Poison Disguised As Family: Part IV

Part IV: Carolina

I know my kids blame me for many things and probably think I am the worst mom. But what they do not know is what I dealt with in my own childhood and why I am so emotionally disconnected from the world.

I watched my mother get abused up until the very last beating my mother accepted, when she finally kicked my father out of the house. None of my siblings wanted to maintain contact him, but I was the only one to send him handwritten letters. They thought I was all foolish and maybe I was. I guess that is my issue. I have a big heart and I am too forgiving. I expect everyone to have the same temperament as me. I always wanted things to change. I wanted a normal family and I wanted to find healthy ways to process my emotions.

I hope I did not mess up my kids. I really tried my best. I always searched for a healthy relationship in everyone I have dated. I knew that I wanted something different than what I grew up watching, but history repeated itself.


I met him at a party. It was a set up by mutual friends and they swore he was a good guy. They told me to give him a chance and so I did. What a mistake that was. He promised me the world. But don’t they all? They appear to be pleasant, kind, and want everyone to believe the absolute best of them. Behind closed doors, they are a monster.

When I found out I was pregnant with my son, I thought he would change. It started off with a push or shove here and there. He would never apologize either. He would just carry on with conversation like he did not do anything. I would let it go because I was taught to forgive people even when they hurt you. He would yell and I could not handle it. It would make me flash back to when my dad would come home drunk and hit my mother. My mom went through a crippling depression I did not think she would overcome. We all helped her to put food on the table since my dad left. I started working at a young age to make sure my family was cared for.


When we got together and spoke about marriage, everyone thought I was insane. The smart people saw right through his act, but most did not. He would never hit me for real. He did not want to give people a reason to assume what was happening.

He did not even propose. We kind of just stumbled into marriage. We were together for 2 years and then one day we just both found ourselves in the courthouse. Nothing extravagant. I thought my life would go a completely different route. Now you are probably asking, why would you get married if you were miserable? When kids are involved, you just feel stuck, like there is no way out. I had so many expectations for what I wanted, and I feel disappointed in myself that nothing went as planned.

We did not plan for children. We stumbled into that too. He lived a double life. He would come off as the kindest person in public when we would go out which was rare. He would put his arm around me, or make me laugh, or show his affection. As soon as we stepped foot into the house again, it was downhill fast. He would yell about everything. His food being cold, how the house was dirty, how the kids left their toys everywhere, how the puppy was not potty trained. Even the dog feared him and would run underneath the bed. I do not know what caused his switch to flip. I wanted so badly for him to be good. Therefore, I stayed because I kept thinking he would change, and I stood for so long and now my kids are messed up because of my selfish decision.

I blame myself because I should have left a long time ago. When my mom died, he came with me to the funeral. But even when my mother was dying, he had the audacity to say that it would be much better that she passed away so I would not need to take care of her. He said that as I hovered over her casket. He was selfish, he wanted all my time. I could not even care for my own mother. I should have left then.

My son entered the world healthy and well and that is all I could ask for, even though his father was not even in the delivery room. He never hit the kids, but he found a way to torture us. My son, Cam, was a good kid. He did not do drugs, he got into sports to stay busy and put off time from coming home, he took care of his little sister Brooke, had excellent grades, and had a promising career in basketball. But he always found something wrong to start fights with him.


My family did not know what it meant to have a normal holiday dinner. I wanted my kids to enjoy the holidays, but it was impossible. Each year they just expected chaos or no one to show up which happened often. My sister, Lori, refuses to come visit. She comes to pick up my kids here and there, but she refuses to walk in the house. She told me countless times she does not want to be around my husband or bring my nieces and nephews around him.

“I refuse to subject my kids to that type of toxicity like you choose to do. That man will never see my kids.” She would say.

Those words she expressed to me one day over coffee are embedded in my brain. When our mother died, she did not take it well either. We were both really close to her and when she finally passed, we both lost a piece of ourselves. Our mom did not like him either. She knew the red flags were there, but I did not listen. I wanted to see the good in him, but as time went on that would slim down to nearly nothing.

When he lost his job, the home life went awry. He would drink every day, at the bar, at home, at his buddy’s house. He would blame us for everything. When Brooke was born, I thought maybe having a daughter would bring some light back into his life, give him a reason to change. Silly me.


