A SEVEN-YEAR GOODBYE
A JOURNEY THROUGH CHILD LOSS AND BEYOND
Margo Gallagher
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Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 by Margo Gallagher
www.asevenyeargoodbye.com
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Table of Contents
Chapter 2 - Before The Beginning … There was David
Chapter 4 - What Goes Around Doesn’t Always Come Back Around
Chapter 6 - Letters, Anniversary Blues, and More
Chapter 10 - Aaronsville U.S.A.
Chapter 11 - Recuerdos del Corazon
Chapter 12 - Seven Years Later
Chapter 13 - End of the Beginning
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This book is dedicated with love to
Daniel, James and Aaron
Forever and always,
Mom
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Prologue
Hello and welcome.
Thanks for this opportunity to share part of my personal history with you. There is a good chance that you are reading this because you have either lost a child, or know someone who has. A Seven-Year Goodbye is simply my story, an account of my unique experience. It is about my journey through the first seven years following the death of my son Aaron. It is also a way to keep his memory alive. I look forward to introducing him to you.
This is not a grief book, not a “how to heal” guideline, and not a spiritual manual. Nor is it a “Grieving for Dummies” or the “Idiots Guide to the Death of Your Family Members” book. It is not designed to depress or frighten you, and I am not professionally qualified to dispense advice.
But this is an extension of my sincere desire to reach out and offer my hand and heart to those who are grieving and to those who support us. My memoir is written with honesty and humor. It is told through some of the letters I’ve written to my son Aaron, and by moments in time that relate to the aftermath of his death. Devastated and broken, I had to find my way out of the darkness and back into the light. I will take you through some of my deepest thoughts, feelings, and my healing process on the following pages of this book.
I am forever grateful for the grief support services I received from our local Hospice chapter. I could not have made it through this devastation without the support and inspiration from those who have walked this path before me, and those who walk along side of me. My Hospice child loss support group gave me the profound gift of connection I so desperately needed. The bond I formed with others who have also lost a child has been vital to my well-being. It is now my time to walk with you.
Aaron is still my son, and always will be. Nothing can erase the years we had together, or take away my feelings for him. My relationship with him continues, just in a very different way. I don’t deny the pain, or the good that has resulted in my life since his death. My reality was changed and rearranged in ways I could never have imagined. Going through the intense grief and adjusting to life without Aaron has been the hardest work I have ever done in my life.
Thank you for courageously joining me on this journey through child loss and beyond. There was a bright light at the end of my long, dark tunnel. May there be one waiting for you as well. Safe travels on your own personal journey.
Margo Gallagher
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Chapter 1
Endless Journey
My son Aaron was born in San Francisco on August 6, 1982. His father, David, had committed suicide a few months before I gave birth. At age 25, I experienced the deepest effects of both life and death. In my depths of intense heartache and grief over David, I also experienced the miracle of childbirth, bringing the greatest happiness ever.
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December 2008
I’m in the shower this morning, hot water pounding on my skin, rousing me from a deep but broken sleep. Thoughts run through my barely conscious mind, weaving a disorganized pattern of memory from nearly seven years ago. As my unsettled brain jumps to more recent times, I begin to think about my friends Pam and Shawn, who helped me through some of my darkest hours. This thought leads to how I would do things differently if I were awarded a do-over during the time when my mom, Dennis, and Aaron died. It seems almost amusing as I reflect on how miserable I was then and how content and at peace I am now. Then the tears come. I start to miss Aaron. I stand there in disbelief until the hot water runs out.
Tripping down memory lane prompts me to recollect and record the series of life-changing events that shattered my world.
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The Gory Details
My mom, Maxine, died January 2, 2001. Her breast cancer had returned, aggressively invading her body after a two-year remission, causing intense pain and distress. Taking care of her medical, physical, and emotional needs came naturally to me, and I enthusiastically slipped into the role of her primary caretaker, with help from my brothers, their wives, and a few of mom’s closest friends. I was close to Mom, in a “friend” kind of way. I don’t recall her being a very happy or nurturing mother when we were growing up, even though I knew she loved us. Mom was intellectually brilliant, politically and socially active, but felt oppressed as a wife and mother. When I was around 10 years old, she divorced my father, and as soon as my two brothers and I were teenagers, she moved to Southern California to attend UCLA and fulfill her academic dreams. We visited throughout the years, but it wasn’t until some 30 years later, when she returned to Northern California, that we truly reconnected. She moved to a small house in my neighborhood so she could be near us during her last few years. Her death hit me hard. Both of my parents were gone now, and feelings about her leaving me that I had suppressed, surfaced. I was so happy to have her back in my life after all of those missed years. Then, she was removed again, this time permanently. Depressed and upset, I leaned heavily on my husband Dennis for support.
