Too Young to Be Angels: An Ongoing Journey of Grief

By Shirley Delorbe

Many of us have heard tragic stories of parents losing a child, but not many people could handle the abject grief of the deaths of three of their own children. Too Young To Be Angels: An Ongoing Journey of Grief is the heart-wrenching story of one mother's climb from the pits of despair, grief, and depression after the deaths of three of her four children.

Author Shirley Delorbe struggles to hold on to reality when death seems to become a way of life. After her six-year-old son Randall's death in 1964 from acute trachea bronchitis, the road to recovery is long and hard. The question "Why me?" nags at Delorbe's subconscious. Her heart is only beginning to heal when her daughter Victoria's brutal murder four years later shocks the family. Almost at the breaking point, Delorbe fights simply to breathe as the death of her son Gerry in a motorcycle accident drags her back into hell a few years later.

Too Young To Be Angels recounts Delorbe's journey as she struggles with the loss of each child, reveals her every thought, and shares how she eventually developed her ten steps to recovery.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 29, 2007
• ISBN: 9780595877669

Shirley Delorbe

Shirley Delorbe resides with her husband in a small town in northeast Washington. She has one daughter, two stepchildren, and two grandchildren. Delorbe writes magazine articles, transcribes health physics papers, and runs a museum.

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Contents

Foreword

Randall

Victoria

Aftermath—images and thoughts

The long dark tunnel

More burdens

Wedding bells

The seven day roner coaster

A look back-but not in anger

Reading myself to live again

Epilogue

In memory of my mother and father whose faith kept me reaching for tomorrow. And to my daughter Jordine, who has been my best friend.

FOREWORD

Why did I fear the weekends? Saturday mornings at our home were not always a time of pleasant anticipation: What nice things would the weekend bring? Our weekly encounter with mankind’s Seventh Day seemed to have evolved into a ritual, or perhaps it was some sort of tribal rite. The tribe in this case was our friends, neighbors and relatives. They all knew we slept late on Saturday, but that by mid-morning they would find me by the dining room table sipping my first coffee of the day and letting the cobwebs clear from my brain. So, starting about 10:00 AM, friends, relatives and even people we hardly knew, stopped by for a cup of coffee and some conversation.

It never failed; I might have been in my housecoat with my hair as yet uncombed, but that didn’t stop the parade of people. My husband, Allen, was also up by then, still moving rather slowly, as people we hadn’t seen for some time came by to catch up on our respective lives. And, there were those drop-ins who would playfully needle us for having let half the morning slip by without chalking up at least one tangible accomplishment. I reminded them that sleeping isn’t a bad form of activity. Eventually, a neighbor might have asked me whether I wanted to join her that afternoon for some shopping.

By noon the ritual of drinking coffee, discussing recent events in the neighborhood and idle chitchat was over. With summer approaching, my objective for the day might have been to supervise a group of volunteers cleaning our thirty-foot above ground pool. The neighborhood kids would soon be making our yard their second home. Late in the day after shopping, perhaps I would have pruned my rose bushes. My husband would gather some tools for a fix-it project, such as that screen door where too many hands had pushed the screen instead of the frame.

My family and I resided in a comfortable four bedroom ranch style home in a sunny Boulder suburban neighborhood. Our house had that lived-in look that reflected thirteen years of our family’s comings and goings.

Neighbors had become our friends, as we had all watched the various children grow from tots on tricycles to teenagers tinkering with souped up cars.

I love children and got a big kick out of seeing them learn a sport or activity. At the drop of anybody’s hat, I would teach backyard swimming classes, be on the board of Little League Baseball, Pop Warner Football League or volunteer to be a den mother in Cub Scouts. And, I couldn’t let pass a challenge from a youngster who said, I bet I can hit the ball farther than you can. Or, I can run faster than you. The child usually triumphed, but I had a lot of fun trying to figure out a fancy scheme which might allow me to win.

My physical and mental health was extremely important to me and while I liked food, I was enjoying a twice-weekly aerobic dancing class, which I counted on to keep me in shape.

As chief meal maker in our family, eating out on weekends was something I looked forward to. I really enjoyed finding new restaurants that served exotic cuisine. My husband and I especially relished going out to dinner when friends joined us.

Among my hobbies were designing fancy wedding cakes, and photographing friends’ weddings. They seemed to think I did a respectable job. In any case, I kept getting asked to bake the cake or take the pictures.

I also liked to travel, and until gasoline prices soared so high, we took annual vacation trips by car. We were spending more time at home then, but still managed occasional trips to bathe in the Las Vegas bright lights and play high roller on a beer and peanuts budget. Does that sound pretty typical?

I suppose it was. I simply enjoyed too many things to allow day to day minor problems to get me down.