I wanted my kids to have a shot at a normal life and I know I could not undo everything I let happen in the past. But if I take that step forward, hopefully they would see how I was trying to make a change.

Every year Lori would make an excuse as to why she could not attend our Thanksgiving dinner. She did not plainly say she would not come, but she would make these excuses because she never knew when he was lurking over my shoulder. I appreciated her doing this, but it would not stop his yelling anyway.

This year she said my niece Chelsea had the flu. My kids would always want to go over to Lori’s house, and I could understand why. My sister and I found a way to speak in code about these things.


After I took the last set of verbal abuse from him, I felt a fire form in my belly. Like I had had enough, and I was going to make the change my kids needed me to make. After all, mothers put their children first and I did not want to keep overlooking their cry for help.

This year I would go to Lori’s house. I would drive with my kids and we would finally have the family dinner we so desperately wanted. I packed all 3 of our bags, Chopper’s belongings, and I waited for them to get home. Luckily for us their father was at the bar, so it was the perfect time to leave. Today Cam had picked Brooke up from school and they would be taking the bus home together. They came through the door and saw the bags waiting in the front hall.

“Mom, what’s happening?” Cam asked worriedly.

“No time to explain, I want to make sure we leave before he gets back. Please grab your things and Brooke’s. I will explain in the car.”

I had two bags slung over my shoulder and I held Chopper’s leash in my left hand. I packed as much as I could, the essentials anyway. I did not bother to lock the door. He would not care, or he would be too drunk to realize.

“Buckle up,” I told the kids.

“Mom, please tell me what is going on. Why are we leaving and where are we going?” Cam asked again.

“We are going to stay with your Aunt Lori. We are going to spend Thanksgiving there and until I save enough money for our own place, we will be living there. Your dad will not be joining us.”

There was silence, but through the rearview mirror, I could see my kids looking at each other anxiously, wondering what we were getting ourselves into.

There was silence for most of the drive. I turned on the radio and we just drove along to the sound of The Beatles roaring through the speakers. Cam held Brooke’s hand in his. Chopper was sleeping soundly in the middle seat.

I gripped the steering wheel tightly and drove into the unknown. But this, this was the first step I needed to take moving forward and it felt so damn good.  

Poison Disguised As Family: Part III

Part III: Aunt Lori

My sister always had a horrendous track record with men. Not saying I am perfect, but my sister just knows how to pick them.

When we were younger, she would pick out the worst of the worst. The men who walked around like the whole world needed to bow before them and that women should be submissive. I always found this strange because we both grew up in a household where we were subjected to abuse. Our mother wanted better for us. But it’s crazy how history can repeat itself for several generations unless someone puts a stop to it. I am much stronger than my sister because I do not accept anything less than I deserve. My husband knows not to cross me. I do not play around. I refuse to make the same mistakes my mother did. But it is hard ya know when kids are involved? You feel stuck. Like you must stay. My sister never left the situation she was in and let it fester. The day that man yelled at my kids, like he had the right, was the same day I said I would never subject my children to that level of toxicity.

I told my sister directly that I would not go visit her unless her husband was not home. That man starts fights with everyone. I could walk through the door and he will have something to say. I am not the type to surround myself with negativity. My whole childhood was surrounded by it. The day my father left, there was a shift in the house. My oldest brother became the man of the house. My mother did the best she could considering the circumstances she was in. But I was thankful for the courage she was able to muster up to kick him out of the house. We made it out. Although the physical and emotional trauma we endured will always be there with us, weighing us down, we have no other choice but to keep moving forward. Our pasts would try to hold us back, always lingering in the darkness, waiting to make another appearance. I can say I have made progress. I wish I could say the same about my sister, Carolina.

Like the saying goes, the red flags are always there. How can you tell that someone will mistreat you and turn into the biggest piece of crap when you first meet them? He gave her attention and he made her feel loved, or so my sister says. I remember when they first met. Something was off, but I could not place what it was. It was the way he carried himself like the world owed him something. He was hard to please, but my sister fell for that type. I do not understand the attraction. The day I found out she was pregnant with my nephew; I knew she would never be able to leave now even if she wanted to. Do not get me wrong, I love my niece and nephew, but she really messed up there. She gave him another reason to have control over her.