I officially met Dennis in my living room when Aaron was around 6 years old; my roommate was his best friend and co-worker at the Mill Valley Fire Department. He followed me around the house trying to talk to me, but I really wasn’t too interested. He asked me out, and I told him no. I refused him several more times, but then he persuaded me to let him take Aaron out on a boat ride to Angel Island. It rained on the day we had planned for the outing, so he offered to come over to the house and make us dinner instead. The idea of having a meal ready when I got home from work really appealed to me! That afternoon, when I picked up Aaron from after-school care, he wasn’t feeling well. When we arrived at home, Dennis was already preparing dinner. As soon as we walked in the door, Aaron began throwing up, starting in the living room and leaving a trail of vomit in each room as we made our way to the bathroom. I took him into my bedroom, calmed him down, and changed his clothes. I began snickering to myself, “This will get rid of Dennis; a single guy without kids will never be able to tolerate my life!” Problem solved - or so I thought.
As we entered the kitchen, I was fully prepared to say good-bye. What I found, instead, was Dennis with a bucket of hot water and disinfectant, cleaning up after Aaron. He then proceeded to finish cooking dinner for us. He won me over that night with his kindness, acceptance, and strength of character.
We moved in together after dating for three months, and were married a short year later. He graciously and happily assumed the role of Aaron’s dad. We were very compatible and happy together. Dennis was strong and stable, and he loved and cared for Aaron and me. In 1992 we had James, and then Daniel in 1995. Dennis, who was from a large family, had always wanted kids, and was a loving and active father. He doted on me, allowing me to be a devoted, full-time, at-home mom. I was living my dream. We were together for 12 wonderful years.
Exactly four months after Mom’s death, on April 30, 2001, Dennis suffered a massive heart attack. He had just been on a five-day break from work and was home cooking dinner. Our boys, 9-year-old James and 6-year-old Daniel, along with James’ friend Micah, were seated at the kitchen table. Aaron, age 18, was away on a trip in San Diego visiting some friends. I was in the living room finishing up a phone conversation. I came in for dinner and sat down next to Dennis. He turned to me and said, “I’m having chest pains, I hope they’re just psychological, but I don’t think so.” I looked him straight in the eyes, took him by the hand, and led him into the living room, away from the kids. As we walked, he calmly commanded, “Call 911. I’m having a heart attack.” I carefully repeated his request and then dialed the emergency number. We sat side-by-side on our blue couch, and within moments he began to convulse. I held onto him and frantically told him I loved him over and over again. His body slumped down, neck bent backwards while gasping and sucking furiously for air, like a fish out of water. All of a sudden, I felt his spirit release upward and I knew that he was no longer there. I began to panic as his convulsions became fierce. His face turned beet red, with white froth bubbling from his mouth. Then he collapsed, falling unconscious to the floor.
Where were the paramedics? I called again, screaming into the receiver. I got my brother Joel, also a firefighter, on the phone. He tried to get me to perform CPR, but I couldn’t function. I ran outside and saw two women taking a walk. I ordered them to get my neighbors. Kat came over and tried to do some CPR, with no results. Mike from across the street ran over and removed the kids from the house. I watched their faces as they passed the living room and witnessed what appeared to be their dead father on the floor, and me falling apart. Eleven minutes later, an impossibly long emergency response time, the paramedics arrived, eventually taking Dennis’ lifeless body away on a stretcher. I sat on the front porch bench and shook fiercely and uncontrollably while my neighbor and friend Helen tried without success to calm me down.
At first I couldn’t reach Aaron, who was due back soon from his trip to San Diego, but then he called to say he was almost home. I calmly told him that Dad was in the hospital; he’d had a heart attack but was O.K. I didn’t disclose the urgent details, wanting to make sure he drove safely the rest of the way home. It was in the ICU that he learned the truth. At only 18 years of age, he faced the situation like a man. He tenderly held Dennis’s lifeless body, taking the time to softly speak to him. The last words he said before he left the room were, “I love you.”
Dennis was kept on life support for two days. He was declared 100% brain dead, with no hope for survival. Hundreds of family members and friends, along with his firefighter/paramedic co-workers, came by to hold vigil in a room adjacent to his. I also visited him, but I knew his body was vacant, as I had witnessed the release of his spirit during his heart attack. Hooked up to tubes and respirators, smelling like death and unable to respond, there was nothing coming from his ashen, lifeless body except the strong, silent command for me to leave and go home to our traumatized boys. It seemed disrespectful to stand there and watch his body in such a compromised position. I knew he would not want that to be my last memory of him. At 4:00, May 2, 2001, we allowed life support to be removed, and at 47 years of age, Dennis Gallagher was officially pronounced dead.
