I have decided to share a very hard life story with my friends here as you may be able to identify somewhat.
It was 1975 and my daughter was 5 years old. I was 26. My 19 year old sister had passed away 10 days after a many year bout with leukemia. She had made it a point to spend a good deal of time with my daughter knowing that she would not live to be a mother herself, which meant that my father and step-mother had also spent a good deal of time with my young one. My stepmom asked if they could keep my little girl that week-end to help ease their lonelyness and I had argeed. It was early Saturday morining and I had gone to town to help a friend move his shop into the new building he had purchased.
About an hour into the move, I was hit with a strong need to go home. It was overwhelming! I HAD to go home!!! Nothing else would do. My firend was distressed as there were not many hands to help, but I was totally useless as I could not focus on anything but getting home NOW, NOW, NOW!!!!
I had come down with a boyfriend who had gone to his salon for a couple of Saturday appointments. I went to him and begged him to take me home ASAP. He could see the distress on my face and did not question me. he arranged to have his partner deal with his clients and we left to make the drive to my family's house where my daughter and I were staying.
I went inside, very greatful to be there but with a great feeling of dread. No sooner had I stepped inside than the phone rang. I knew this was the reason I had to be home. It was my brother. He told me that I needed to come to my dad's house right away, that my daughter needed me badly. I asked him what was wrong. he said only that I needed to come. It hit me, "Dad is dead, isn't he." "Yes", my brother siad. Please get here as soon as you can.
I did not drive and the home was many miles to the south, across town from where I was. As it worked out, my step-dad drove up to the curb just as I was standing there trying to decide what to do. He drove me to my father's home.
When I arrived I found that my father had shot himself that morning, with his shotgun. My stepmom and daughter had gone to visit my brother and his family and upon arriving back home, stepmom gave the mail to my child to take to grandpa in his room. When she walked in, she discovered his body.
I know that my daughter was calling me. Even before the thing happened, I guess I had a priminition of evil doings as my first impressions happened before they had arrived back at the house, by about an hour. I think it may have been with my dad actually shot himself.
This was one of the major events that has shaped my poor little girl's life. She developed borderline personality disorder and has never recovered from that day. I doubt I have either. I can never know the horror she experienced in that room. I only wish I could have saved her form it.
Death can take many forms. Here, my young sister had been so ill and had so many challenges, death was a welcome friend, but my Father's tortured death and the eventual toll it has taken on the rest of us is something yet again. It is the kind that keeps you up nights wondering what you could have done to prevent the events of that day.
I guess I will never know the answer to that, but there is not a day that goes by that I do not ask myself that question.