I allow Cam and Brooke to come over whenever they want. Cam has me on speed dial and he calls me up whenever he needs a break from his life. I’ll drive the 4 hours to go pick them up on weekends. I did not want to live close enough to my sister and that man. I needed to be a good distance away. He was drunk all the time so he would not be able to drive anyway, or at least I would hope not. Carolina, was always tied to that house.

Thanksgiving was approaching. This was the toughest time of year for my family. Our mother has been gone about 5 years and the pain of her not being present still eats away at us. Most of my family members, including our 3 brothers have moved away. They did their best protecting Carolina from herself, but they got tired of that too. They had their own families to care for now and once Mom passed, they could not stay in town. Our city carried too much baggage and they wanted to start over. I stood behind because I knew without me, Carolina would go downhill fast.


I was in my living room, just wrapping up dinner with my family, when Carolina called.

“Hey Lor, how are things?” She asked.

I knew where the convo was headed before she even had to ask. My sister knew the deal. She was always welcome with her family over at my house for the holiday, but she refused to leave that house. She refused to leave him behind.

“I wanted to see what your plans for Thanksgiving were.” She continued.

“Car, I’m sorry to give you the news, but Chelsea has the flu, so we are staying over here. But you can come with the kids, you are always welcome. You know that.”

Silence. A sigh. A long pause.

“I hope she feels better.” My sister said.

I always knew when my sister was about to cry. And she always knew when I was lying. She did not dispute the matter.

“Well, I am making all this food, so if you change your mind, just let me know.”

“I will,” I responded. “I love you and give the kids hugs and kisses for me.”

I hung up.

I knew Cam would not leave his mom or sister behind. He was the best big brother. Even at 15, he took the responsibility of caring for them. I admired him for this. He had to grow up fast. Poor kid, barely had a childhood.

I know for certain, wherever our mother is right now, she is terribly disappointed in my sister for making the same mistake she did and for letting it go on this long.

Poison Disguised As Family: Part II

Part II: Cameron

I was rarely home anymore. I spent most of time at Jon’s house.

“Hey bro, are you coming over to my house for Thanksgiving?” Jon asked excitedly.

“Not sure yet, I know my mom is going to make lots of food. Not like anyone would come. No one comes over our house anymore. Shit is sad.” I said.

“You’re always welcome in my house, Cam.” Jon responded.

“Have to make sure my mom is okay. I also can’t leave my sister behind.”

“Bring little Brooke too, she’s also welcome. So is your mom. You’re my family.” Jon said as he jokingly punched me in my arm.


Jonathan lived a few blocks away from me, that’s why I was always over his house. I dreaded the walks back home. My thoughts would flood my brain, my body would tense up as I would walk up the steps through the front door. My mom would always be in the kitchen cooking, my sister on the living room carpet usually with her dolls or playing with our dog Chopper. That was her best friend when I was not home. I just turned 15 last year, so my mom lets me walk to and from Jon’s house. We also live in a good neighborhood, so she trusts that I will be okay. I want to bring my sister with me most of the time, but she must stay with my mom. She is only 5, so my mom worries.

Jon’s mom would always have a plate set for me when we would walk home from school. I would rush home, drop off my bag, change my clothes, grab my basketball, check on my sister and mom, and leave again.

“Where are you going?” My mom would say worriedly.

“Same place I always go, Ma.”

“Will you be eating over there?” She would ask.

“Is that even a question?” I responded.


I would put off coming home for as long as I could. My dad would often pick fights with me as soon as I would walk through the door. He would be on beer who knows what number and he would be fumbling through the house.

“Where have you been, you little shit?”

I would often try to walk past him, heading up the stairs to my room.

“Don’t you hear me talking to you? I asked you a question.”

“My friend’s house.”

“Well, your mother made dinner. So go show her some respect and eat. She didn’t slave away all day for you to go eat at your dumb-ass friend’s house.”

“Not hungry.” I muttered.

That is when it would go bad. He would fumble towards me, grab me by my hair, and throw me towards the kitchen. My mom would be standing in the doorway, tears swelling up in her eyes, but she would remain silent. She would never stand up to my dad even when he did this to her kids. She was frightened.

My sister would cry. She would run in between my dad and me and put her hands up and yell, “STOP.” My sister should not have had to defend me, her older brother, when our own mother should have. My dad was smart. He would never blatantly hit us, he would push or shove, slap us. But he never left a mark. This was the trick. My dad would never hit my sister, only me. He would push my mom around too. Often put his hands in the air, resembling a fist and threaten to hit her. She would cover her face.