In fact, my friend and neighbor, Jan, kept accusing me of dreaming up zany schemes and getting her involved. She wasn’t really complaining, as she said, she was sure if it weren’t for my off-the-wall suggestions, she would have crawled up her kitchen walls with boredom. I think she was exaggerating but I did get a charge out of conning her into joining me, (two conservative suburban women) into wearing skimpy cocktail waitress outfits for a Las Vegas Night bash to raise money for a Little League project. Then, there was the time we took turns wearing a Snoopy costume at a donkey baseball game, another fund raiser. It was such fun to see the kids come up to shake hands with their oversized and unreasonable facsimile of the famous beagle. I forgot to mention that it was ninety degrees that day and inside the suit, the temperature was considerably higher.

My optimism about living persisted in the face of all the gloomy things being said about our society and nation, and I think it is still the greatest country on earth and that I have a good place in it. True, I managed to always have some goals set out in front of me and if I fell short on one of them, I quickly got another. I guess the challenge was more important than the accomplishment. Still, there must always be something out there to strive for.

My husband and I worked together handling accounting and numerous other managerial tasks for a small business. We had two children at home, my daughter Jordine, in her mid teens, and Allen’s son Don, a few years older. This was a second marriage for both of us.

Still sounds fairly normal, doesn’t it?

In many ways it was. Overall, I found myself, being reasonably happy. My friends said I was cheerful most of the time. I could laugh and have fun, as I have already indicated. I believe that I could safely say that my life was working. My life working, for me, meant helping other people. I have always enjoyed helping others. A little voice inside kept on repeating, This is what you were put here to do. Oh, I’m far from being a do-gooder, just a pitch-in-when-needed type. And at times I grumbled mightily, saying things like, Here I am working while they sit around watching.

Fortunately, I didn’t contract a terminal case of work-ethic-attitude. It’s just that, I enjoyed activity. There was, however, one helping activity that bothered me.

Although I like people to ask for my advice and assistance, (must satisfy some deep-seated insecurity,) lately I seem to find myself called upon as the local expert in a less-than-pleasant field: death.

Let me state quite clearly at this point that I am not a professional therapist. I have had no training in the field and, in fact, I have never even been in therapy. Although, there were a few times I came awfully close to it. In grief over losing my eldest daughter, I came within a shade of losing my own life.

I don’t know why I was fated to have this field of expertise, or, more specifically, why I lost three of my children in separate and sudden ways, a rare illness, a brutal murder and a freak accident, giving me the knowledge through my experiences.

The narrative that follows is true. Most of the names and places have been changed. The incidents span a fifteen year period in my life. The insights are still coming forth.

And, oh yes, while my Saturdays today are periods of pleasant anticipation, they weren’t always this way. All three tragedies struck me on a Saturday.

RANDALL

In the spring of 1964, I was jolted into Saturday morning consciousness, by the sound of my first husband Joe’s scream for help. I could tell the cry had come from the boys’ room.

I dashed upstairs and found my six-year-old son Randall, lying unconscious on his bed. My husband, standing over the prone figure, was crying almost uncontrollably. Eight-year-old Gerry stood cowering in a corner and looking quite scared.

I knelt down and listened for Randall’s heartbeat. I couldn’t hear anything or detect chest movement. I told myself this was probably because I was too nervous. Years spent as a water safety instructor made my move to mouth-to-mouth resuscitation almost automatic.

As I tried to force air into Randall’s lungs, I could see Joe across the room. He had moved back against the wall and was still weeping helplessly. He would obviously be of no help in this situation, so I motioned for Gerry to come closer. I fought to speak calmly between breaths. Go downstairs and call Ben. You know his number. Tell him to come over here right now. That I need his help.

Ben, a family friend and neighbor, was experienced in rescue techniques and first aid. His private patrol business in our mountain community gave him access by radio to all the emergency personnel in the area. I turned to concentrate on blowing air into my son’s lungs.

Gerry came bounding back upstairs. Ben says he’ll come over later. I sucked in a deep breath. Apparently my eldest son had not said this was an emergency. I looked squarely at him and kept my voice level: You go and call Ben back and tell him your brother is unconscious and I need him immediately.

It seemed only 30 seconds later when Ben was up the stairs. He started pressing on Randall’s abdomen and pushing up toward the diaphragm to expel the old air. In my anxiety to get air in, I was breathing air too fast and not allowing it to be exhaled.

A few minutes later Ben left saying, The doctor should be here now. He reappeared shortly with our family physician Dr. B. The doctor, called by Ben’s wife Dotty, had difficulty finding our house on the timbered hillside and Ben had to lead him to our door.

Dr. B. immediately began pounding on Randall’s heart. He hammered so hard I was afraid his hand would go right through my son’s chest.

I glanced again at my husband. He was scrunched down in the far corner of the small room, head in his hands, and was whimpering. A sudden surge of anger shot through me. Ben asked Joe whether he could calm down enough to relieve me on the mouth-to-mouth effort. In a weak voice, he mumbled I can’t, rose and ran downstairs. Randall’s skin was taking on a blue tinge. I could feel the life seeping out of him.

