Tag Archives: first time

Anniversary, part three

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Today I remember 9-11. I plan to write more about that day another time, but for now, I want to thank the firefighters, police, EMTs, and other emergency workers who made sacrifices that day (and everyday). I want to thank the men and women in the military who continue to fight to keep us free. 9-11 is a day we will never forget.

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Parts one and two of the story can be found here and here.

The drive home from the courthouse seemed long. I called my mom to tell her the order was granted. She said she was going to leave the house with Lauren so I could talk to Mike.

I went into the basement as soon as I got home. His parents were standing next to the couch where Mike was laying. I hadn’t been down there in several days. It was nasty. The room was dark and smelled awful. Garbage was everywhere – plates of dried food, crumpled paper, wrinkled bedding, empty alcohol bottles. The inflatable mattress where his parents had been sleeping was leaning against the wall; the fitted sheet falling off of it. The only light was coming from the TV flickers.

“Mike, I was at the courthouse this morning,” I said. No response. “The judge granted an order of protection, and a sheriff will be serving you the papers in the next 24 hours. I’m giving you the chance to leave with dignity. Get your stuff and get out before Ethan gets home from school.”

He raised his head, “You did WHAT? You fucking bitch! I’m not going anywhere!” Then he collapsed back into the couch, covering his face with a pillow.

I repeated myself and there was no response. Mike’s dad gestured for me to follow him upstairs.

Mike’s parents and I went into the family room. They sat on the couch opposite my chair. “Jackie,” Mike’s mom began. “He needs to go to the hospital.”

“OK,” I said. “Did he tell you that?”

“No,” she said. “We’ve told him that’s what he needs, but he refuses. I think he needs an ambulance.”

“Great,” I said, handing her the house phone. “Call 911.”

“Oh no,” Mike’s dad said. “We can’t do that. YOU need to do it.”

I argued with them for a few minutes about who should dial 9-1-1. I went back downstairs to look at Mike one more time. I kicked the couch in frustration and anger. He probably did need medical attention. It was obvious that even though his mom and dad had been with him in the basement (one of them had been at his side for DAYS), he had continued to drink. They had been unsuccessful at getting him to eat or drink, except for half an apple and a small glass of water an hour before I got home from the courthouse. Basically, Mike had gone almost a week with virtually no food or non-alcoholic drinks.

I dialed the phone and explained the situation to the dispatcher. An ambulance was on its way.

About five minutes later, the EMTs were at the house. I directed them downstairs. One stayed upstairs to ask me some questions. “When and what did he eat last?” he asked.

“Well, Mike’s parents would probably be the best source for anything relating to what’s happened in the last few days,” I said, looking around for them. They were not in the kitchen. They were not in the living room or family room or basement or bathrooms or upstairs or garage. They were gone.

“Just a minute,” I told the EMT as I dialed Mike’s mom’s cell phone. She picked up after about five rings.

“What?” she said.

“Hey, um, where the hell are you?” I asked, trying to keep my tone light. I was panicked and pissed at them.

“We left.”

“What the hell? Where are you? You made me call the ambulance then you BAIL?”

“We’re just around the corner, watching from our car. We’re going back to Indiana when the ambulance takes him,” she said.

“Yeah, couple of things. The EMTs have very specific questions that I can’t answer because I haven’t been with him lately – YOU HAVE. They need you to answer questions about what he’s eaten and drank and what he’s been doing. And two, Mike can’t stay here anymore. I have a court order that ORDERS him out of my house. You need to take him with you.”

They came back to the house and answered the questions. In the meantime, the local police arrived (as is policy when the ambulance is called, apparently). I explained the situation, including having just come from court, to a very nice policewoman.

“You have a copy of the order?” she asked. I handed it over. “We’re not waiting for the sheriff to arrive. I want to serve this,” she said and made a call to the chief of police for the proper paperwork to transfer the power from the county sheriff to her.

The EMTs checked Mike out and argued with him for almost an hour. I was told to stay upstairs, so I could only hear when voices were raised or there was some sort of ruckus coming from the basement.

Mike’s parents stood in a corner of the kitchen. Not moving, not doing much of anything except repeating “we can’t take him” and “where do you expect him to go?” to anyone who would listen. Finally, the EMTs brought Mike upstairs on a stretcher.