I would take my sister out of that house as often as I could. I would ride bikes with Jon and his little sister and Brooke would come along too. I always asked my mom if she wanted to come over and hang with Jon’s parents, who were the coolest people I knew, but she always shook her head no. It was like she knew if she left the house and dinner was not ready by the time Dad got home from the bar, she would hear his wrath. I felt bad that I could not do anything.

I did my best to take care of my mom. I would talk to her here and there. Hang in the kitchen with her. Tell her about my days at school and how I was two points away from having a GPA that would get me honors. I had made the J.V. basketball team at school too.

My mom would drive us to school every morning and drop Brooke off at Kindergarten. Our schools were on the same campus, but two different buildings. Dad never came to our schools. I don’t even think he knew what they looked like. My mom would come to parent-teacher conferences, her body drained, and her mind foggy with other thoughts.

My teacher would talk to her and she would sit there and nod with a blank face. I’m not sure she even knew what was being said. I always had good reports from my teachers. But the feedback was always the same.

“Cameron has good grades, but I wish he would participate a little more in class or talk more with other students. He tends to gravitate towards his friend Jonathan.”

“Yeah well, they are best friends.” That would be the only response my mom would make the whole conference.

We would leave and go back home fearing the next occurrence.


Thanksgiving was a week away. My mom would cry the most during this time. She knew no one would come and she would be left with all this food. I came home from school and she was sitting at the dining room table. Brooke was by her side. My mom held her head in her hands. Brooke was consoling her.

“Ma, what’s a matter?” I asked.

“Aunt Lori cannot come over for Thanksgiving. Your cousin Chelsea has the flu.” She said as her voice cracked.

As young as my sister was, Brooke even knew that was an excuse to not hurt mom’s feelings.

“You and Brooke can come with me to Jon’s house, Ma. It will be okay.” I tried to reassure her.

Ever since our grandma died, my mom has been out of it. Not like her life was easy anyway. But at least grandma helped her stay sane. Our grandpa left years ago. My grandma stood married, never giving him a divorce, but she kicked him out of the house after his last drunken bender.

Funny how history repeats itself, I thought to myself.

Poison Disguised As Family: Part I

Part I: Brooke

I was 5 years old when I first heard Mommy and Daddy fight.

I was in the living room playing with my barbie dolls when I heard something shatter in the kitchen. Daddy was angry again as I sat there and waited for Mommy to make me my macaroni and cheese. He was yelling incessantly, and Mommy seemed sad. I ran over.

“Daddy, don’t yell at Mommy!” I yelled at the top of my lungs.

“Get out of here!” Daddy responded, as his face turned red like a tomato.

“Do not speak to her that way,” mommy croaked.

“I’ll do damn well as I please.”

I knew daddy got angry a lot and it would scare me. But I would cover my ears and try to shut him out by remembering all those times he let me stand on his feet as we moved across the dance floor at family parties. Mommy always seemed sad while she cooked which she did every day because daddy didn’t know how. Cameron, my big brother was barely home because he was always with his friends playing baseball. He had lots of friends who would never come over to the house because they always heard daddy yelling. I would ask Cameron to take me with him, but Mommy always kept me home. He would stay out past dinner and when Mommy would ask where he was, he would always say he stood late at Jonathan’s house.

“Did you eat?” Mommy would ask.

“Yeah, his family is normal, remember? I wouldn’t know what that’s like.”

She would return to what she was doing in the kitchen. She always turned her back when she was ready to cry. I wanted so badly to fix it. I wanted to show mommy she was loved. Cameron just seemed angry at the world all the time, but I didn’t blame him. We feared daddy’s anger, but it seemed like we were both inheriting the anger trait without us even knowing it. We were angry we could not fix things for mommy. Whenever daddy got angry, he would break things. He would break tables, lamps, computers, TVs, and my toys when they were laying around.

“Why don’t you ever pick up your flipping toys!” He would yell across the room to me.

“Daddy, I’m sorry.”

“If you keep leaving your damn barbie dolls lying around, I will throw them in the garbage.”

“No Daddy, please, no!”