Aaron and I drove home in silence. James and Daniel anxiously asked for news about their dad. They looked so young and innocent, all of that about to be taken away. As the three of us huddled on the couch together, I gently and straightforwardly explained, “Dad died this afternoon. Nobody did anything wrong, he had a heart attack. It’s the worst tragedy, but we are going to be O.K.” I tried to reassure them that I would always take care of them, and told them how much I loved them, and how much their dad loved them. They wailed and sobbed; we all cried and just held on tightly to each other.
That had to be one of the most heart-breaking moments I’ve ever experienced. Life as we knew it was forever changed.
One week later, around 1,000 of Dennis’s family, friends, community members, and co-workers attended his funeral. It began with a rescue helicopter flying over the church, and bagpipers leading folks to their seats. It was an amazing tribute, but I was still in a deep state of shock, and continued to run back and forth to the bathroom, sick to my stomach, throughout the entire event.
The following year would become inarguably the worst year of my life so far. I remained in a state of shock for about three months. Tidal waves of fear, anxiety, sleeplessness, body pain, crying, and continual nausea swept through me constantly, without any relief. Every ounce of my emotional and physical being hurt, and once the shock began to wear off, my assaulted state worsened. The intense crying and stomach pains would not stop. I holed up in my room for most of that year, coming out only to take care of the boys. I thought about Dennis day and night, night and day. Missing him was so intense it would make me feel sick, like having the flu. After about six months, the path from my bedroom to the outside world began to seem really long and treacherous. On a good day, I could spend some time in the backyard. On a bad day, the hallway from my bedroom was a journey too long to endure.
To make matters worse, there was a complication in receiving Dennis’s pension from the fire department, so we had no income and our medical and dental insurance were terminated. The monthly cost of Aaron’s medicines alone reached into the thousands, hospitalizations and frequent specialist appointments became, well, unthinkable. Whatever money I had left in savings was used for medical and living expenses. With the help of my brother Matt, we found an attorney who took on our case to help us get Dennis’s pension.
Looking back, the really sad part was that there was so much help available, but I just couldn’t access it. If I couldn’t make it out of my bedroom, how was I supposed to get to an appointment? At one point, a friend offered to drive me to Kaiser to try and get some anti-anxiety medication. It was horrible. When we arrived, I couldn’t get out of the car. Being around people and feeling so far away from my safety zone overwhelmed me. The kind doctor actually came out to the car to see me. How humiliating! For me, that experience only validated the pathetic-ness of my existence. Inertia set in, worsening my anxiety and depression. People tried to help me, but I was such a mess that I would alienate anyone who came close. Fortunately, I discovered Safeway.com, a grocery delivery service! Because each time I would try to shop, I’d run into someone who would offer condolences or want to talk about what had happened. Then the walls would start to close in on me, and I’d begin to hyperventilate and would need to leave immediately. Eventually, I quit shopping. I hated being around people, and hated being alone. There was no comfort zone, ever. As the year progressed, my mental and physical state only worsened. Even though I was still alive, I felt spiritually dead. The only thing I cared about was my boys, who were also in a state of shock and deeply grieving. We all slept together at night for the entire first year, and we rarely separated, except for the time they spent at school. Somehow I dragged my zombie self out of my room to be with them each day. Through my heavy fog I could see that they desperately needed to be close to me and know that I could still care for them. I left behind a vibrant, happy life of volunteering in their classrooms, being room parent and team mom for baseball, of play dates, park and beach trips, family dinners, big birthday parties, and of celebrating many joyful occasions. My sons no longer had the Dad who loved them so much, now they would have to grow up fatherless. The pain of that realization, and my inability to do what I loved most-be a mom-almost destroyed me.
When I reflect upon that devastatingly miserable first year after Dennis died, I just shudder with humiliation. I wish I could have been the model grieving widow, who handled herself with dignity, grace, words of wisdom and some sense of composure. I should have been one of those widows that you see on T.V., the ones that men pursue because they’re so helpless and beautiful. No, not me! I was about as clumsy and messed up as possible. I think I did almost everything wrong. From screaming and running out the front door as Dennis lay dying on the floor, to self-isolating, to alienating almost everyone I knew, I continued to self-destruct. Angry, exhausted, spiritually void, my focus was on surviving each day.