His eyes were closed. He was curled up in the fetal position. He looked pathetic, sad. He never opened his eyes or said anything as the EMTs took him outside.

I looked through the front window as they were loading the stretcher. The female officer approached Mike. I saw her mouth move, but couldn’t hear the words. Then she set some papers on his chest – the court order. He was served – he wouldn’t be able to come back to the house or even talk to me or the kids until the next court date. I started to cry, but not tears of sadness – these were tears of “I did the right thing.”

To be continued…

Things you don’t think of – but damn glad you were asked

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I received an email today from my alma mater wanting to know how I wanted a couple of donations made to the school noted in the “Roll Call of Donors” section of the alumni magazine. One was easy – my name listed as a donor under my graduating year. The second donation warranted the email: how should a donation to the general fund be listed? Traditionally, when a couple is composed of two alums, it’s listed Husband Name/Wife Name. Since Mike is dead, the school wanted to be respectful of my wishes – should I be mentioned singularly in that section (no mention of Mike), or as Husband/Wife with an asterisk noting Mike’s passing.

Honestly, it didn’t matter to me. But I appreciate the college asking my preference. It would have been weird (and maybe even disturbing) to see his name in print if I didn’t know in advance. It’s nice to have attended a small college where this kind of thing is noticed and opinions are sought before publication.

BTW, I opted for the Husband/Wife listing with the asterisk.

Anniversary, part two

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You might want to start at the beginning of the story here.

It was a Thursday, the day I went to the county courthouse. I remember feeling angry – this wasn’t how I imagined my life, contemplating being a single mom, divorcing a man who was spiraling down into the abyss of alcoholism. He wasn’t the man I fell in love with 16 years ago. He wasn’t the man I married almost 10 years ago. Or the man I wanted to have babies with. Or the person I wanted to spend my life with. That guy was gone.

The courthouse was busy that day – or maybe it’s busy everyday. It was the first time I was ever inside. I was a little nervous about running into someone I knew, someone who knew Mike. After all, he was an attorney and had a lot of friends and colleagues who walked those halls daily.

I found the room I needed and waited my turn on a hard wooden bench in the hall. Ten minutes later, I was telling my story to a VERY young woman in flip flops and short shorts. She wasn’t really what the person imagined I would be talking to. I didn’t know what to expect, but she wasn’t it. I wasn’t sure how someone so young was going to be able to help me. Flip Flops asked a lot of questions and filled out several pages of forms.

Then she handed me a brochure with telephone numbers on it. Numbers for abused woman. “I’m not being abused,” I said. “He’s a drunk. He’s never touched me or the kids.”

“Abuse is more than just physical,” she told me. “Those names he’s calling you? The way he’s treating you? It’s not right.”

This all felt very surreal. Of all the things I wanted to remember about that day, the lighting in that tiny, windowless room stands out. It was a pathetic, yellowish lighting coming from way-too-bright overhead fluorescent lights. In a room that is used mostly by women (I assume), the lighting should be better, I thought. In this room, it was unflattering and sad. Someone coming into this room should feel good, but the lighting was any thing but confidence inspiring.

“You’re up next in the courtroom,” the Flip Flops said.

I felt my stomach knot up. Up next? I had to go to court NOW? I hadn’t thought I’d be in a courtroom on the same day as the forms I just filled out with Flip Flop’s help. I wasn’t even dressed for it – in jeans and a tee-shirt. I would have been more “serious” looking if I thought I would be going in front of a judge.

Flip Flops walked with me to the courtroom where she introduced me to an older woman. “This is Elise,” the young woman said. “She’ll be your advocate in the courtroom.”

Elise talked in whispers, walking me through what was going to happen. Then the judge walked in. The judge decided to hear from a couple sitting in the last row of the courtroom first.

I will never forget the couple’s story, that case before mine. The man was here to get visitation taken away from his ex-wife. The kids had visited their mom (his ex) the weekend before and she threw their three-year old daughter across the living room and into a wall. More than once. I felt like throwing up.

“This isn’t my life,” I thought. “Maybe my situation is not so bad.”

I wanted to leave. Instead, I cried, feeling glued to the spot I was told to stand. It was my turn.

I’m a strong woman. I’m not afraid or intimidated by anyone. I’ve worked with CEOs from Fortune 500 companies, celebrities, sports stars. No one gets me rattled. But standing here, in front of the judge, made me feel small and weak. I wondered how women – especially those who aren’t as confident as I (usually) am – do this.

