couple of years past, she was a fantastic mother. Her children were always clean, had great manners, were well behaved and friendly. She had patience, showed tenderness, and was always eager to teach them something new. I had never been more proud of her as I was about her parenting. She also became a great cook, teaching herself as she went and creating new and amazing dishes. Along with Rick they both kept a very clean home and had nothing to fear when someone just dropped in to say hello.

Rick, on the other hand, did not impress me in the least with his parenting skills. A couple of incidents stand out in my mind probably because they both happened numerous times and upset me more and more as they continued. Having done something not quite falling within the behaving circle, Anthony would face the wrath of Rick. Where ever Rick cornered Anthony, whether it be on the couch, or in the corner of the room, he would stand over the terrified little man and yell over and over, while shaking his finger, "Bad! Bad! Bad Boy, you're a Bad Bad Boy!" Just the thought of this still sends shivers up and down my arms, my hands twitch and my emotions do a flip. I have spent the last three years trying desperately to teach Anthony that he is not, in fact, a bad boy. That in actuality there is no such thing as a "bad boy" only boys and girls who, at some time, misbehave and that is how they learn. I remind him daily that no one is perfect and that no one should ever expect perfection from anyone else. No matter how much I tell him these things though, should he do something wrong, before I can just talk to him, many times he will still break down crying saying, "I'm a bad boy, I'm just a bad, bad, boy." Thanks Rick.

The other parenting technique that Rick used that seriously bothered me was his whole 'time out' idea. Having taken parenting classes, talking to specialists and reading many books on the subject over the years, pretty much everything I had learned agreed on one point; a child should only be in time out for as many minutes as he or she was old. In other words for every year, they would get one minute, so a five year old would only be in time out for five minutes. It had to do with their attention span and their inability to pay attention any longer than that.

The other piece that went with this was what to do when your child is in time out and throwing a temper tantrum. Again, after studying as much as I could about the subject, I learned the best way to deal with this was to just sit quietly, close to the child. As children are known to feed off our emotions, this calming behaviour by us will soon help our child to also calm down. You don't have to talk, or even touch. Just be there.

All these ideas made sense to me and after using them successfully on my own children, I quickly discovered they were great guides to use. Using my own experiences and knowledge, I tried many times to explain all this to Rick. Despite all the explaining I did however he didn't agree with any of it and chose to ignore my thoughts and advice. So, when one of the boys would get a time out, into their room they would go, the door closed and they would be ignored for what was sometimes well over an hour. It didn't matter that they screamed until they choked, sometimes throwing up, he wouldn't go see them until 'they calmed down'. Then, when he finally did see whoever was in there, he would sit in the room for up to another hour talking to the child, fully expecting them to have a deep, serious conversation about their behaviour. The kids were three and five years old, I mean seriously, come on already, get a grip on reality. Now, as a result, Anthony has a genuine dislike for his room, other than using it for sleeping. He will not go in there and play, instead insisting on bringing whatever out to the living room. Whenever you try and get him to he will get quite upset and tell you he can't, he is too scared. Once again, thank you Rick for all that you accomplished.

As the relationship between Marie and Rick declined, there became a very clear change in them both. Rick turned cold, refusing to show any emotion. He would not try and talk things out with Marie any more, instead literally sitting and totally ignoring her, as if she didn't exist. He also refused to give her any more money what so ever or to even let her know how much they had. Marie's way of dealing with all the negativity was to go back to her old way of living, into the world of constant partying. She started staying out all night, not calling home, choosing to rely on the fact that I was there so I would look after the boys while Rick was at work. Things between the two of them got so bad that I dreaded times when they would both be home. The day came eventually though, as I knew it would, where they decided it was time to call it quits. As crazy as it may sound, I was happiest for the boys. Maybe now they would be able to get through a day without hearing people yelling and showing constant distaste for each other because neither of these two had any clue what tact and respect meant.

It was initially decided that Marie, the boys, and I would remain in the townhouse and Rick would find other accommodation. I can't lie, this setup worried me somewhat, with the way Marie had been behaving lately with her always going out; was I to be the boys' constant nanny now? Possibly, but I also promised to help Marie however I could and well, all I could do was hope that once she was away from Rick that she would smarten up. For a couple of days everything seemed to settle down a bit now that everyone knew what was coming. Three nights later however I was first taken aback by Rick's so obvious conceit and egotistical attitude and then, later on, stunned and devastated by Marie's new decision.

I was sitting upstairs in the computer room chatting with Rick about life. It wasn't what I would call an enjoyable conversation though. Per usual, as he had been doing for two years now, every time we were alone, he spent the whole time trashing my daughter. Let me just say that listening to someone go off about one of your kids, no matter how right they may be, is not a good feeling. You'll get your hair up, grit your teeth, clench your fists and promise yourself silently that you won't hit them because that just wouldn't be very ladylike. As he carried on, unable to fully keep my mouth closed anymore, I pointed out to him that it takes two to make a relationship work. The look he gave me was such an incredulous one that I actually felt myself getting defensive as if I had said something very wrong. After a moment, clearing his throat and sitting up straighter in his chair, he stared directly at me and very seriously said, "This has nothing to do with me. I have done absolutely nothing wrong in this relationship whatsoever and have no faults. None. This has all been Marie's doing." Blinking, I could do nothing but just stare back at him, utterly speechless. Could someone really be so full of self worth to believe they were perfect? I had always known him to be arrogant but this was ridiculous. Feeling suddenly claustrophobic being so close to him, I stood up, looked at him for another second, then turned and left the room.

A couple hours later Marie came home. I noticed right away that she was acting nervous about something as she fidgeted around the room, picking up things then putting them back down. Before I could say anything though she went upstairs and I heard her asking to talk to Rick. Not wanting to eavesdrop, I sat down on the couch and turned on the television to block out any sound coming from their conversation. I had only been watching for about fifteen minutes when Marie came back down and asked to talk to me. Without looking at me, her head bowed, she very quietly informed me that she wasn't taking the boys, that she would be leaving them to live with Rick in the townhouse and she would be moving out. Once again, as I had been earlier in the evening, I was completely dumbfounded. This time it was different however. This time I instantly felt sick to my stomach and began to feel myself choking. With a sudden feeling of helplessness, I jumped up and ran outside.

I know I cried a lot over my lifetime but this was something I couldn't have stopped no matter how hard I tried. The sobs escaping me were sure to wake up the neighbours and draw attention but I didn't care. I could not, for the life of me, believe my daughter was going to give up custody of her boys, especially Anthony who wasn't even Rick's child. He had no right at all to Anthony and I was pretty sure he didn't even want him. He had always treated Anthony different than Ben, acting more like a drill sergeant than any kind of father figure. And yet, to Anthony, Rick was his daddy. He knew no other and had never been told any different. Still, how could she let this man, this mean, hard man raise her sons? This was a guy who when asked how he wanted to raise his children would respond, "With education and discipline." It was so...cold. There was no feeling in it at all. Where was the love? And what about little Ben? Here was a beautiful, fearless, purely innocent human being who still, at the age of three, could not talk. How many times had I tried to talk to Rick about it and he would just ignore my fears saying Ben would talk when he wanted to. He out and out refused to take him in for an assessment and to me, this was just another form of abuse when you won't get your child the help they need. Man, he wouldn't even take the boys to a doctor when they were ill, even when, for example, at one time Ben had been suffering from ear infections in both ears, a throat infection and a chest infection. It was Marie who had finally taken him in and the response she got from the doctor was, "Why did you wait so long to bring him in? He is a very sick little boy."