Mommy got tired of cleaning when he would break things. She would leave the shattered glass on the floor, but then no one would clean it. Our dog, Chopper, would run to his den, with his tail hidden away between his hind legs when daddy would yell too. We were all scared of him. I don’t remember the last time we had family over. Everyone would make some excuse to Mommy on the phone about why they could not attend Thanksgiving Dinner or spend Christmas day in our home.

“I’m sorry Carolina, we can’t make it. Chelsea has the flu and we do not want the babysitter to get sick. We are staying home.”

Mommy’s face changed from happy to sad. She had a little sense of hope in her eyes when she would call and as soon as the person on the other line would tell her they could not attend, she would respond with an ‘okay,’ and hang up.

“Mommy, why are you so sad?”

“Nothing honey, Aunt Lori cannot make it to Thanksgiving Dinner.”

Thanksgiving was usually mommy’s favorite holiday because she would cook lots of yummy things.

Daddy ruined it for her.

“Now I have all this food that I made, and no one is coming,” Mommy said in a low tone.

Defeating The Odds, Coming Out On Top

Kenzie’s Mom:

I walked into the hospital. The long corridor to the set of elevators seemed never ending. It was the same routine. Ground floor elevator to the 3rd floor. It was always an unbelievably long wait and it would make me anxious. I was exhausted. My legs could barely carry me. I ran home to shower after the many nights I had spent in the hospital with her. I totally did not understand how I was still awake. Everything from getting out the shower to getting to the hospital was a complete blur. I don’t even recall getting in the car.

I wait for the doors to open when I reach my floor. The next shift of nurses had just started their rounds. When I arrived at her room, I saw her father standing outside. He had papers in his hand. He was looking down at them and did not see me walk up. I place my hand on his shoulder and ask him what the papers were for.

He waited a moment. He sighed then inhaled, “They want me to sign papers saying to not resuscitate.”  

I froze. “What!”

“They gave me the papers today. It isn’t looking good. They’re saying she will not wake up from this.” He composed himself well, but he was never good at showing his emotions.

“She is not even 22 years old; she has a lot of fight left in her!” I yelled.

He sighed again.

I saw red. I went to choke him, and I remember my hands being around his neck, but I do not recall after that. The hairs stood up on my arms, my blood was boiling, every breath I took felt heavy. I was fuming. Angry. I could not believe what I was hearing. You are supposed to be her protector and you were going to give up, give in, and let her die? I remember feeling his heartbeat pulsating through the veins as my hands squeezed tighter around his neck. I had been here night after night trying to bring her out of this and he was just going to let our daughter be taken away into the unknown.


Kenzie’s Cousin:

I remember when we were kids with the crazy hair and the dirty knees from playing outside. We would talk about the world and what we wanted. Me with my long braids and you with your crazy curly hair which was hard to control. Grandma always had a tough time with taming it. We would play with our dolls and watch cartoons and get sugar highs on candy. We were innocent. We didn’t know much other than the four walls of Grandma’s apartment. We would do our homework together and stay up until 5am watching George Lopez. Grandma would come into the living room and ask if we had slept and we would look at each other sleepily and laugh. All the laughter because we were so tired. I would talk about my dream of being a writer and you loved it. You were always my biggest supporter. You would tell me about your dream to go to college and start a life you would be proud of. We would talk about our princess weddings and how many babies we wanted. We would get lost in conversation and forget the world. How easy life was then.


Kenzie’s Grandma:

I prayed. Every day. Every night. I would go to the chapel inside the church and light candles. I was mostly alone when I went. It was quiet. Silent. Calm. Even when my mind was not. My granddaughter, she’s always been a fighter. I refused to believe that this was it. This would be the last time I would hear; I love you grandma. The last time she would hug me or give me kisses on the cheek or talk about everything you could possibly think of over a cup of coffee. This could not be it. I did not want to believe it was. I spoke to God and pleaded with him not to take you from me. I begged.


Kenzie’s Dad:

I signed the paperwork that would basically let my daughter die. The weight of that decision ate at my soul, my entire being. My hand held the pen and I almost forgot how to write my name. My hand was shaking, and my head was spinning. I was seeing a blurred room.

When you are not breathing on your own, it is hard to say if you will ever come out of that state. I often wondered where she was. If she was drifting off somewhere and was seeing a white light. I sat there for hours that I lost track of counting and I would watch movies. I would hold her hand. I would talk to her and sit in silence.