The miserable first year passed, and some of the heaviness that enveloped me began to lift, ever so slightly. Then, all of a sudden, there was clarity. I understood what was important. What mattered most was who was still here-James and Daniel, Aaron, and myself. I owed us a family, in whatever form I could provide. We were all deserving, and we would have to make a new life, adapting to our changes. I ordered a huge dumpster, threw out lots of clutter, donated even more. We got a roommate, who, in lieu of rent, painted the house and maintained our neglected outside property. We re-arranged the furniture and I retired my truck and bought a reliable car.
I tried everything I could think of to feel better. I went to see two different therapists, then a behavior modification physician. I dusted off those well-intentioned grief books on my shelf and began reading them. Hospice offered a support group for widows, which gave me a much-needed sense of connection. I tried relaxation tapes, spent time alone, spent time with others. I even went to see a guy who claimed anything could be cured by a tapping method, so I tapped away ninety dollars per session. I had a physical exam, saw a nutritionist, and in the middle of a sleepless night, I actually ordered an expensive self-help course from an infomercial. How embarrassing! Nothing really helped all that much, but at least I felt good about trying to get better. Something would eventually have to work! I hung onto the words of a young rabbi who visited me during my worst time. After realizing that my grief was too deep to be consoled by Hebrew prayers, he turned to me, placed his hands on my shoulders, and gently said, “I wish you moments, just one moment of peace.” That made so much sense. I could have a moment. And I did. One moment of sitting on the front porch breathing in the fresh air and feeling the sun on my face turned in to two moments of something else, and those moments turned into minutes, hours, and so on. Slowly, I began to live my life again, adding in only what I could handle.
Little did I know that I would need these newly acquired life skills and some of my strength back to carry me through the next and most intense phase of my life.
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The Following Year
Miraculously, I somehow survived that first devastating year after my mom’s and Dennis’s death. Aaron, now 19, informed me that he needed to become independent and move out, to live on his own. This was understandable, but given his declining physical health and my mental state, I would have preferred that he wait a while. But, Aaron had his own plans. An unexpected inheritance had come his way, and he became part-owner of a condo across town. I had to support his need for independence, to let him go, even though everything inside of me screamed out for him to stay. I somehow knew that this was the first stage of our permanent separation. I missed the day-to-day interactions with him, even though we spoke on the phone and saw each other frequently.
His health was deteriorating at a faster pace, and I could do nothing to stop it. There was never a time in his life when I entertained the notion that he might actually die from his illness, even though to others it was clearly a possibility.
Glimpsing at that reality for the first time struck terror in me. I knew I did not have the stamina or strength to endure such a loss, and I couldn’t imagine the devastating effects it would have on James and Daniel. They looked up to him and needed his love and guidance now more than ever.
But sometimes, life doesn’t give options. Aaron’s lung capacity began to drop and breathing on his own became more difficult. After a grueling six-month medical process, he was put on a list for a lung transplant, which would buy him many more years of life and allow him to breathe fully. We put all of our hopes into this and I just knew it would work. After all, I had many of Dennis’s body parts donated after his death, and what goes around comes around. I believed that Dennis was still caring for us and would make sure Aaron’s needs were met. With all systems in place, we began to wait for new lungs.
Aaron was on oxygen now, visibly very ill, and in need of advanced medical care. We had a heart-to-heart talk about him moving back home. I would turn the garage into an independent living area; take care of him through surgery and beyond. Once he was well enough, he could move out again. He was ready to return home. The following evening, a friend and I picked him up. It was difficult for him to catch his breath, and he needed to use oxygen full-time now. I was so scared. He told me not to worry; I could take him to Kaiser Hospital in the morning.
When I awoke, I found him slumped against a wall, barely alive, desperate for air. The paramedics were called and quickly attended to his needs. I witnessed Aaron, strapped onto the stretcher, being wheeled out of the house and loaded into the back of an ambulance. For the first and last time, I was forced to confront his frailty, and had to choke down my fear. I wanted this to be like all the other times he was sick: just a bad pneumonia from which he would heal eventually.
Denial was my best friend and my worst enemy.
Aaron was admitted to the Intensive Care Unit at Kaiser Hospital, and he stayed there for two weeks, until his death. He was put on a respirator, and remained semi-conscious for a few days and then unconscious for the remainder of his stay. There were no new lungs, and because I firmly held on to my belief that he could and would be O.K., I never took the opportunity to say a proper goodbye. We didn’t discuss his dying or talk about his final wishes.