So lost in despair, I didn't even notice that I had scraped my hand on the stucco as I leaned against the side of the house. The more I thought about it, the more it hurt me so deeply, the thought of either of these babies being raised by this man. Why, why would she do this? Was she so selfish as so many people had always told me she was? Or was she simply afraid? If that was it, couldn't I help her? I really just didn't understand any of it, having fought for so many years to keep mine and to be a better parent. How could anyone walk away from their children like this? As all these thoughts flew through my mind, and I felt myself slowly breaking, Marie came out, sat down on the step beside me and put her arms around me, crying silently into my shoulder.

Taking her hands in mine, I begged her, "Marie, you can't do this, please, think about it."

"That's just it, I can't do it. I'm scared Mom. How can I raise them when I can't even look after myself?"

"I'll help you. I'll live with you and help you, but you can't leave them here Marie, especially Anthony. He isn't even Rick's child; he has no rights to him. He doesn't have custody or anything."

"I know, Mom, I just don't think I can do this. And even if I wanted to change my mind, Rick would never let me take Ben now. I already told him the boys could stay with him." Ugh, why couldn't she have talked to me first? "Alright, fine, but don't leave Anthony here Marie. He doesn't belong here. Take Anthony now, get settled and then take Rick to court for custody of Ben. If you get it together I don't think you'd lose. You have his brother and you're both boys natural mother." She sat there thinking, and I wished so badly that I could read her mind. I didn't honestly know if the advice I had given her was good or not but it was the only thing I could think of once she had said that Rick would never let Ben leave. I wondered if it would do any good for me to talk to him, but then quickly realized that was about the stupidest idea I had yet. Sighing deeply, then taking a long slow breath she finally answered me, "Okay Mom, okay. You're right. But where will we go? Where will we live?" We don't even have any money to get a place, Mom." Just thankful that I had gotten through to her, I knew I would do what I had to in order to help her. "It's okay Marie, I'll figure something out. You just get back upstairs and tell Rick what you've decided. Maybe try telling him you want to take both, that you're just scared and that's why you keep changing your mind." Nodding her head, she stood up and went to go back inside. Just before opening the door she stopped and without looking back, she said, "Thanks, Mom."

While she went upstairs, I went back inside and not knowing where else to turn, I called Lynda. Being fully aware of what I had been going through with Marie and Rick, Lynda wasn't surprised when I told her the new developments. Over the years I had asked Lynda for help quite a few times and the more I found I had no one else to go to, the harder it became. I couldn't even begin to name the number of times she had saved my family's butt and me, and again I found myself going to her for financial help to get a place for Marie, the boys, and I to move to. I can't find the proper words to describe how it makes me feel to have to call her and ask her over and over again. It creates such a self loathing deep inside me that refuses to go away and that only gets worse with every time I call. It makes me feel so...less than, so...unworthy and by no means is it from anything she has ever said or done, this is all my doing. She has always been so incredibly generous and giving with me and yet what I would give to feel on equal ground with her once again as I did when we were kids. It seemed it was never meant to be though. I would always have an inferiority complex, or at least until I knew in my heart and my pocketbook that I would never have to go to her for help again and that if she ever needed my help, that I could actually be there for her like she had been for me for all these thirty six some odd years.

Lynda once again agreed to help us, as long as Marie agreed it would be considered a loan that she would have to pay back. Marie had been right in her assumption that Rick would refuse her taking Ben, now that she had already said he could live with him. He didn't however even hesitate to agree when she told him that she would be taking Anthony. As I said, there were distinct differences on how he felt about the boys despite his denial that there was any truth to that accusation. One week later we were moving back into the apartments that we had all lived in when I had first got custody of Anthony and where Sean had shattered our lives. Funny how life really did tend to take us full circle even when you weren't paying any attention to the direction you were going.

One characteristic I had noticed about my daughter was that she never went without a boyfriend. When she would first notice that the current relationship she was in was taking a downturn, she amazingly always met someone before the first one was over. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying she cheated on anyone, only that somehow, somewhere unknowingly, she would meet her next lover long before she became single. I sometimes wonder if it's an unconscious insecurity within her that won't allow her to be alone. Well, whatever it was, it happened again with her affair with Rick. This time it was a guy she had first met through Cameron years before and had run into again recently at some party. His name was Trevor; he was four years older than she, also a recovering addict, and an alcoholic who had one hell of a temper.

When he wasn't working, they seemed to always be together, although sadly it was rarely at home with Anthony. Again, relying on me to care for her son, Marie began staying out all night, sometimes staying away up to two or three days at a time. She spent any money that came into her possession on pot, alcohol and steak dinners for Trevor and his friends, never putting a dime into our home or spending a penny on Anthony. When we were supposed to be splitting all costs, it instead fell on my shoulders to try and cover it all with my very limited few hundred dollars and needless to say, it just couldn't work, there wasn't enough. Anthony began to really notice his mother's absences and grew closer to me, needing someone to rely on. Rick infrequently allowed Ben over to visit with his brother, or Anthony over there for sleepovers. One day, while talking to Marie on the phone, Rick informed her that he did not want to have Anthony over anymore, didn't want him calling him 'Daddy' any longer and in fact he didn't want anything to do with Anthony, ever again. This from the only man Anthony had ever known as his father. Yes, life at home became one big continuous stressful event that wouldn't end and to make matters worse, Daniel and Ambers lives were about to be turned upside down as well.

Chapter 35

Daniel called me early one evening, so extremely frantic that I couldn't understand a word he was saying. After almost having to get mad at him to calm down, he slowed enough to get his point across clearly. Someone had called Child Welfare on him. Not both of them, just him. The accusations were of serious drug abuse, as in cocaine, while in the presence of his daughter, physical abuse towards both Amber and Arianna, and neglect in the form of leaving his daughter in the care of someone suffering from severe mental illness with suicidal ideation, meaning me. I hope by now, after reading as much as you have about my son that you can see where each of these allegations were absolutely absurd. While Daniel had never tried a harder drug, like cocaine, he admitted to his marijuana use, knowing they would find it in his system anyways. But using this to his advantage he demanded an immediate drug test to prove his innocence. Smart boy.

The three of them were taken into the offices where they were separated, Amber with the baby and Daniel alone. Mother and daughter were put through a physical examination searching for any signs of bruising or abuse even though Amber continuously denied Daniel ever hurt either of them. Daniel gave a urine sample right after arriving then was questioned thoroughly about his and Ambers lives. This interrogation included any information about anyone who babysat for them, specifically me. Daniel acknowledged my history of mental illness, but also insisted that I hadn't been suicidal any time within the last few months and even then it was only a short bout and the first one I had experienced in seventeen years.

When all was said and done, after being put through such a demeaning experience, the kids were sent home with clear consciences and a closed file. As some form of apology it was explained to them that they must investigate any time such a call comes in. Daniel knew exactly who had called and said as much, but the worker refused to accede as she is legally bound to never reveal the identity of a source. As they headed home, the frustration, the humility and the anger of what they had just gone through hit them both. Daniel went off on Amber unfairly, but understandably. He needed a target and what better person than the daughter of the woman who had just accused him of such terrible doings. Amber, even knowing deep down that he was probably right, initially defended her mother, denying she would ever do such a thing. It had all been so obvious though. The attack was strictly directed at Daniel, with not a negative word spoken about Amber. The allegations had been partly the same as the ones her mother had made at dinner that night not so long ago and there was no way a neighbour or stranger could have known about my history, especially in the detail that she did. It was done in an attempt to rid her daughter and granddaughter of Daniel but it hadn't worked. At least not in the way she had planned. It did however put a wedge in their relationship that would be almost impossible to remove. Knowing now what he would always be up against, Daniel became discouraged, depressed, and started falling apart slowly.