I stood silently as he read the form that Flip Flops filled out. Then he spoke in a booming voice. “Why are you here?” he asked.

My voice seemed to be coming from someone else. It was quiet and I was mumbling. The judge asked me to speak up. In that softer-than-normal voice, I gave a brief overview of my reasons for pursing the order of protection. “Sounds like he’s a lazy husband,” the judge said. “That’s not illegal.”

“It’s more than that,” I said. I told him about the name-calling, the neglect of the kids including driving Ethan around while intoxicated, the destruction of our finances, the collapse of our lives.

“I’m going to grant this to you,” he said after a bit more questioning, “But it’s only good for a few weeks, then you will face him. And you better be ready because he will probably destroy you. I was hard on you today because I need to know you can take it. You can handle this, right?”

I was ushered to the side of the courtroom to wait for the paperwork to be signed. I was told the sheriff would arrive in 24-36 hours to serve the papers to Mike. Then I left.

Moving out (well, thinking about it anyway)

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“I think I’ll find a duplex or condo soon,” my mom said at dinner last night.

I almost spit out my food – in shock.

My mom has lived with us since October 2010, moving in after my dad died and she sold their property in Tennessee. Lauren has never known life without Grandma RIGHT THERE, and Ethan loves having her close.

Of course, the original intent was never to have my mom live with us full-time forever. She was going to get her own house, close by, when we were in St. Louis. Then, things were bad with Mike, and she didn’t want to leave me (and the kids) alone to deal with his drinking and lying. She moved with me and the kids to Wisconsin and fully intended to get her own place there, but then Mike died and she thought the kids and I needed her close (we did/do).

But now, hearing that she’s actually LOOKING at places and has called an agent to help her search, it’s kind of a shock.

Yes, it’s tough sometimes having my mom live with me, like how she sets hot pans directly on my countertops (pet peeve) or how she doesn’t keep the pantry organized the same way I do (pet peeve). But, hell! She does the kids’ laundry, makes dinner, walks the dog, runs errands for us, keeps the house clean and running smoothly.

It would be nice to actually settle down in my house – my office is currently my mom’s bedroom and the guest room is PACKED with my mom’s “stuff.” Right now, my desk is in the dining room and office supplies are scattered in closets and the basement. And I don’t even know where the guest room furniture is… And three-quarters of my garage is filled with her furniture and boxes.

It would be nice to figure out how to be a single mom on my own. Besides, my mom will still be close – she watches Lauren three days a week. And it would probably be good for her to have her own space (and her stuff – which has been in storage or my garage for nearly two years). She needs to figure out how to deal with her own widow-hood.

I know I’m very fortunate to be in this situation with a mom who cares and wants to help (despite her own health and other issues). And a mom whom I can tolerate living under my roof.

It’s just bittersweet to think she’ll get her own place soon.

His Death is Real

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Know what makes death real?

Reviewing the computer-generated image of the tombstone, or as they call it “cemetery memorial.”

The cemetery gave me a choice of two memorial companies for Mike’s tombstone. I went with the local one – they do everything in same small town as the cemetery. Seemed nice to support a local business that keeps jobs in the community and has been around for 60+ years.

The woman who answered the phone was very nice. I explained what I wanted – simple, cost-effective, not flowery or over designed. Just his name and dates. No chiseled angels or flowers. No fancy shape. No “best dad and husband ever!” Just tombstone-y. Basic.

We settled on a grey stone (cheapest option) with no special carving. Since it was a single grave (meaning, I didn’t buy plots next to him), it was actually much less than I anticipated. Of course, like everything in this death business, there’s a hidden fee. In this case, a $300 cost for  the “foundation” – it’s a cemetery requirement, not even sure what it is, but it’s not negotiable. The sketchy thing is that unlike paying for the grave plot (paid to the city) or the tombstone (paid to the mom-and-pop company), the foundation payment is due to some dude – not a corporation, just a dude.

This whole thing can be done by email and snail mail. Crazy. The company just sent the image by email. Of course, there’s a mistake. Mike’s date of birth is wrong. My fault. Thank goodness for seeing the proof!

Still, even with the wrong date, there’s something final about it. Something more than going to his showing or the funeral mass or burying him. Seeing the image of a grave marker with his name and his dates makes this very, very real. And final.