by Kim Goldman
* * *
Sam breaks the silence, as he bounces up, revealing a handful of stones. He adds one for Michele and one for Tilly. We kiss each one, saying something privately, then lay them down on the headstone.
Sam never wants to tell me what he is thinking when we have these moments. It makes me crazy, but it also warms my heart that he respects and participates in the rituals. Even at a young age, he recognizes the privacy involved with loss.
Michele asks Sam to read the poem etched into the headstone. Her request hits me like a ton of bricks; I have no idea why.
I don’t stop him, and he quickly accepts the challenge. His sweet, innocent voice begins to recite, “‘Sometimes when we’re alone and lost in thought, and all the world seems far away—you come to us as if in a dream, gently taking our hands and filling our hearts with the warmth of your presence.”’
He pauses, and then asks me to continue.
Completely unable to catch my breath, I attempt to read on. “‘And we smile, knowing that although we cannot be together for now, you’re always close in our thoughts. Missing you now, loving you always.”
I chose that poem years ago, hoping that each time I visit Ron and read it out loud that it will elicit the same reaction: one of love and comfort. I never imagined, though, what those words would stir up hearing my child read them to me. Nothing prepared me for that, or for the next round of chatter.
“Mommy, what is a funeral? And how did Uncle Ron get buried in the ground?”
Are you fucking kidding me? is all I could think.
I tell Sam that Uncle Ron died on a Sunday night, and we buried him four days later. When he asks what took so long, I launch into a long dialogue about the autopsy, the mortuary, and the medical examiner. I am so far in left field that it is mind numbing.
Michele interrupts my speech. “Well, Sam, it takes a few days to plan, and to let the friends and family know about where to come and everything.”
Ah, far better explanation. Thank you, Auntie Michele.
I continue to cry my way through the story of the funeral as I explain who spoke, who was part of the procession, the song that was sung, the ritual of throwing the dirt onto the casket, the lowering of it into the ground, walking through the crowds of people, who softly shouted expressions of love as we walked by, and the gathering at our house afterward. What seems like a three-hour conversation is packed into about ten minutes.
Sam follows along intently, asking really good questions as I stumble my way through a difficult and unexpected discussion. Realizing how hard it is for me, a grown woman, to comprehend death, I struggle with how to tell a little boy the details without laying it on too deeply.
But my son takes after me in many ways. He is insightful, soulful, and mature beyond his years. I wonder if that’s a product of the environment I have created for us or if it’s hereditary. Am I putting too much on him, or would he be that way even if nothing “heavy” was ever discussed in our home?
What I love about the questions that Sam asks is that they go right to the core. There is no pussyfooting around a topic with him, and he calls bullshit on you when he feels like you are not giving him the whole answer. Not necessarily because he knows better, but because he is thoughtful and methodical in his approach, and he takes time to digest the information and then lobs his next question appropriately. One day he will make a good attorney or journalist.
So when Sam asked about the funeral and the burial process, it’s no surprise to me that he is interested. I just hate to have to discuss the difficult answers with him. The editing process, to ensure it is age-appropriate, is exhaustive; I need to spare him much of the gory details, while balancing his inquisitive sense.
This came into play, 100 percent, on the night that Sam asked about Ron’s murder.
* * *
A few nights before June 12, my son asked me how Uncle Ron was killed. Now, this wasn’t the first time that Sam had asked the question over the years. He was just getting more brazen in his inquiries, and his ability to understand the gravity of what had happened had increased.
Up until recently, Sam only knew that a “bad man” hurt Uncle Ron with a knife. He also knew that Ron was in heaven (or somewhere “up there”); that he was with our cats that recently died; and that Ron was never coming back.
Sam knew that he would never meet him, and that the “bad man” didn’t get in trouble for hurting Uncle Ron. As I answered Sam’s questions, he sobbed uncontrollably, and after this he didn’t ask me anything else for months.
The next round of questions in “the story of Ron’s death,” as Sam aptly refers to it, related to how many times my brother was cut.
Sam once again wanted to know all the places where Ron was stabbed, and the severity of the wounds. And I have to tell you, I always panic when these conversations begin: I am torn with how much to share; how to share, so as not to scare him; how to be honest and straightforward; how to not lose my shit, so that Sam doesn’t feel bad about asking questions; and how I dare to relive each moment, each wound, and each memory, again and again.
Thankfully, on this night Sam was in the backseat of our Nissan, and it was dark so he couldn’t see my face and my tears.
“Mommy, so tell me the story. Where was Uncle Ron when he got dead?”
My answers came slowly and sensibly.
“One night, many years ago, Ron was working at a restaurant where a friend of his was having dinner. She left something behind, and she called the restaurant and asked Ron to bring it to her house.”
Sam, of course, wanted to know why she asked Ron to do it, and I explained that they were friends and that he offered to do it after he got off work. This was the first time I ever mentioned a friend in the story.
I always only spoke about Ron, never sure how he would respond to another person in the mix. Tonight I decided to share with him the heroic part of the story, hoping that would ease the violence.