Peer pressure and bad influences don't exist solely in schools. It can happen at any age really and it will target the most vulnerable one in the crowd. Many times this individual's problems could have been dealt with in much healthier ways but because of lack of resources they instead choose to follow others lead and put all their energy into bad choices. Such was the way of Daniel. After that incident with Child Welfare and Amber's mom, Daniels self esteem took a beating. Even when none of it had been true, just knowing what people had thought that of you is enough to depress anyone. Looking for a friend, someone he could count on, he began hanging out with one particular kid he'd met who had been in trouble with the police and had a drug abuse problem. At first things weren't too bad and they didn't do anything to get into any trouble other than mouthing off people and getting into some minor scuffles. Then it all started again with life making a complete circle and it would send Daniel over the deep end.

Another complaint had come in, similar in context to the first but with added properties. This time the caller included wild drug parties that went on nightly with all of Daniel's new friends, while the baby was home and awake, mental abuse now towards Amber as well as violence in the home. It would take another thorough investigation to prove it was all lies, but once again, even after he was cleared, the hurt he had been caused was deeply imbedded. Daniel was devastated and angry beyond his control. His relationship with his accusers daughter was now on very thin ice and he had no idea how to stop it from collapsing completely. With nowhere to turn Daniel went out with his new friend and had a night he would never forget.

Throwing all common sense to the wind, and not really caring anymore, Daniel began drinking early on in the evening and then later on, supplied by his friend, switched to taking Percocet, one after the other. Having never before taken them he had no idea how they would affect him, especially when mixed with a high amount of alcohol in his system. What he couldn't have seen coming was the incredible sense of invincibility he would feel, along with a fearlessness and inability to see right from wrong. At the suggestion of his friend, they headed to a boys house whom had slept with Amber in the past and who was trying to cause problems for Daniel and her now.

Standing outside the house, the two boys screamed threats at the youth inside, daring him to come out and be a man. When no one emerged Daniel ran up to the door and tried breaking it down, kicking it repeatedly. As another person opened the door to try and get Daniel to stop, Daniel pushed hard on the door sending the guy sprawling backwards, allowing Daniel to enter the house. The boy Daniel had been after took off further into the house, locking himself in a bedroom, leaving Daniel standing in the entrance way with the other guy who had fallen backwards. Jumping up and frantically waving a crowbar, he yelled at Daniel to get out. Knowing at least enough that he couldn't win this fight, Daniel swore at them both and ran back outside. As he left the house he looked ahead and saw his friend standing there with a huge rock in his hand. Before Daniel could reach him, his friend swung his arm hard and sent the rock flying. Both boys watched as it hit and smashed its way through the home's living room window. It was then that Daniel heard the sirens. Taking off on foot, without looking back, Daniel ran as fast as he could away from the trouble.

Ending up at another friend's house, Daniel climbed up on the roof and tried to sober up. The reality of what he had just done hitting him hard like a slap in the face. After only a short time up there, Daniel was joined by two police officers who had come looking for him. As they drove away with Daniel in the back seat of the squad car, all he could think about was that now Amber's mom had something she really could use against him.

Going through the process of getting arrested scared Daniel straight in every way possible. Totally sobered up he knew, without a doubt, that he would never again do anything like what he had done that night. Not any of it. From the start, thankfully, Daniel fully cooperated with the police, telling them everything except for naming his friend. They didn't need him too. They knew exactly who they were looking for. Sadly, his friend was not cooperating and was still hiding from the police, managing to elude them for a couple of weeks. When it came time for Daniel's court appearance, because of his positive attitude, cooperation and obvious regret, the arresting officer stood up for him asking the judge to not charge Daniel, thereby avoiding a criminal record. Taking all this into account, the judge choose to follow the officers advice and instead required Daniel to write a letter of apology and to pay for half the cost of the repair of the window.

I think he knew how lucky he was because the relief was written all over him as we sat waiting for his papers. Of course the tears in his eyes also kind of gave it away. I truly believe he grew up that day and finally became an adult. Before that I don't really think he understood how his actions could have serious repercussions. Like so many youth, he thought himself above the law. What an eye opener it becomes when they discover that they are very, very wrong.

Within a year after his court appearance, with having tried everything they could to keep it going, Amber and Daniel called it quits on their relationship. Of course it hadn't helped that none of her family had ever accepted Daniel, and her mother would once again call Child Welfare on him. This third and final time though the worker refused to do anything and warned Amber's mother that they would press charges if she didn't stop harassing Daniel. She did however let Daniel know that the "same person" had called again, just to warn him and let him know where the agency stood in regards to his file, which was it was to remain closed.

While they went through that terrible year they visited me a lot, looking for a shoulder, advice, or sometimes a babysitter to give them a break. My troubles with Marie however played heavily on me and so any other intrusion on my time became like a direct attack on me and I didn't handle things too well. Even if they hadn't asked me to watch the baby in a couple of weeks, when they did come over to ask I tended to fly off the handle as if they had asked me to adopt her. I feel awful for the way I reacted during those many months, they had really done nothing to deserve it. I also seemed to take on their stress as my own, getting worked up, and anxious when they hadn't paid a bill or had little to no food. I think I expected too much of them in some respects but I also know that between her family and myself, none of us did a good enough job in helping these two learn to become responsible, nurturing parents.

From not budgeting their money properly to not being able to handle a crying toddler they struggled daily. When it came to nutrition they were totally naive and hence Arianna was not fed properly. Without proper foods and vitamins her immune system became vulnerable leading to monthly bouts of terrible colds, flu, or even croup. Neither of them seemed to be able to understand the importance of cleanliness in the home and I grew to not want to enter their place at all because it upset me so much. Sometimes, when I did go over, I would spend a couple of hours cleaning and lecturing them on germs. When given the chance, I tried to teach them what I could, taking it upon myself that if I didn't, no one else would. Doing so just added to all the stress I was already dealing with and slowly I felt myself faltering mentally and physically.

Life at home became almost unbearable at times, with Anthony being my only saving grace. He definitely brought out the best in me. His mother, on the other hand, brought out the worst. I think during those couple of months that we lived together I must have aged ten years at least. Her lying became a constant reoccurrence. Promising me money for rent, utilities or even food, she never came through, covering each lie about where the money went with another. Let me tell you, when you're counting on something so much, when you have no other means to acquire it, especially something as important as food, and then you find out you can't get it because of someone else's stupidity, and deceit, you tend to get very upset and stressed out. Now add onto that pressure the knowledge that the one person who pays for all this disrespect and uncaring behaviour is a child, your grandchild and the son of your own child. And sadly it is this grown child of yours who is the one creating this suffering to begin with. Needless to say, all this was seriously killing me. My therapist honestly believed I would soon either just die from a heart attack or end up killing myself. Her only advice to me was to get the hell out of Dodge, and go far, far away where the kids wouldn't be able to cause me any more stress. At the end of an extremely hard day, when I felt like all hope was lost, I made the final decision to take her up on her idea and began making plans to move away indefinitely. Calling my mother, I talked it all over with her and she agreed to let me come stay with her, at least temporarily until I could get my own accommodation. The plans were made within a couple of days and that left me with only one more thing to deal with...my daughter and her son.

That night when Marie came home, I told her I was leaving. At first she got really angry, accusing me of abandoning her in a place she obviously couldn't afford on her own. I settled that quite quickly however when I reminded her of how she had continuously lied to me and let me down over the last two months. After calming down, she started to be honest with herself and me about her real reason for her anxiety, and it all had to do with Anthony. Once again, as she had been four years ago, Marie was in no shape to care for her son and she knew it. With no other options available to her once I left, she asked if I would take him with me, just until she could get her life back on track. I had known this was coming, even though I guess I had been trying to pretend that it wasn't. Having no real choice, and wanting only the best for Anthony, I agreed, but only temporarily until she got a job and a much more stable lifestyle.