The day I signed the papers was the same day I saw a rage in my ex-wife like I had never seen before. She leaped forward and grabbed me by the neck. I felt her nails digging into my skin. I felt my heartbeat in my ears. Her face was red and the vein on the right side of her forehead looked like it was about to pop. I tried to de-escalate the situation, but I knew she was disappointed and angry.

As a parent this is the worst nightmare. To see your child clinging to life right before your eyes and you are useless. You cannot do anything but wait and I’m no good at that. I get anxiety. I was depressed.

I thought back to a conversation my daughter and I had in the living room one rainy afternoon.

“Dad,” she started off. “If I ever get sick and all I have are machines keeping me alive, please do not resuscitate. I do not want to live that way. That is not truly living, and I do not want to be a burden on this family.”

What does a dad say to that? I did not have the answer. I sat on the couch as my body stiffened listening to the dripping sound of rain against the window.  


Kenzie: Year 2016

I was experiencing the worst type of headaches. I was tired, itchy, irritated, and had red blotches on my pale skin. I went to the doctor. The first one prescribed me a cream which only made my skin irritation worse. I went to the second doctor. He cut into me with a sharp blade without putting me on anesthesia. I yelled at the top of my lungs to release the pain I was feeling. It felt like he was tearing the first layer of skin off my body. I could feel the every movement of the blade as he moved it from the top down. I wanted him to stop. The pain. The screams. I did not want no more. My mom stood there terrified of what she was observing. The man was crazy. He did all of this to see where my skin irritation was coming from. I have never used the word hate in my life, but I hated him. For what he did to me and the domino effect that he had started. I had a bad infection and the wound he caused never healed properly.

Time went on with an undiagnosed issue. No one could tell me what was wrong with me. I felt like everyone was failing me. All these well-paid doctors and they couldn’t tell me what my body was experiencing? My skin would itch so bad, I wanted to claw it off. I was sick all the time and I did not want to be around people.


Kenzie: Flashback to 2003

We sat in my room and we did crossword puzzles. You would write stories and I would do homework. Grandma would always be cooking in the kitchen and the aroma of food was always present. It would travel down the hallway and seep through the bottom half of my bedroom door. It was my favorite part of the day. My nose greeted by those sweet scents. We would eat our Now and Later candies and we would talk about what it would be like to be a grown up.

“I want to have a big wedding and have lots of dogs!” My cousin said with the biggest grin on her face.

“I want to have kids in the future. I think that’s what being a grown-up means.”


Kenzie: Present Day 2020  

I look back on the convo with my cousin that day as we sat in my room with the tv blaring loudly in the background. Grandma was cooking again. We were so sweet and innocent when we talked about dreams. And how I wanted kids. How quickly that dream was stripped away from me the year of 2016. I had lost all hope.

When my illness was finally diagnosed, along with it came the cold-hearted truth that knocked the wind out of me when I heard it. I remember the doctor refused to speak to me. He would always go through my mother like I couldn’t speak for myself.

“She will not be able to conceive children.” He told my mom.

I wondered what I did to deserve this.


Kenzie: Year 2016

My illness got worse as time progressed. After everything had happened, I still had not seen the worst of the pain. My skin was eating itself and I could not stop it. The one of many doctors had removed parts of my skin. I was now raw flesh and bones. My skin had turned black and it needed to be removed. The infection was taking over my entire body. I was being eaten alive. At this point, I was unable to move. Everything had to be done for me. I was being moved to and from and given baths.

This one day I never thought I would experience more pain than I already had. They carried me into this depressing room where a hose hung from the ceiling and swooped down with the flick of a switch. The nurses took the hose and sprayed me down. My body was on fire. Burning from the inside out. I screamed until I couldn’t anymore. My flesh was tender and open and this stuff they washed me with was making a sizzling sound that I could hear every bit of.


The next wave of chaos came when I was diagnosed with depression. I did not have the will to live anymore. I could not see the point in it when I was living in hospitals. And I would not be able to have kids. Everything was being stripped away from me one piece at a time.

When I was asked if I was afraid to die, I shook my head no. This was not my fear. I was afraid to live a life monitored by nurses and constantly hooked up to machines and constantly having people determine my next move which consisted of medication after medication. I did not wish to be a burden on this family anymore.

My body was falling apart. I could not eat, drink, walk, hold down any food or water, and I had people transporting me since I did not have the use of my legs. I could not control when I needed to use the bathroom and would often find myself saturated in my own urine.