However, I was able to connect with Aaron once again. While seated next to his hospital bed in the ICU, I began to read a letter that I had written to him the previous night. Though he was still unconscious, he began to cry, a quiet wail seeping out from his soul. I found my son again in that one brief and powerful moment, and I believe that he somehow managed to reach out to me. I knew that would be our last connection, and it was.
They would not let me take him home; he would not survive the transport. Each day passed painfully as I helplessly stood by and watched him rapidly deteriorate, as each new horrific symptom eroded his weakened body. The clear plastic drainage bag that used to be filled with infected mucus began filling with blood. Soft music played continuously and there was always someone there at his side. I still believed that he would pull through. My mind could not wrap itself around the idea of his impending death. I believed in Aaron, and I believed in my power as a mother.
Eventually my wall of denial crumbled, leaving me in despair. There was no one left who shared my faith in his survival, including all of my family, friends, the entire medical staff, and the team of specialists at Kaiser Hospital in Oakland. It was time to let go. We planned to remove life support at 8:00 on a Friday night. My cousin Steve drove me to the hospital, with my friend Michael by my side. Inside the ICU was a loyal group of family and friends, rushing to say their final goodbyes. Slowly, the crowd thinned, and a silent heaviness enveloped the room.
How does a mom say a final goodbye to her child? I knew that if I saw him die I would always be haunted by the memory, like I was with Dennis. I also knew that if I wasn’t with him at the time of his death, I would always be plagued with guilt. At the last minute, I ended up excusing myself prior to the removal of life support. This was a decision that I knew would cause me shame for the rest of my life, but I simply couldn’t bear to watch my child die. I sat in an adjacent room and waited, while about 10 close family members and friends remained with Aaron. Moments later, Aaron’s friend and roommate Allesandra walked up to me and very sweetly stated, “It’s over. He died very quickly and peacefully.” She handed me a long-stemmed red rose made of glass, which had been placed on Aaron during his last breaths.
After two weeks in intensive care and twenty years of battling this dreadful disease, my first-born son, Aaron David White Gallagher, was now dead.
The bright lights of the hospital gave way to the darkness of the night as Steve, Michael, and I made our way home. No words were spoken as I stared out of the car window into the blank sky. Fear, devastation, and some relief filled me, but it was the emotion of utter defeat that penetrated me down to my core. As I opened the door to our empty house, I felt sick with a combination of numbness, shock, and a broken heart that had sunk into the pit of my stomach.
The next morning, James and Daniel would have to be told that their brother was gone. Here we go again. I’d been honest with them, providing information each day of Aaron’s hospitalization. They chose not to visit him in the ICU and I respected that decision, knowing that their wounds from losing Dennis were still fresh, and they might not be able to handle the present situation. Conjuring up whatever strength I had left, I told my brave boys the awful truth, stripping away even more of their youthful innocence. They loved Aaron and looked up to him. I couldn’t even imagine how this new loss would affect them. I desperately wanted to protect my boys, but I knew that might not be possible. I felt their pain and anguish, and once again felt helpless to make things better. My role as a mom had been seriously beat up. Already emotionally compromised, and facing the reactions to death that unfortunately I knew all too well, I steadied myself for what lay ahead.
Planning the memorial came easy to me and I followed my clear vision. The fairgrounds building near our home was filled with over 350 friends and family members. My cousin Steve facilitated the service, and those close to Aaron spoke lovingly and passionately. Photos were set all around, and there were beautiful bouquets of 65 roses, a nickname for Cystic Fibrosis. Aaron’s favorite barbeque restaurant catered the event. I was determined to be present, to take it all in, and to be available to James and Daniel. Connecting to people who were connected to Aaron, all in one room, held me closer to him, if only for that brief ceremony.
My initial shock did its job of softening the blow and provided much-needed relief, but it soon gave way to numbness, due to unbearable pain and grief. With a permanently cut umbilical cord, Aaron was nowhere to be found. He was lost, and so was I. Nothing seemed to calm my inner panic. It was as though everything that I had ever known in my life became an unknown, including me. I began to believe that somehow I must have deserved this fate. Not only was I unable to save my own son, but the mistakes I felt I had made regarding decisions for his medical care came back to haunt me with relentless guilt. The thoughts of what I could have or should have done played obsessively in my mind. I begged the universe to let me be with my son again, and missing him consumed my every thought. The emptiness where Aaron used to exist left a hole too big to handle. Socializing became a chore. I felt as though everyone had expectations of me that were not possible to meet. Solitude was my greatest comfort, and existing quietly, alone, was my path of least resistance. Whatever religious beliefs I had simply vanished, they made no sense anymore and were of no comfort. My self-worth plummeted to an all-time low, and I believed that I didn’t stand any chance of redemption. I shut down, avoiding any feelings, except for anxiety and depression, which forcefully pushed their way forward. I no longer cried, because I felt nothing. In my distorted thinking, I didn’t even deserve to grieve.