I didn't mind taking him, not at all, although I wasn't sure how my mom was going to feel about it. Honestly my biggest concern was Anthony and knowing if he was going to be alright. I knew it would be hard for him to leave his mom especially since no matter what she had put him through he remained one hundred percent loyal to her. She was the most important person in his life and it would be devastating for any child to be taken away from that kind of love. I realized we would just have to make the best of it until Marie came around. I had no idea how long it would take, but was hoping it wouldn't be more than a few months. I didn't think it was healthy for Anthony to be parentless, so to speak, much longer than that. After talking to my mom on the phone that night and her hesitant agreement to allow Anthony to join us, it was agreed that we would leave in three days' time. I would be forsaking almost all my personal stuff and furniture but much more importantly we would be leaving behind all our family and even though I knew I was making the right choice, it hurt like hell.

We had arrived at my mother's at the beginning of November two thousand and eight. By January the following year Anthony was starting to show signs of depression, being away from his mother and brother for so long. He was only five years old and at that age three months was an eternity. Every time he talked to either of them on the phone he broke down terribly and it tore my heart out to watch him go through it. He had started having severe temper tantrums where I knew the only real problem was his confused emotions that no child his age could begin to understand. Finally, in February, I called Marie and told her something had to be done, her son desperately needed her. I knew she had a new job and a new house she was sharing with Trevor and she had previously told me she had stopped partying so I saw no reason why Anthony couldn't go home. I don't know if she agreed because she knew she had to, because it was what was expected of her, or if she really wanted to. Either way though, within two weeks Anthony and I were on a flight back home. It was time to reunite mother and son.

Mom allowed me to stay on with her, and didn't charge me any rent, only asking for money for my internet and my food, at least until that stupid van was paid for. I don't know what I would have done without her doing this for me because I never could have afforded anything with what little I had left over after making that ridiculous loan payment. It took a lot of work for mom and I to learn to live together and I don't think we ever did get it right. We were just two very different people who were set in their ways. Also, what didn't help at all was my mental state. Over the course of that next year I grew to know myself without children around and frankly, I didn't much like it. I felt empty and without purpose. As Lynda had put it to me one night, I was a caregiver and had always been one and now, once again, I was without a charge and I was completely lost. I helped out mom as much as I could but it wasn't the same; she really didn't need me. I grew moody and extremely touchy, feeling everyone was against me, especially she and my sister. We started getting in arguments, almost nightly for a while, but eventually it diminished to once a month or so; they were doozies though and usually ended after a couple hours with both of us crying. I watched as our relationship began falling apart and there didn't seem to be anything I could do to stop it. Mom desperately wanted a companion, someone to always be there to do things with, and I wanted nothing more than to be left alone most of the time. She talked of plans of us travelling, getting away for a few months in the winter, and I dreamed of a small place of my own where I could write, play games, and just survive what was left of my life. She saw my thinking as selfish and began throwing it in my face that I lived there for free, even going as far as calling me a freeloader once. In response I offered to leave immediately but reminded her of who drove her everywhere, went everywhere with her, and who helped around the house, all without ever a single complaint. I had thought she knew it was my way of showing appreciation for all she was doing for me but again, I guess I was wrong. We had come to a stalemate, neither of us giving in and I didn't know how much longer we could last like this. In the end I started looking for other options for me because I really didn't want to lose what little of a relationship we had left.

It was towards the beginning of April, two thousand and ten, when I got a call late one night from Marie. Right from the start, as soon as I said hello, she began to cry uncontrollably. I couldn't understand a word she way saying except I had heard Anthony's name. I had a sudden lump in my chest, scared that something terrible had happened to my grandson. What else could have made Marie so hysterical? When she finished her maniacal tirade, almost too scared to ask, I implored her to tell me what was going on. "I just can't do it anymore Mom" she said, sniffling quietly. "Can't do what Marie? What's wrong Hun?"

"Everything. I keep screwing up. With money, with Anthony, and Trevor. I drink too much, I started doing E again too Mom, a lot of it."

Oh God. Feeling sick to my stomach, I continued on, "Why Marie, why would you do that? Are you trying to make it so your sons have to bury their mommy?" Okay, that might have been a bit harsh but it was the truth and maybe she needed to hear it. I doubted anyone else had been so honest with her. I knew she had heard me but she choose to not respond, instead changing the subject.

"I need to ask you something mom."

"Okay..." It was dead silent on the phone for so long that I thought we had possibly been disconnected. "Marie, are you there?" Nothing. "Marie?"

Just as I was about to hang up, she finally said what she had been so scared to say, and boy was it a mouthful. It was no wonder she had had such a hard time getting it out because my ears couldn't believe what I was once again hearing, "I need you to take Anthony, Mom. At least until I can get my shit together."

Now it was my turn to go quiet. I was stunned and beyond words. Again? The poor little guy. He had been tossed around so much since his birth. This had to stop; someone had to put an end to this for Anthony's sake. Before I could say anything though she went on, "Just for a year or so, Mom. I'm sorry, but I need your help. I don't know what else to do." Taking a deep breath I answered her with the only answer I knew was the right one, "No Marie, I won't."

Chapter 36

"But Mom..."

"Let me finish please Marie. I said no, I won't take him for a year or so. If you can't do this, that's fine, I'll take him, but this time it's for good. I want sole custody Marie. It's your choice, but think of your son before you answer. He needs stability, a safe place to call home, a parent who will always be there for him. He deserves it. I can provide him with all that but there is one thing you need to know before you make a decision. Anthony will have to move here with me. This is my home and Nana needs me too. Besides all that, my disability is set from here now and I could lose it if I moved away. I'm not willing to take that chance. I can't. I'm here to stay Marie, so your son will be too. Can you accept that?"

I honestly believe that was the hardest choice my daughter has ever or will ever make. Despite what some people think, Marie does love her son, very much so. It was this love for him that made her realize she had to let him go. Many people have called her selfish and in some ways they are right. She was never able to give up her freedom for anyone. She is what I call a wild spirit that cannot be tamed and trust me, many have tried. Does it make her a bad person? I don't think so. I do think she should never have had children, even though now I can't imagine life without her boys in it. Some people are just not meant to be parents though and sadly, my daughter is one of them.

I arrived at Marie's home on April twenty seventh and I can only say, thank God I came when I did. As I had said earlier, Marie used to be an amazing housekeeper; you could have eaten off her floor. What I walked into that day was scary. Never had I seen so many dirty dishes and so much garbage. Nothing was in its place and if needed you could never have found a thing. Plainly put the house was a total disaster, but to be fair it was far from just Marie's fault. Living with her was a male friend and Amber, along with my granddaughter. I soon realized that Amber had still learned nothing about cleanliness and was just as much at fault as the other two. If all three didn't chip in, then was it fair to the others? Added to the dirtiness was that distinct, sweet sickly smell of marijuana that gets into everything. All I could think was please don't even try and convince me you don't smoke it inside. After a walkthrough, knowing I was going to be there for a while, I took over and began cleaning away all the filth that just didn't fit within my picture of my daughter.