The ambulance, also summoned by Dotty, arrived in a few minutes and we continued to work on Randall as we carried his limp form down the three steps to the landing, then struggled down the ladder-like stairway to the main floor, outside and down more steps to the parking area.

As the ambulance personnel were placing Randall on the stretcher, I once more turned toward my husband, who had followed us outside, and asked: Joe, are you in good enough shape to stay here and take care of Gerry and Victoria? He stared at me blankly for a moment and nodded. I added, Call my parents and tell them what happened. Have them come over here. I’ll call you as soon as I know something.

The ambulance started rolling for the hospital. Then, barely a hundred yards down the hill, at a small local grocery store parking area, they stopped. The driver, who had come upon other ambulance company employees, appeared to have pulled up to chat. I was stunned. The subject of the talk seemed to be of the activities of one of their number who was off duty the night before. We were stopped only a minute or so, but it seemed an eternity. I concluded that they must have decided there was no hope. For Ben and me, as we continued mouth-to-mouth resuscitation efforts and heart massage, it could not be the end. You simply do not give up that easily.

The less than two mile trip around the lake to the local hospital took barely five minutes, though it seemed far longer, when finally we were heading up the twisting entry road to the double-winged greenish building, which was the emergency entrance overlooking the northeast portion of the lake. Dr. B., who had driven there in his own car, came up to help as they rushed Randall up the short ramp, across the hall and directly into Emergency. The last thing I saw as the wide door swung shut behind a nurse was a large needle going into Randall’s heart.

I sat in the only chair, a small wooden seat, in what seemed an endless, quiet corridor. It must have been about 6:00 AM, and I was alone. My thoughts and feelings came in spurts: This isn’t really happening; it’s just a dream; I’m still asleep; I’ll wake up soon, oh, he’s really going to die; no, that only happens to other people, or in the movies … ouch (I pinched myself). My God, this is really happening!

At some point in this jumble of thoughts, Ben reappeared. I must have looked dreadfully forlorn, dressed in an old housecoat and slumped in that tiny chair. Would you like a cup of coffee? he asked.

I nodded, and he disappeared to return in a few minutes with a paper cup filled with steaming black liquid. I tried sipping it, but could not get it down. I leaned back in a state of shock for what seemed like hours, but it was probably closer to fifteen or twenty minutes. Finally, the doctor emerged. He stood quietly in front of me for a moment, then began shaking his head slowly as he said, I’m sorry, I did my best.

Randall had awakened the previous morning with a hoarse voice. When he came downstairs to breakfast, the family kidded him rather unmercifully about his speech, which had the whisper quality of laryngitis. There’s a frog in your throat, can you feel him jumping around Randall? we joked. I reminded him that he sounded like he had on those times he had gone to the wrestling matches. Joe used to take them to the arena in Brownfield where they especially enjoyed watching the midgets tussle. Randall and Gerry would scream and yell until they were hoarse.

Now Victoria, age four, and Gerry, grinned a bit at their brother’s seemingly harmless discomfort. Even Randall began to find the sounds coming from his mouth funny, for he started saying things just to hear his voice.

Since he showed no other symptoms of illness, and appeared to be cheerful and happy, we decided he was fit for school.

Promptly at 7:00 AM the two boys walked out the front door for the half-mile stroll down to the bottom of the hill to the school bus stop for the ride to Rim View Elementary School on the north shore of Lake Eldorado.

By three that afternoon, the boys were back at home. Randall walked in complaining he was not feeling well. His hoarseness had gotten worse, although his voice would sometimes crack back into its normal tone, almost as if he were prematurely entering puberty. His words came mostly in a half whisper with an occasional cough, and he seemed to be quite listless as he folded his chunky frame into the sofa in front of the television set. Such behavior was not normal for a youngster who would frequently bounce into the house with a cheerful, Hi Mom and sail past to investigate the contents of the refrigerator. At times the greeting would come after the first food had entered his mouth. On that Friday, he could only lie there and watch the flickering images on the TV screen.

I felt his forehead; there was no sign of a fever. Soon he began asking for things to drink. His voice had a whining tone. Could I bring him a glass of chocolate milk? Later it was a request for water, then orange juice. This was also not normal behavior. My standard procedure when the kids came in was to tell them to get whatever you want to eat from the refrigerator, as long as its fruit or something nourishing. And Randall always did.

Since his only requests were for things to drink, he appeared to be whining more for attention than lack of nourishment or thirst. I began to doubt that he was really that sick. The stream of requests continued through the late afternoon until dinnertime. He arrived at the table acting as if he were hungry, but soon pushed his food aside and picked at it; this from a lad who usually had a good appetite was not good.

Every hour or so I would check his forehead and peer into his throat for signs of redness or swelling. There was no sign of either.

I began to be concerned about his behavior. Finally, after dinner, I decided to call the local hospital and have them locate our Dr. B. The operator who answered said that since it was a weekend evening, Dr. B. was likely out to dinner somewhere, but that they could reach him by means of his beeper.

When the doctor called back, my first words were. "I have never been an alarmist parent