Out of desperation, and somehow recognizing my seriously compromised mental state that had been eroding my ability to function over the last nine months, I joined a grief group dealing with loss of a child at our local Hospice chapter. Eagerly accepting the opportunity to participate, I looked forward to the first meeting and hoped for the best. I had no idea of how my life would change as a result of simply showing up.
It was there in the Hospice “reflection room,” with soft pastel colors, scented candles, and large windows overlooking a lush green garden that my healing process began. We came together as a group of ten strangers, all with the common experience of having recently lost a child. Our group leaders, Bev and Shannon, not only made us feel welcome and safe, they also honored us for our courage, and acknowledged our strength for what we had been forced to endure. For the first time since Aaron’s death, I began to let down my guard and open up. Instead of feeling judged for all of my irrational thoughts and behavior, I felt understood. Each one of us had been traumatized, and we came together in hope of connecting with others who were suffering similar losses. Collectively, we knew the pain, the anxieties, and the seemingly unusual side effects resulting from intense grief. We were all in the same situation, and even though each individual’s falling apart presented itself in a different form, that didn’t matter, as we innately understood each other.
After a few sessions, we were asked to introduce our child. I carefully wrote down my introductory pages, and put together some select photographs and memories. Through this process I finally began to feel the incredible loss as I assembled my presentation. Visibly shaking with an overwhelming barrage of emotions, I introduced my dead son, the one I thought no one would ever get to know again, to the other group members. It occurred to me that although he had died, he did not have to disappear. He would still be my son.
Slowly, with much trepidation, I opened up. I listened and heard the other participants’ stories as they introduced their deceased children. Their pain mirrored my own, and I hung on to every word and emotion, like a life raft. I had the honor of getting to know their children-Lisa, Phoebe, Brian, Ethan, Jennie, and Rosie. My healing process began in the room with these new friends, friends who simply understood. Our grief group formally met for eight weeks, but we have continued to meet regularly throughout the years. We have supported one another through each new grief phase and beyond, and through our darkest hours.
This is not my life story, nor does Aaron’s death define who I am. It is his life that has given me definition, shaped me, made me a first-time mom, taught me responsibility, love, and fulfillment. There is no “getting over his death” or “moving on,” but a process in which death is incorporated into life. Unfortunately, there is no way out but through, and nowhere to run. So I walk this path, whether I like it or not, gathering knowledge and new friends, and moving in different directions when necessary. For better or for worse, through times of great happiness and sorrow, I will continue on. This is my endless journey.
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Chapter 2
Before the Beginning
... there was David.
David and I met when I was in my early twenties and working as a waitress at The Crossroads, a local upscale restaurant. He was a regular customer, coming in often with his two young daughters, Sarah, 10, and Leah, 9. The girls seemed to adore their dad and I liked watching the way he related to them. He was very patient, protective, and doting, yet I could tell that he allowed them a lot of creative and personal expression. Even though I found him to be kind of rough around the edges and a bit eccentric, I was attracted and drawn to him. I would join him on my breaks, often engaging in lengthy philosophical discussions. Sometimes he would recite verses from famous poets or discuss the works of great authors, and even share some of his own writings.
We began spending time together outside of work, and one day he invited me on a camping trip at the beach with his kids and a few of their friends. We stayed up most of the night talking about life and everything else while being embraced by the clear cold ocean breeze. We saw each other every day after that and within a few weeks began living together. I felt as though I had known David my whole life, and that we were destined to be together.
David was in his mid-thirties, of Irish descent, tall and rugged looking with dark hair and eyes. He worked as a Longshoreman on the docks in San Francisco. Rebellious and free-thinking, he tended to lean toward the wild underworld side of life. He liked living on the edge. Once when we were walking through downtown San Francisco, David ran into an old friend of his, who was lying drunk, filthy, and homeless in the street. They greeted each other with enthusiasm, happy to reconnect. It made me a little apprehensive that he could even know someone like that, but at the same time I loved the fact that he accepted this man, one of society’s outcasts, as one of his friends.
I found David to be very appealing, different from most of the men that I met. He was physically strong and fearless, a great combination of brain and brawn, dangerous and mysterious, and a devoted, loving father. Wild horses couldn’t have dragged me away from him, even if they tried. Well, the horses may not have tried, but my family and friends sure did! They warned me about his drinking, financial instability, past violent behavior, our fifteen-year age difference, and the potential danger I might be putting myself in by staying with him. My dad was especially worried about me, and Mom thought I was just plain stupid. Still, being with David made me feel safe, happy, and protected. I could tell how much he loved me and I felt as though I was exactly where I needed to be, and that was with him.