I would find out other upsetting things while I was at Marie's awaiting the judge's decision. The school principal informed me that they had been one step away from calling Child Welfare. It seemed Anthony was being left at the school early in the morning, sometimes an hour or more before school and then not picked up until long after everyone had gone home. It didn't happen daily, but it happened enough that the school took notice. When I questioned Marie about it, she put the blame fully on her male friend and Trevor's mom who had been the two people in charge of getting Anthony to and from school. Another discouraging piece of information I discovered was that almost every weekend, sometimes going well over into the week and including the ones when I was there, Marie left to go visit friends in a whole different city. She always left Anthony with whoever would watch him, with promises of returning in one or two days, although rarely did she keep her word. It was while she was there that she would ingest copious amounts of ecstasy and give herself up to its effects sometimes staying high for days at a time.

On May seventh I was granted sole custody of Anthony, with joint guardianship shared between Marie and me. Initially this sharing of guardianship was mainly so that should anything happen to me, the courts would look to his mother first for care for him. I know now that was a mistake, although only because without that sole guardianship I couldn't take him anywhere without written approval from Marie. It's really just a legality that is a royal pain as she would never disapprove of my taking Anthony on any holiday.

When I was going through all of his things, trying to decide what needed to come with us, Anthony tried very hard to be a help by bringing me stuff he thought he might need. I had been upstairs, going through his movies when he came into the living room, his little arms full of things I couldn't quite see. "Grandma," he asked, "What do I do with all this? I found it downstairs" Smiling at him, I sat up on my knees to get a better look at what prizes he had brought me this time. Usually it was a toy he couldn't part with, or a lost sock he had found under his bed, but not this time. With his arms now held out in front of him, he showed me what he was unsure about; there, in my six year old grandsons hands were a marijuana grinder, a glass blown pipe, and a pack of rolling papers. God how I could have screamed at that point. So much disgust and anger flew through me instantly, maybe more so than was reasonable, but I just couldn't handle much more of this so obvious disregard for Anthony and Arianna, the two children living in the home. First there had been the garbage and dirty living conditions. Then had come the awareness of the neglect both children were suffering while both mothers found other things to do rather than spending time with their children. Signs of violence were around the home, from the holes in the walls all up the stairwell to the broken doors. Now there was proof that the drugs were not being kept away from the kids, as I had suspected, when I noticed the smell in the home. How could anyone live like this and allow their child to as well? Taking the paraphernalia from Anthony, I told him I would look after that stuff and sent him to his room to watch a movie. As I put the stuff up high, away from little hands and eyes, I had a thought cross my mind that I'm pretty sure I had been trying to deny; as sad and terrible it felt to admit, I honestly couldn't wait to take Anthony and leave, getting us both far away from the life my daughter seemed so apt to live. I could only pray Amber would smarten up soon, for Arianna's sake or she too wouldn't be raised by her mommy.

One week later, the van packed with all of Anthony's belongings, we were ready to go. Marie and I had had numerous conversations, with some being about her son's care but mostly they were concerning whether or not I understood her decision and if I condemned her for it. I guess knowing that at least one person grasped where she was coming from and didn't hate her for it gave her the final bit of strength she had needed to say goodbye. We had decided to not tell Anthony yet that this was a permanent move, allowing him the time he would need to adjust to such a big change. Still, it was a heart wrenching goodbye for both of them where neither of them could let go of the other. Seeing that this dragged out delay in our leaving wasn't making things any easier I chose to be the bad guy and began to drive away, forcing them to finally let go.

It was during the nine hour trip home that it began to really sink in that I was once again the parent of a young child. Up until that point I had been running on necessity and had never allowed myself to actually think about what I was doing. Had I made the right decision? Time would tell, but for Anthony's sake, I hoped so. Looking in my rear view mirror I stole a quick glance at the innocent little boy who had already been through and seen far too much. It was at that moment I knew I would do whatever it took to make sure he had a loving and stable home, away from drugs, violence, and neglect.

Two weeks after Anthony and I arrived home, we moved into our own little place in the low income housing project in town. I could never have asked my mom to keep us both and really, at eighty one, it wasn't fair to expect her to be able to handle a seven year old, full time. Thankfully the new home wasn't more than five minutes from her place though, in case she needed me suddenly at any time. For the first month or so everything went very well with Anthony. We got used to each other again and enjoyed our time as much as possible. Eventually however, the honeymoon phase would pass and as he became more settled, his real feelings began to emerge and the quiet, happy life I had dreamed of for both of us seemed to fade away into nothingness.

His mother had a temper so I guess initially I wasn't surprised when his started to show. It could never have been considered mild either. Not with the lay on the ground, screaming, crying fits that he would have. And it took so little to trigger one that I couldn't begin to know when one would happen. Sure at times it was because he didn't want to go to bed, or go to school, but sometimes it was simply over food, clothes or even just something that was said. I tried very hard to remain calm when these happened, but it sure wasn't easy. After weeks and then months of this behaviour though I started to feel tired by it all, and I started to wonder if I had made a mistake; if, in fact, I was not up to this challenge. Slowly however, after getting him in with a child psychologist, things started to turn around. Working with us both, he turned out to be a Godsend. He taught Anthony how to express his emotions and feelings in a proper, healthy manner and he helped me see that I was only human. As time went by we came to find a happy medium once again and I had never been so happy to make it through a child's phase.

One thing I have always been grateful for is that Anthony has never once, in anger, looked at me and said, "I don't have to listen to you, you're not my mommy." I had expected him to. He has, at times, expressed his desire to go home to his mother but his requests are becoming more and more infrequent. Still, I find it amazing what a child can live through and yet remain so innocent. It's as if he has forgotten all the hardship he experienced, never mentioning any of the bad. I wonder though, is it that he has truly dismissed it all from his mind or does he choose to not voice what has troubled him over his few short years. Of course he can't recall his very early childhood, as none of us can, but what about the last three to four years where everything was so unstable, lonely and scary? I can't even begin to imagine what it would have felt like as such a young child to be left alone in the schoolyard, wondering if anyone was coming for you. What of all the times you were left, usually for days, with a friend of Mommy's because she "had to go out." Did she ever consider how that would make him feel, being abandoned so often? How many times did he have to listen to his mother throwing one of her fits, hear the screaming between her and her current boyfriend, whom Anthony saw as a daddy figure, and then feel the vibrations as someone put another hole in the wall or threw something against it? Did she really believe he couldn't hear or even feel the anger that was carrying on? So many empty promises were made as well in an attempt to make up for all the bullshit she put him through and in actuality it was all just a way for her to justify her actions. When she could do something for Anthony though, when she did keep her word, she went way too far overboard and spoiled him by spending a small fortune, trying to buy his love and forgiveness when all he really needed was some quality time with his mommy. The end result of these actions is that now the word promise means nothing to him, although if someone does use it, Anthony is very quick to let them know he doesn't believe it will ever happen.

Thankfully not all the time he spent with his mother was like this; actually much more of it was a positive experience where she was a very good, mindful, caring parent who you could count on to be there for her children. It is from those times that I believe he became a sensitive, sharing soul who loves to please others. What she still doesn't understand though is that the negative ones that he did go through have had a much stronger effect on his growth and it is from those times that today Anthony struggles in his everyday life. He hates to be alone now, even for just a short time, so it's impossible to get him to play in his room unless someone else joins him. Instead he sticks by my side like glue and will talk to me almost non-stop, just to make sure I'm there and paying attention to him. His social skills, when he came to live with me, were almost non existent and even after working with a therapist on a full time basis for over a year we are not sure he will ever fully develop enough to have normal relationships throughout his life. At the age of eight, where most children have long past the annoying whining, I never get what I want behaviour of a two year old, Anthony still exhibits it on a daily basis. This, of course, also plays a role in his social life as other kids see him as acting like a baby and tell him so regularly, knocking down his already paper thin wall of self esteem. Finally, when I try and do something special for him, like take him to dinner, or swimming, he expects so much more, thinking the whole day should be spent catering to him. Regrettably all that ends up happening is his extreme disappointment in my lack of willingness to spoil him and my intense frustration in the whole situation which all leads to a ruined day for us both.