I continued, “So, Ron ended up at his friend Nicole’s house, and he heard some yelling.”
Deep breath.
“And he tried to help his friend, and he got hurt.”
Pause, and wait for the next question.
“Mom, how was she being hurt, with a knife too?”
Holy crap, I kept thinking.
“Yes, Uncle Ron walked up and saw his friend being hurt by a bad man, so he did what he could to protect her.”
“Mom, how many places did Uncle Ron get cut?”
At this point, I was in a total place of shock and discomfort, so I asked Sam if he was sure he wanted to talk about this. He said that he was fine.
“Uncle Ron was cut in the leg, the stomach, his chest, and his neck.”
“Did he have any other cuts, Mommy?” he asked in his sweet voice.
“He had some on his hands and his face, which he got from trying to protect himself.”
“It didn’t work, did it, Mommy?”
I am completely leveled by this point, crying, shaking, and wanting to stop.
Sam paused, and then finished by asking, “Mommy, did Nicole get her head cut off, too?”
Now I was having an out-of-body experience, and hoped that we had reached the end of the discussion. I calmly explained to Sam that that didn’t happen to either of them. I asked how he came to that conclusion, since I have never uttered anything close to that.
He couldn’t answer the question.
“Can I have an apple before I go to bed?”
I cried all the way home.
* * *
A dear friend of mine, Renee’ Kaehny, called to ask how I was doing. She and I had become instant “soul sisters” when we were introduced by a mutual friend, Cheri Fleming, who thought we might “hit it off.”
Cheri was right. Renee’ shared with me that her son, Nick, had committed suicide when he was seventeen years old, and a few months later her ex-husband (Nick’s dad) had committed suicide as well. She shared her story, exposing every raw nerve, and I wa
s sucked in. I was awestruck by her grace, but so deeply drawn to her quiet suffering. I knew that a great friendship was born.
We got each other, through the tears and the laughter, and the humility that is attached to grief and loss. The conversation was full of “Me, too!” and lots of head nodding. It was so refreshing to be among “my people.” I have always said that I hate to be part of this “tragic club of loss,” but I wouldn’t want to be with anyone but those who are directly impacted by tragedy.
Their unstated acceptance is the best feeling, and I was feeling it with Renee’. After our initial meeting, we knew we needed to work together and make an impact. I recruited her to join the board of directors for the nonprofit agency I run, and she has been a powerful force and has become a very close friend over the past few years. In fact, I was invited to be in the room for the birth of her grandson, Bronson.
So on this June 12, when I saw her name pop up on my cell phone screen, I felt relieved. I knew Renee’ would calm me down. I knew she would alleviate some anxiety, and I knew she would normalize my anguish. I didn’t have to say much until the tears started to flow. I felt her love and support through the phone.
“You just have to move through it, Kim. Don’t try and talk yourself out of it. Just feel it, and know the next few days are gonna suck.”
I have come to understand how this case is permanently etched in pop-culture reality, but it is still my life. For others it’s news; it’s history. It’s a fascination with the human condition, with crime, murder, and injustice. References to it are inescapable, especially around significant dates. But for me, it’s all about the heroism my brother displayed when he was stabbed to death in a very small space on Bundy Drive, between ten and ten-thirty at night.
I took my good friend’s advice and moved through my day, as I always did. I remained slightly foggy, trying to be present for my son. Although he knew the importance of the day, he didn’t and shouldn’t have to completely understand how it has impacted me. Because he knows I am sad on this day—and that I do my best not to lose my temper—he agrees to be “extra sweet” to me. Hearing my child promise to be more incredible than he usually is—it fills my heart and motivates me more to stay in front of my pain as much as I can. I excuse myself to the bathroom when I can’t hold back the tears and I leave my sunglasses on most of the day, so he doesn’t see my swollen eyes.
* * *
Michelle has since left the cemetery and Sam and I decide to stay a little bit longer. We lay on the blanket, and look up at the clear sky above us and get lost in the patterns of the clouds. We giggle as we are confident we saw a mouse appear, which then morphed into a giraffe. The imagination of a child!
I take Sam’s hand in mine, to remind myself that I am doing okay. I am doing the best I can every day to live a full and happy life, and my child is a constant cue to me that I am succeeding in that goal.
I am sure he is still talking, but I am lost in my thoughts of Ron and daydreaming of what our lives would be like if he were still alive.
Sam pops up and offers to go throw the wrappers from the flowers away, and leaves me to my tears. I take the few minutes to let it all out before he comes back. I am comfortable with Sam seeing me cry, but he doesn’t need to see the “ugly crying”—that is too much for him to handle.
As he walks back toward me, I know it’s time to go. I lean over, kiss the cold stone that my brother is laid beneath—tracing his name with my fingers.
I whisper, “I love you, big brother. I think of you every day, and I wish you were here. I need you and I miss you. I will be back soon.”
Sam kisses him good-bye as well and we walk hand in hand back to the car.