We had been together for about a year when we moved three hours away to the semi-isolated rural town of Fort Bragg, on the ruggedly beautiful California coast. David owned some property a few miles outside of town. His dilapidated and condemned house had been a Wells Fargo stage coach stop at the turn of the century. It was situated on a few acres of land, surrounded by a eucalyptus grove and miles of sand dunes that spanned all the way to the ocean.
We worked on the property for more than a year, putting what little money we had into each new project. We tore the house apart room by room, replaced the entire foundation, and added a well system for our water supply. We spent most of that year together, just the two of us, and our husky-hound mix, Naomi. His daughters were living with their mom, but they came and stayed with us whenever they could. I loved spending time with the girls. They were beautiful, creative, self-reliant children who enjoyed running in the sand dunes picking wild flowers and drawing pictures.
David worked on-call, and each week would go to work in San Francisco for a few days at a time. There was no way to secure the house, and our area was without immediate police protection. Sometimes the electricity or phone service would go out for days at a time, and the cold coastal wind would howl through the partially built house, chilling me to the bone. On the nights he was gone, I was so terrified that I’d lay in bed, wide awake all night long.
By the end of that year we had run out of money and were unable to finish the house. David became increasingly stressed and argumentative, and his drinking began to escalate. His behavior became unpredictable, and I knew something was seriously wrong when instead of taking Naomi’s puppies to the shelter for adoption, he killed them by throwing them into the ocean.
I didn’t know what to do, so naturally, I decided to do the next, best, logical and sensible thing. Have a baby, of course! The urge to become pregnant was overwhelmingly strong and after all, I believed I was getting kind of old for motherhood at age 25. David also thought having a baby was a good idea and that it would make me happy. Within a very short time I was pregnant, sensing my unborn child’s energy almost immediately. I was fulfilled and living my dream, or so I thought.
David began to fall into dark moody periods that would last for days. He began to doubt if having this child was such a good idea after all. His unpredictability and the isolation that we had built together were beginning to scare me. After much persuasion, he agreed that we could go see a local marriage counselor. At our first and last appointment he stood up, overpowering and intimidating the therapist. He told him that he was full of shit, and asked him where he got his degree, flinging accusations about his credentials, and then stormed out of the room.
At this point, I became concerned for my safety; David’s behavior was becoming more and more erratic and out of control. He knew he was going downhill, so we came up with a plan for me to temporarily move back to the Bay Area and find a place for us to live. We talked about how we needed to get out of isolation for a while, be around family, secure better resources for childbirth, and for him to get the professional help he needed. We wanted to improve our lives together and I felt hopeful. I packed up a few boxes of my personal possessions, moved back to civilization, and temporarily rented a room at a friend’s house.
David and I had regular phone conversations, and in our absence from each other we became closer and more communicative. As much as we loved our rugged coastal lifestyle, he seemed ready to move back to our hometown area for a while. It seemed as though he was returning to his normal upbeat self, hopeful, telling me how much he loved me and how much I meant to him.
We had been apart for about two weeks, and when I didn’t hear from him one day, I had a strange feeling that something was dreadfully wrong. He wasn’t answering the phone, so I called the only person in the area that I knew, our closest neighbor, who lived about a quarter-mile away. She mentioned that our dog had been hanging around their house all day. I knew this wasn’t a good sign, since it wasn’t in Naomi’s nature to wander away if we were home. My neighbor wasn’t comfortable going over to the house, but said she would send her husband as soon as he returned from work. Waiting until evening seemed to take forever, and with the exception of our wandering dog, there was no evidence that anything was wrong. But I just knew, because I felt it in my bones.
Later that night I received a phone call from the Mendocino County Sheriff.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but there has been a death. It appears to be a self-inflicted rifle shot to the head. That’s all I can tell you for now. We are investigating the scene and will get back to you soon with more details.” I went into my room, and doubled over in pain and disbelief.
The next few weeks were a blur of constant activity. I spent most of my time with David’s family and his daughters, trying to make sense of it all. I hired a janitorial service to clean up the mess that was created by his death. A few of his close friends and my brother Joel went to our house in Fort Bragg to gather what few belongings they could find that were salvageable, and to bring back our dog, who had been staying with the neighbors.