The term Grandparent I find is very misleading, at least in my case. There is nothing "Grand" about my parenting skills, actually I think I'm much more a quiet, boring person that Anthony got stuck with, poor kid. Seriously though, I cannot keep up to all these super healthy, active parents that we seem to be surrounded by. Living where we do, everyone is involved in something, whether it be biking, climbing, snowboarding or just going out for the day, every day they can. There is no way I could ever dream of being like any of them, not anymore, not with the way my health is now. I may only be forty five years old but my body acts like it is seventy five. Whether it comes from years of lifting Sean, or years of just not looking after myself, mixed in with high levels of continuous stress, the results are the same, I'm extremely tired, both mentally and physically. Is it fair to Anthony? No, probably not, but I do keep trying to improve on all fronts.

People used to say, when my children were young, that I had the patience of a jewel and of which they could never dream of having. I suppose at one time they were right, but not anymore. Somewhere along the line I seemed to have lost both talents. They say that part of being one suffering from BPD is that we cannot cope with any form of stress in the same ways that a normal person might; that we need to learn new ways, if we can at all. I know this much is true of myself now. I find that whenever there is any tension between Anthony and me, even if it's just his resistance to brushing his teeth at night, that I get far too stressed, far too fast. which sometimes leads me to reacting much too seriously over such a small thing. Again I feel, no, I know this isn't the way I want to be while I raise Anthony and yet I struggle constantly with it. When I look in the mirror all I see is a miserable, anxious, worn out woman who is desperately trying to find herself for the sake of her grandson. I have managed to lose over sixty pounds, cut my smoking down to six cigarettes per day, but is it enough? Not even close. Until I can find happiness within myself, with where I have been and where I am going, Anthony will be the one who ultimately pays for it.

Please don't misunderstand me, I love having Anthony here, and I think I would truly be lost without him. I just want to be so much more for him than I seem to be able to be. Something else that has become important to me is to be able to provide for Anthony what I could never give my own children, a home of our own. It doesn't have to be anything fancy and definitely not huge, just something that we can call ours. It would be a place where we could have a dog and no one could tell us differently. A home where Anthony could play in a safe, fenced backyard that might even have a tree house. Somewhere we could paint his room a different color every six months if we so desired. So many people have no idea the freedom they possess by owning their own home and how much, as a renter, we lose. Then let's not forget the stability it provides for the whole family, knowing they would never have to move again and that would make it okay to make friends now that you wouldn't ever have to say goodbye to. Yes, so much would change for us, but especially for Anthony and that is all that has become important to me.

Maybe this is a second chance for me to make a better person of myself, to be a better parent than I was to my kids, to do it right this time. Not many are given this opportunity or maybe I should say this blessing and honor because that's what it is really. How lucky am I to have another chance to help a young life grow into an honest, caring human being? When I think of my own children, I do blame myself for their shortcomings. So many have told me I'm wrong to feel that way but I don't agree. If I had of provided a healthier environment and more stable home for them, then maybe they wouldn't have grown to be such angry, despondent people who are living below the poverty level, just as we did while they were growing up. I love my children dearly, but they are only the results of their upbringing and that is no fault of their own.

Chapter 37

If you would have asked me thirty years ago where I would be today, this is about as far away from what I would have thought that a person could be. I don't think I had ever planned on having children, and I certainly didn't expect I'd be so alone. What I hadn't been able to factor in at the time though was just how devastating and controlling mental illness can be throughout a person's life. It chooses and demands its own course for me to follow and it definitely wasn't one I would have picked. It defines who we are more than any other trait we may have and creates a stereotype that we will never lose. No matter how many times someone may tell you that they don't think of you as different, or strange, or just see you in not so positive of a light, don't believe them, they are lying. They can't help themselves, it's only human nature to try and block out what doesn't fit into our perfect little world of what we consider normal. People will shy away once they find out what you suffer from and friends become a very rare commodity. Hell, even our own families will treat us unlike everyone else, almost indifferently because they cannot deal with someone they are related to being considered unstable. But, as one of these special people, I can say without a doubt that many of us learn to live with ourselves as we are, getting through life even just one day at a time. One of our biggest obstacles lies in our lack of self esteem but where does that negativity stem from? One of my favorite quotes that seem to say it all for people like myself who define depression or ones such as my daughter who live self destructive lives comes from Dr. Bruce Perry and reads: "You cannot love yourself unless you have been loved and are loved." I love my family but I think there was always something missing in my childhood, maybe a closeness with them all but especially my mother. I have fond memories although nothing that resembles unconditional love. It just wasn't there. Even today I am not close to any of them, but I at least have a much better relationship with my mother and sister than I ever did in the past. Did I ever feel loved by a man? No, not at all. Have I felt cared for by my children? At times, but less often than I would have hoped for. Perhaps this is because actions do speak louder than words and many times their actions have shown me a different picture. I don't blame others for my almost non existent self worth, not really. I just believe I am also a product of my environment and when added with a chemical imbalance that causes chronic depression, you end up with a human being who eventually can no longer see the positives in life.

The same goes for my children to a degree. I tried to show them how much I cared, however I also know I failed in many respects. Such turbulent lives cannot properly promote love and understanding when it's so busy sending out almost continuous shockwaves of oppression. Marie and Daniel were so often left behind, so to speak, because of the demands that raising Sean came with. How could that of possibly shown how much I loved them? When they all ended up in foster homes, did they understand that the reason had nothing to do with them? Of course not, they were far too young. All they knew was that Mommy had left and they had to go live with strangers. How about when I went through my Bingo phase and left them far too often with babysitters? What about the men in their lives as children? First there was their father, making promises he never kept, telling them they didn't come first in his book, and almost always coming up empty handed on birthdays and Christmas. Let's not forget Doug, too, and his military type parenting, degrading them every chance he got, or Tyler and his physical abuse which had obvious repercussions. No, these kids were not shown by anyone that they were really, truly and unconditionally loved, so how can anyone expect them today to be strong, independent, self assured adults? Actually, sometimes I even wonder if any of us are even capable of love in its true form when we have never experienced it ourselves.

So, here we are in two thousand and eleven. Sometimes, when I sit down and think about it, I find it totally amazing that I made it this far, or at the very least that I'm still somewhat sane. I have been very blessed in life though with a couple of very special friends with whom I would never have made it. One of course is Lynda. She has stood by me through everything, always being my greatest support and advocate. Whenever I have been in trouble, whether it be financially, emotionally or where I just made a really bad choice, she has been there to help me get back on my feet. When everyone else turned their back on me as a teen, calling me crazy or psycho, she was still by my side. I never thought how it might have made her feel back then, if I embarrassed her at all. I'm sure I did many times and yet she never complained. It didn't occur to me as an adult if she felt I wasn't reliable or stable enough and that was why I wasn't to be her maid of honor at her wedding, but instead a bridesmaid. She had every right I suppose to not want to trust something so important to me. With my instability I'm not sure I would have that kind of faith in me either. But still, instead of reasoning her decision out, I just took it as a horrible slight and almost didn't go. Thank God she phoned me that one day and asked me to please come, that she needed me. For once I could be there for her, even if it did hurt terribly that I was seen by the one person in my life that mattered, as unreliable. I had brought it all on myself though, hadn't I?