It got worse. No shocker there. The doctors had overdosed me on antibiotics which caused my case to worsen. There was inflammation in my intestines, which in turn traveled to my heart and I went into a coma.

You know that white light that they tell you about? I did not see it. I was in this dream state. I could hear people speaking to me and I wanted so badly to open my eyes. I wanted to move. Do something. I was talking to my body. Telling it to move, telling it to breathe, telling it to do something.

My body was failing me. My liver was shutting down and my kidneys refused to work properly. I was placed on dialysis. I was not breathing on my own and I was connected to machines. I was monitored regularly by nurses and doctors, fed, bathed, and transported like I was some form of luggage.

It was the longest week for my family. They did not know if I would wake up. Everything I had been through and everything I had endured did not put out the fire in me. I managed to start breathing on my own. They removed the tubes.

When I finally woke up, the doctors told me I would have to re-learn how to do everything. I was in a wheelchair until I learned how to walk again. I went to therapy. I was trying to get my old life back. The one before all of this happened. I was homeschooled. Even though things were still shitty, they were looking up. I was making recovery.

I guess my mom was right all along. I did have that fight in me.


Kenzie: Year 2019

The headaches came back a few years later. I could not hold down food, I was vomiting constantly, and I could not go into work without feeling ill.

What do you know? We were back in a hospital. I prayed for the best but knew there could be a chance that my illness came back. They ran tests and did bloodwork. We were there for hours and the anxiety was piling on. I just wanted to know if my illness made an appearance again. Two hours later, the doctor came back into the room and asked my mom to leave. I asked if she could stay. The next thing he said hit me like a pile of bricks.

“Do you know you’re two months pregnant?”

I started crying almost immediately. I could not believe what I was hearing. My heart was so full. They said the next step would be to get a sonogram. I was scared, excited, and nervous.

When I saw his little face on that screen, I could not help but smile. I had a convo with the technician about my fear of this not being able to happen.

When the sonogram appointment was done with, I remember looking at my mom when we left the room.

I said to her, “I am going to be a good mom. I can’t wait.”


Time went on and my belly was growing. Sadly, my condition had came back to visit during my pregnancy. I was on bed rest for a bit.

But the day came. I was going to give birth. My baby boy would come 8 days early. I was in excruciating pain as I was in labor for over 24 hours. They gave me 2 epidurals and I would have a natural birth. My baby did not want to come out. The doctor had to use a vacuum to suction him out.

When he finally made his arrival, there was a tear in his lung, and he needed to be rushed to the NICU. He stood in the NICU for 4 days. He recovered quickly and began breathing on his own. We were able to bring him home.


He is now 1 years old and he’s such a happy baby. He’s spoiled rotten and he loves to laugh. He enjoys watching ninja turtles and he loves to eat but doesn’t like pumpkin baby food. I buy him lots of toys and shower him in hugs and kisses. Everyone who meets him is so delighted to be greeted by such a warm and loving baby. I was able to bring him into the world and that has been my greatest blessing.

My recovery was a miracle. And my baby was a miracle. I could not have asked for a greater blessing in my life.

My illness pays me a visit here and there, but I have my baby by my side now to remind me of my strength and to remind me I’m here for a reason; to be your mama.

Ongoing Battle With Loss

You were rotting away in the hospital, and what were we doing?

Celebrating Christmas Eve.

What type of people were we?

He stood with you as the ventilators breathed for you. He was bone tired. You could see it in his face. The lack of food and sleep had gotten to him. He refused to leave the hospital as much as we begged him to. He did not want to leave your side. He wanted to be there when you finally took your last gasp. You did not look like you.

I remember my mom asking me if I wanted to go into the hospital room to see you. I do not like hospitals. It’s the same aura of sadness in each one. The same overwhelming smell of Clorox. I had seen the insides of too many during my childhood, as I had to sit there helpless watching certain family members wither away. You were one of my favorite people on this planet and I did not want to see you in that state. My mom took my hand and led me toward the room. Before we entered, she said, “This may be the last time you see her, so say your goodbyes.”

How many times did I need to go through this? How many people did I need to lose?

I did not even know what to say at that point because I felt like I was talking to a stranger. That was not you.


How could a family even celebrate a holiday when someone was in the hospital fighting for their life?