The funeral came and went, and so did my friends and family. I avoided the inevitable attitude of “I told you so, what did you expect?” that came mostly from my mom and a few others, and hung close to those friends who hadn’t given up on me. Here I was, five months pregnant, penniless, single, living in a drafty rented room, stricken with grief and utterly defeated. I had been blinded to the serious dysfunction that I was immersed in, and now had to accept the outcome and deal with it.
My main concern was my unborn baby. I knew that taking care of myself would be paramount to the baby’s health and well-being, so I did the best I could, forcing myself to eat, rest, and get some daily exercise. I found a part- time job as a waitress, and also worked at a day care center, making just enough money for food and rent. I cried daily and spoke silently with David, and his presence appeared in my dreams nearly every night. I grieved deeply for David and also for a dream that died along with him.
Despite my despair, I also felt the magical moments of our baby growing and kicking inside of me. I experienced the deepest love I’d ever known. I felt a piece of David in my womb, which gave me great comfort. I felt the intense pleasure of a new life forming and the pain of one that had just ended. There was fear and hope, grief and happiness, all at the same time. I spent many hours in quiet thought, crying, nesting, and processing the full scope of feelings that were cycling through my being each day.
Labor began one warm August night. Sound asleep, I awoke to the sensation of amniotic fluid soaking my nightgown, and the unmistakable throb of uterine contractions. My brother Matt and two of my friends picked me up and we began the hour long drive to Kaiser Hospital in San Francisco. I wasn’t afraid, only excited that I would finally be able to meet the new soul that would become my child. After the admissions process was complete, I was put on a makeshift birthing cot in the hallway along with a bunch of other moms-to-be, because there were no rooms available. My friend Rita stayed with me, supporting me through each contraction; I delivered a healthy baby boy eight hours later. I was now a mom and so very much in love. We left the hospital the next day to start our new lives together.
Even though I really missed David and wished he could witness this most miraculous event, I wasn’t angry at him. I knew that he was troubled and couldn’t find his way out. I had sense enough not to take the blame for his suicide, even though my feelings were hurt that we weren’t enough motivation for him to want to live. The daily grieving lasted for one full year, and like clockwork, it was over. I knew this when I felt the absence of pain and grief in my heart.
I completely moved on, accepting my fate. There was no blame, resentment, or ill feelings toward David, nor was there any reason for me to hold on to someone who chose to let go of us. I embraced my new role of mom with passion. Aaron was a dream-come true. I had never been so in love before, and our connection was deep, beginning with the moment I found out I was pregnant and continuing throughout the years. It seemed as though I’d known Aaron longer than forever. I felt as though I was the lucky one, grateful because I was still here, experiencing the greatest joy I had ever known.
* * * * * * * *
Chapter 3
About Aaron
Poem by Aaron
May 19, 1993 (11 years old)
Outside the Midnight Cafe
Outside the midnight café
a bug is riding a motorcycle
through the street cracks.
A beetle is bowling with a roly-poly
as a bowling ball and splinters as the pins.
A quiet talking goes around
and a slight chocolate smell
scents the midnight air.
Aaron was one of the most likeable, radiant souls anyone would ever want to meet. Passionate about almost every subject, he could carry on a conversation with anyone, even at a young age. He sparkled with his broad toothy smile, bright and sunny nature, and people were easily drawn to him. He had a quick wit, contagious laugh, worldly ways, and spoke with such enthusiasm and animation that he usually had a captive audience. Aaron was funny as hell, fearless, extremely creative, a free thinker with a huge heart.
He also had Cystic Fibrosis, (CF) a progressive, life-threatening disease that primarily attacks the lungs and pancreas. Aaron was diagnosed at three months of age, when it was clear that he wasn’t growing as strong or as healthy as he should have been. Aaron took about 15 to 20 enzyme capsules daily to aid with food digestion, and frequently ingested antibiotics to prevent or cure lung infections. About three or four times a day, nearly every day of his life, he had to have chest therapy (postural drainage) to help move the sticky mucus out of his lungs. Chest therapy started with a portable breathing machine that allowed him to inhale medicine directly into his lungs, loosening up secretions. This was followed by me cupping my hands or using a small suction device to pound on his chest and back for about forty-five minutes, or until he was able to cough up the sticky, dormant mucus that could otherwise have damaged his lungs. As he matured, a vibrating vest was used for this procedure, taking place of the manual pounding. Starting at three months of age, hospitalizations were typically needed about once a year, but sometimes more often if his lungs became too infected for home care. Each visit would last about two weeks, with an intravenous antibiotic drip, and around-the-clock chest therapy. All of this, plus numerous trips to the pediatrician, pharmacy, and to out-of-town CF specialists, were just part of our medical routine.