In forty years there has only been one other time that I can remember Lynda and I disagreeing and it was over Marie. It was when Marie came home to live with me after my grandmother's funeral. Lynda thought I was nuts, knowing her history, and she told me as such. Again, at first I didn't think about how she could have come to this conclusion, only that she had said something so negative about my child. No parent ever wants to hear that, not from anyone. At least not until they are wise enough to understand it and accept it. But, that's the great thing about Lynda that I have learned to admire and trust in, her honesty, no matter how much it may hurt. Most of the time though she shows her mastery intact, allowing me to come to the conclusion needed myself. I have so much to be thankful for when it comes to Lynda and yet I find it impossible to come up with the words that could ever express it properly. I don't feel I deserve her friendship, that it is far too one sided with her always having to be there for me. Sadly however, I'm not sure I'd know how to help her, our lives are completely different and she is so much smarter and wiser than I could ever hope to become. Still, to this day, I will call her on a regular basis for advice, comfort, laughter, and just great conversations. Having such a good friend, a sister really, is a true blessing and one we should never take for granted. I can only pray that I never have.

Another person who has made a big difference in my life is one I didn't physically meet until after six years of knowing each other. It all started right after Sean went to school that day and cried havoc, sending all our lives into a downward spiral. I would have one saving grace that kept me from drowning in my emotions over the next few months and that would be an online game called "World of Warcraft." As pathetic as it may sound, and I grant you it probably is, I found I could emerge myself in a fantasy world and forget all about my troubles in the real world, even just for a little bit. While there I met a few people who I can genuinely call friends and after almost seven years of playing together we have become quite close.

One especially has become a very special person to me and he goes by the online name of Tsubaki. We met the very first time we both logged onto the game and have been inseparable since, so to speak. Hardly a day has gone by where we haven't talked on MSN chat, if not in game and there is very little that we don't know about each other. Together we have helped one another through some very tough times just by being there to listen and to show support.

With Tsubaki living on the other side of the world, in Australia, we thought we would never meet, but in December of two thousand and ten he came to visit. As he walked out of customs, both of us wondered separately how awkward it would feel to actually be able to give each other a real hug. After over six years of companionship though we should have never worried, there was absolutely no uneasiness for either of us. He stayed here in our hometown for a week, discovering snow and ice cold temperatures for the first time and loving every minute of it. At the end of his stay, Tsubaki took Anthony and me to California for ten days to enjoy all the sights with him. It was an amazing holiday, where we also got to meet others from our online community and one holiday none of us will soon forget. I will be forever grateful to him for what he did for Anthony by taking him along. The little guy had been through so much already in his seven short years and I could never have dreamed of being able to do something like that for him.

Over the last couple of years my mother and I have talked about her finding a companion, someone for her to go on holidays with or just so she doesn't feel quite so alone. Trying to make her feel better I often joke with her, telling her not to feel bad, that I'm half her age, have been alone for years and probably always will be. I actually don't see me ever meeting anyone with whom I could live, but nor could anyone live with me, I'm sure. I have yet to make a friend here in town so in three years I have never had a girls night out or a coffee date or anything for that matter. But unlike my mother, I'm not alone, not really. I have Anthony to keep me company, who as I said talks almost nonstop and is quite demanding of my time and energy. Having no real friends himself we kind of need each other, at least for now. Between movies, walks, bike rides, games, puzzles, painting and reading I fight to find time for my writing during the day, so where would I find time for anyone else? It's okay though, I don't mind taking this ride solo again, just hopefully this time there aren't nearly as many potholes or curves to send us flying in directions we never desired to take.

If anyone was to ask me if there is a moral, a point behind my writing this book, it would only be, as I said in the beginning, to allow others to experience what life is like for someone with a mental illness. I tried to show this by telling my story and how each individual situation affected me. I do believe a lot of what I went through was because of my illness, my inability to cope, to reason, to think and act responsibly and appropriately at times. Granted some of it was out of my control, and the effects of a few will be with me forever. Each one though has made me who I am today and in many ways that is a positive thing, but not all. I am definitely wiser, financially smarter, and much more aware of my physical health. Where I suffer however is still in my inability to cope with day to day stress, my lack of patience and my incredible, yet so obvious loss of memory and intellect. Where I used to intimidate others I now feel like a child next to those same people. I cannot hold an intellectual conversation with anyone anymore. Instead I only feel lost and confused by words that are like gibberish to me. Any signs of creativity that I had as a youth or young adult are now gone. I would give anything to be able to write a fictional novel, it has been my dream for a very long time, and yet I can't even put my head around a single idea.

I feel as if a part of me, a large part, is gone. It's like I missed something important in my life and will remain searching for it for eternity, never quite able to grasp what it was. Simply put I think I missed my calling, so to speak, because this is not how I was supposed to end up. Nevertheless, I will remain here, as I am, for Anthony's sake, until he is grown. Over the years though, especially the last three, I have learned to continue on, even without accepting who I am. I have tried, so very hard, and continue to do so to make a decent person of myself and to be there for my family. I'm definitely not proud of myself in any way except possibly that I never did kill myself nor am I looking for pity in what I have been through or who I've grown to be. I only feel appreciation. For somewhere out there, I can only hope, is someone who might actually be able to relate, to understand, and maybe finally someone who can look me in the eye and say, " It's ok, you've done good kid....it's alright to let go now."

#

Epilogue

# "Where are they now?"

Peter and Cindy have separated due to Peter's adulterous ways. Having cheated on many women before, including myself, it was something that came to be expected of him. This time though, he went too far in my opinion and proceeded to perform one of the most disgusting, sick things a person could do. In two thousand and seven, when Cindy was at home with me, Peter took a trip to Cindy's hometown. While there he picked up Cindy's youngest daughter, a girl of eighteen, to bring her to stay with her mom for a while. Having grown up away from Cindy, they agreed it was time they got to know each other. However, during the course of the next two days, while they were on the road travelling in his semi towards her mother, Peter had sexual relations with the girl. Then, to top it off, after bringing the girl to her mother, they again left together and continued their relations for weeks which ended in the inevitable, she became pregnant. Cindy tried to keep it together, but seriously, who could remain mentally stable after something like this? It took four years for her to be able to stand up for herself and admit she could never let go of what he had done but at least she finally did. Personally I could never have even looked at him again after that, but then how do you deal with your daughter as well, when the acts were consensual? Now, Cindy has a granddaughter that is her husband's daughter...try putting your head around that one because I can't. I feel for Cindy, no matter what our history consists of and only wish her the best. In fact now I can honestly say that she is one of my closer friends. As for Peter, I talk to him because we have children together, twenty seven years of history, and have been like friends for many of those years, but honestly, where I had grown to pity the person he was, I now only see a very sick individual.

Sean has managed to get along quite well as an adult. At the age of twenty two he has worked for WalMart for quite a few years, taken a Caribbean cruise, and has had a steady girlfriend for four years. He lives in his own suite in a home owned by his caregivers of the last six and a half years where he is as independent as possible. The caregivers provide him with his meals, do his laundry, help keep his suite clean and take him to appointments that are out of town. Sean gets around using the bus system and his power chair, and is quite well known around town, although not always in the best of light. Sometimes his inability to logically think things out has caused problems. One example would be the time he was driving his wheelchair down the side of the highway. Weaving around as he does because he can't properly control the joystick on the chair, he scared the hell out of many drivers as he came close to putting himself into the driving lane. His reason for doing this? He was late for work and thought it would be a quicker route there. That time the police received many calls about him and his erratic 'driving' and they were forced to go find him and help him get back to the main roads of the city. It is times like that incident that cause me worry that one day I will lose Sean to a horrific traffic accident.