I was angry. Everyone went on about their evening like nothing was happening. It was like two different worlds. Everyone gathered around the tree to exchange gifts. Every fiber in my body wanted to scream. I did not want to be there. It was like we were pretending. Pretending to be this happy family when we were all in fact broken.

The tree was situated in the living room and surrounded by the sofas you all sat on. The dining room table was full of food. I thought to myself how can anyone even eat right now? People were laughing. Telling jokes.

Are you all mad?

I would have traded all those gifts under the tree for your recovery. But that isn’t how it works right? People are taken from us when God thinks it’s their time and we must accept it? For someone who grew up in a Catholic family and attended Catholic school, I always felt like I could not decide for myself what I wanted to believe in. It was kind of forced upon me. Don’t get me wrong, I believe in God. But I’ve been angry. I’ve wanted to yell and ask why he had to take my loved ones from me. One of the people who showered me in love since the day I was born.


People went in for second and third plates of food. Kids ran around the house playing hide and seek. The adults were on glass number 5 of wine. Christmas music played in the background. I felt like my body was there, but my mind was not. I was floating around this house. I wanted to yell and break something.

How could you celebrate and drink and laugh? Was I the only one who loved her?

My head was spinning; my mind cloudy. My disappointment was boiling to the surface. My legs managed to carry me to and from, but I did not feel like myself. I felt like my soul was back in that hospital room with you.

The host of the party gathered everyone around the table, asked everyone to raise a glass, and made a toast. I thought, this is insanity.

Then the phone rang.

I stood there by the foot of the mahogany table and watched the expression on her face shift from a smile to something serious.

She did not even have to say anything. I knew it.

You had passed away.

I was mad at the world. Mad at all of you. You all stood here pretending to care. I had spent most of my childhood days with her. Where were you guys then? You gathered around at this god forsaken party to celebrate a holiday without her here. If you loved her, you would not have indulged yourself in alcohol and plates of food.

Why didn’t you spend time with her when she was still herself? Why didn’t you call or come visit? Life is hard enough already, don’t make it harder by being phony. I was angry. I felt like no one cared. Not one single person.

That’s how it works right? People do not care about you when you are alive and well but will gather around your casket at the funeral and speak about how loved you were.

Bullshit.

Where was the time to grieve? Where were the tears? The sadness?

This was supposed to be family?

I went outside. I needed air and to rid myself of all of you.

Fragile

I sat by his bedside as he clung to life by a thread.

His hands were cold and wrinkled.

His breaths were sporadic and long when he inhaled.

The silence in between gasps is what frightened me most. I looked over each time to make sure he was still alive for a moment more.

The tubes and machines connected to him were overwhelming.

I sat there in the chair which messed up my back from hours of being still.

I held his fragile hand in mine.

I would rub my thumb over his to let him know I was there.

I wanted so badly for him to squeeze my hand.

The hospital floor always reeked of a gut-wrenching lemon smell.

I would stare at the black screech marks on the white tiles until the nurse would come in for her hourly checkups.

She would check the IV, ensure the machines were reading properly, and told me for the 100th time that if I needed something, she would be right out front.

I knew she was doing her job, but I did not want to hear it anymore.

Sometimes I sat in silence and other times I left the tv on in the background for some noise distraction.

I barely ate, slept, or left the room to join the outside world.

Damaged

The roof on the house was broken.

When it rained, it would seep through the ceiling in the dining room. Her mother would have to place buckets on the floor to stop puddles from forming.

It was a bone chilling cold that would find it’s way into the apartment. The weather outside always represented the mood of the house, cloudy and depressing.

The daughter often wore piles of clothing to keep warm or she would make herself a cup of tea. The parents fought constantly.

The daughter would let the heat from the tea wash over her, warming every limb in her body. She would close her eyes and wish she was anywhere but there.

She would try to focus her attention on the dripping noise of the water seeping through the ceiling.

So much water would come through that it would cause a bubble to form. It was like the water was trying to make its way through to them.

Now that she’s older, she thinks back to that leaky roof. It was a representation of everything wrong in her life.

The broken roof was a symbol of the broken household she lived in. The water bubble in the ceiling, with all the cracks of paint chipping off, represented her emotions.

Something was coming to the surface and she did not quite know what it was when she was just a kid.

As an adult, she looks back and realizes that the thing that was bubbling to the surface was her anger. Her depression. Her need to escape that house.