* * *
I am not ready to leave Agoura yet, so I take Sam on a little tour of where we used to live, my old high school, and a local place where Lauren and I used to walk to get pizza and frozen yogurt.
Sam is unimpressed until we land at Lamppost Pizza, where he is enthralled by the video games. I watch him play a racing game with a few other kids. I watch my kid and deeply admire his carefree spirit. He reminds me so much of my brother; I can stare at him for hours.
The waiter appears, interrupting my fixed gaze. I call for Sam to eat. We leave shortly after we finish our meal, heading back home. The later part of the day is typically where I lose my sanity, so I want to be home in the comfort of my space, just in case.
Back home, we do some busy work around the house, and before we know it, it is time for Sam to go to bed. He goes without a struggle, giving me a giant kiss and hug.
“Good night, my prince, sweet dreams,” I whisper as I tuck him in.
It’s close to ten o’clock by now, and I can feel my body start to stiffen.
I pour myself a glass of wine, grab the iPad, and sit outside on my patio to play a game of Words with Friends. I was hoping the Scrabble-style game would keep my mind focused elsewhere. It doesn’t work, so I just stare at the screen as the wind chimes blow in the background.
It’s a beautiful night, calm, peaceful, clear. The perfect quiet allows my floodgates to open. I have been waiting all day to let it out, and it hasn’t relented.
I cry uncontrollably for a few minutes as my brother’s face flashes before my eyes. The guttural pain that I feel consumes me. The details of what happened to him on that fateful night rush my mind.
And then the crying stops. I am left with wet sleeves, and a stuffy nose.
After about forty minutes of my explosion of emotion, crying on and off, recovering and then weeping once again, I go back inside and get ready for bed.
I lay awake, tossing and turning for about two more hours, studying the flicker of the candle that I lit in honor of my brother.
I finally doze off to sleep.
Another June 12 has ended.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“We shall draw from the heart of suffering itself the means of inspiration and survival.”
—Winston Churchill
* * *
Therapy has saved me.
And so have my friends.
And so has my son.
And so has my father.
And so has my writing.
And so have my causes.
And so have my animals.
And so has my brother.
And so have I.
I think it’s fair to say that, so far, I have not had the easiest life. I have been handed more than my share of crap to deal with.
For all those people who say to me, “It’s character building,” I say right back: “I have enough character to play every role in Cats!” And while all these “character-building opportunities” have been colorful to say the least, I am looking for beige these days. I am 100 percent committed to making that happen.
Throughout my childhood and adolescent years, I did whatever I had to do to survive. I didn’t know any better and probably never realized exactly what I was doing. I didn’t read a book on coping and apply those theories to my life; I just took a lot of deep breaths and survived. I just survived.
And now, after all this time, I am trying to figure out what that actually means.
How did I “just do it?” Where did I put all that stuff I had to deal with as a young adult? Why do I still remain perky and positive in public, after having been kicked to the ground by a variety of boots? I feel like I have been to hell and back, through a revolving door—and yet, here I am.
Despite all the difficult cards I have been dealt, I can honestly say that I am deeply grateful for all the circumstances that I have had to face. I am not a believer in the principle that everything happens for a reason, and I’ve already mentioned that the whole “God’s plan” doesn’t jibe with me, but I do feel strongly that I have choices about how I am going to handle each and every situation.
I may not know what to do immediately, and I assuredly pick the wrong path from time to time, but the choices become mine as I move forward.
I am choosing to find the positive.<
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I am choosing to let a lot more roll off my back than drag me down.
I am choosing to start each day with the belief that this day has to get better.
I am choosing to believe that I am deserving of a full heart.
I am choosing to hold out my hand and my heart to hope.
I am choosing me.
But I didn’t always think this way.
For many years, I let things happen to me at the hands of others who didn’t nurture my heart or my soul. People took advantage of my kindness and my openness; in some cases, they even preyed upon it.
But now I am choosing to live with purpose. I am working hard, day after day, to get back control as much as I can. I am committed to shaping my own life, rather than letting my life shape me.
It’s taken a long time to articulate that concept.
Deep down, I think I was always striving for that, but it never worked. I always thought I did the best I could every day with what I was handed.
Out loud, I never complained much, and I never compared my stuff to anyone else’s. But in my head, I couldn’t help but wonder: Why do these bad things keep happening to me? Why am I such a target? When will I catch a break?
Although I know logically that I didn’t cause much of what has happened in my life, I couldn’t always ward off the feeling that somehow I created it—and that in some way I was destined to be unhappy.
But these days, I am learning to believe that I am destined to be a survivor. I embrace the beauty in living a life rich with turmoil, struggle, and heartache, because ultimately, my life is teaching me to love harder and to live fuller.
* * *
I attribute a lot of my self-preserved sanity to my therapist, Joel, who has been an absolute lifeline for me. He doesn’t wear tights and a cape—he wears glasses and has his grayish hair pushed over to one side. He always wears slacks and a button-down shirt, or a sweater in the cooler months.
But he has been a superhero for me.