As for our relationship, it isn't anything near what you could call close. We do talk regularly, although it isn't very often he communicates with either his brother or sister. Sean's general attitude has grown to become one that I had truly hoped would never develop. Years ago, while at a conference pertaining to disabled children, I met a woman who also had Cerebral Palsy. She spent the entire weekend expecting everyone, but mainly me for some unknown reason, to be at her beckon call. If I didn't answer to her immediately she would get all huffy and almost yell my name in a very rude manner, as if I was her slave. Not wanting to make a scene or call any more attention to myself, I would just do as she asked. It was a very long, frustrating weekend that I swore to never repeat. When I returned home I went straight to Sean and told him that he had better never turn into a person who felt the world owed him everything, just because he was disabled. Well, sadly my warning didn't work because he has done just that. He is an arrogant, self righteous human being who consistently uses others to benefit himself. He always refuses to admit he was wrong and is quite rude with everyone around him. I am not pleased with the man he has turned into, but am thankful that we at least have the relationship that we do. He is, after all, my son.

Daniel continues to struggle his way through life, always trying desperately to improve his situation. Having earned his driver's license, sadly, as far too many teens seem to, Daniel took it for granted. Feeling himself immune to any form of reprisal he ignored the rules set by the terms of his current class of license and paid for it dearly. Owing over eighteen hundred dollars in fines, for such actions as driving with too many people in the car, his license had been suspended until the money owed was paid in full. After a year without it, he now realizes how valuable a driver's license is but of course, he had to learn the hard way. Now, as he drives down the road in his new Ford F 150, he is extremely aware of all the laws drivers are governed by.

After months of being unemployed Daniel finally found work in a warehouse. Loving anything physical, the job suits him fine for the last year, but he wants so much more out of life. With a desire to better his situation he is currently working out daily to increase his strength and endurance in the hopes of passing the physical tests required to begin Firefighter training. This has been a dream of his since he was a little boy and I am so proud that he hasn't given up.

While he had been unemployed he inadvertently fell behind on his child support payments. Since getting hired at the warehouse, Daniel has not only paid off every penny owing but has also never missed another payment. For him, there is only one person in this world that everything he does revolves around and that is his daughter, Arianna.

After Amber announced that she wanted to take Arianna and move to a city fourteen hours away, Daniel was forced to call a lawyer. Thankfully though they were able to settle things out of court, both agreeing to move and start over in this new city. Both Ambers family and myself were glad for the change as it put them all much closer to where we all lived. Today Daniel and Amber live within a thirty minute drive of each other with Arianna living with her mother but her daddy takes her every Saturday through Monday. After being on Social Assistance for a year, Amber now has a full time job at a restaurant and is doing very well. All I hope for is continued stability in their lives, with no fighting and stress, for the sake of that sweet innocent little angel, Arianna.

Marie. Wow, what do I say, where do I start? She has been through so much over the last year. She has met the man of her dreams, her Superman and they are head over heels for each other. Unfortunately they live a nine hour drive away from Anthony and I and a ferry ride away from little Ben so they don't get to see either of them too often. At least though, when she is in her hometown, where Ben lives, she gets to spend time with him, that is, when Rick will let her. Being a total control freak, Rick has taken it upon himself to decide when Marie can see their son and whether or not she can be alone with him. I have told Marie many times that all she needs to do is get a lawyer to stop all of Rick's charades, and thankfully she has finally heeded my advice.

I don't know fully what makes my daughter tick. In fact, I really have no idea. Every time I feel I understand a little bit about her, something will happen that will take what I learned and flip it over on its head. I wish I knew what it was she wanted out of life, and then maybe it would at least put my mind at ease somewhat. Not knowing anything though, always having to be ready for the unexpected is a very hard way to always be thinking about your child, even when they are an adult. She's talked about cooking courses, mechanics, law school, and photography, but sadly has done nothing about any of them. She has found a job now which she seems to enjoy and has been doing well for quite a few months now.

One thing I am not proud of and which saddens me greatly is how I have grown to not believe much of what Marie tells me. To some degree it became the same with Daniel as well, but with him it was almost always to just not disappoint me. With Marie though, I find it to be much more based around getting either attention or money. Her lies become excuses for her not having a stable life, like saying she is sick so often to skip work, eventually leading to her getting fired for missing too many days. I know Marie's health isn't the greatest; she gets that from me, the low immune system, but I also know when she is full of B.S. Or, at least I thought I did.

One day I received a call from her telling me she had found a lump in her right breast. She was quite upset about it, as anyone would be, but I just didn't know if it was true. I was used to Marie's dramatics, so her reaction wasn't unexpected. In fact I was used to them being part of the act. So many times in the past I was sure she had used supposed health problems to get attention. Then, not hearing another thing about this supposed lump for weeks, I just chocked it up to another bunch of lies.

Unexpectantly one afternoon she phoned me again about the lump, saying it had grown and that she was going for an ultrasound later in the week. Again I didn't put much stock into what she was telling me. Then, two days later, my phone rang and when I picked it up, I was greeted by Marie in tears. She had gone for her ultrasound and they had discovered that it wasn't just a cyst in her right breast, so immediately they had done a core biopsy. Normally I would have wondered of her honesty but this time it was different. This time I would feel like a terrible, terrible parent. Why? Because this time she had proof and e-mailed it to me right then; a picture of her ultrasound, clearly showing not only her name and the date, but also her lump and the markings the technician had put on it.

Never before have I felt like such a rotten human being. I hadn't believed her, not one little bit. I had seen it as just another attention getter. I suppose I had some right to doubt her, knowing her history, but that doesn't change this feeling of guilt I now carry.

Thanks to my mom, because I never could have afforded it, Mom, Anthony and I would spend two weeks with all the kids and grandkids back home. It isn't very often we can all get together now; none of us make enough money to travel really, so this was quite special for everyone. Sadly though, two days after we arrived, Marie and I were sitting in her doctors office, listening to him explain that the results of her biopsy had tested positive for cancer. Within forty eight hours we were again sitting in a doctor's office, this time a surgeons though. Just five days following that appointment Marie would undergo a lumpectomy. Shortly after that she would have a double mastectomy and the start of what would be a long, hard battle as anyone's is when dealing with the big C.

Well, there you have it. This has been and is my life. Much of it is based on my own memories, but just as much has come from others, like Lynda, because I just couldn't remember. As I wrote this some things started to come back to me and I wonder now if this book was such a good idea after all. Some memories are pushed down so low they can't be accessed for a reason. Other parts I still have no recollection of and it is still like hearing about someone else's life. With those I feel like I have either written intruding information about someone other than myself for which I'm going to get in trouble for, or pure fallacy. The thing is though that most of these missing memories are not what I would call pleasant nor do they show me in a positive light, so why would Lynda and others lie to me? They wouldn't.

Part of my life I would be forced to research and the results were both enlightening and humiliating. Having no idea how many ECT treatments I had been subjected to, I requested my files from the two hospitals that I know I had had them done. I found it very scary yet interesting discovering the exact amount and learning all there was to do with it, like how much electricity was sent through my brain and for how long. What I hadn't planned on discovering was the mental shape I had been in during that period of my life and how disturbed a young woman I really had been. I was totally disgusted in myself with what I read to the point of feeling physically sickened. My current family doctor had asked to see the files, in order to help me understand some of the terms they had used, but I have chosen to not only never let him see them, but no one else will either. It is hard enough to keep myself in a fairly positive light with others, as it is with most people who suffer from chronic depression, that I am not going to make it worse by letting anyone see into my past and the person I had been. I am no longer that lost, confused and pathetic human being. I am now, simply, Lee.

