Discovering Michael: An Inspirational Guide to Personal Growth & Self-Discovery

By Michael James

Are you truly happy?

This is the question that helped me to change my life. When I stopped to seriously consider this question, I realized that the answer was no. In fact, I began to wonder what happiness really was. Upon recognizing this void, a quiet yet persistent voice within demanded attention to this, even though I did not know what to do. Eventually, I was guided to take that hard and honest look within. The search initially was to understand why things were going wrong in my life. I was experiencing problems in my job and relationships. On the surface, others perceived me as successful, yet within I felt different, alone, unworthy, confused, and lost.

Discovering Michael is an inspirational story and guide about overcoming a life of adversity and challenges. It is a personal account and reflection of learnings about the journey and the methods used for personal growth and self-discovery. It is about changing unhealthy attitudes, beliefs, and behaviors into healthier choices, supportive of greater levels of happiness, meaning and purpose.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Mar 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781452594651

Michael James

Michael James is a father of three who creates stories for his children to treasure and others to enjoy. His writing draws upon his travels, experiences of the world from yesteryear… and now family life too. His stories demonstrate that during times of adversity being creative and fun is a positive route to take.

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Copyright © 2014 Michael James.

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The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4525-9464-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4525-9466-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4525-9465-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014905163

Balboa Press rev. date: 03/20/2014

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to acknowledge those whose help and assistance made this book possible: to my wife for keeping the mirror in front of me and patiently hanging in there with me; to my children who taught me so much and gave me so much reason to live and grow; to my brother and sisters for helping me understand our childhood as stressful as it was to recall, and getting through the tough times in my life; to my previous relationship partners for the good times we shared, the lessons they taught me, and understanding my need to change; to my friends in therapy, support groups and workshops for providing the critical support I needed; to Margaret Kean, Tom Sawyer and Candace Wheeler for helping me understand, and accept, my own spirituality; to Jack Whitney for keeping me sane (or maybe insane) throughout the process of starting to write this book; and to my many friends for giving me the love and comfort I needed during my years of growth to survive and overcome the adversity in my life.

CONTENTS

Introduction

Part One: My Story

Chapter 1: The Life I Once Knew

Chapter 2: Breaking Away

Chapter 3: On My Own

Chapter 4: The Wake-Up Call

Chapter 5: D-Day & Therapy

Chapter 6: The Ending

Chapter 7: Transitions

Chapter 8: A New Beginning

Part Two: Tools For Self Discovery

Chapter 9: Personality Assessments

Chapter 10: Journals

Chapter 11: Intensive Workshops

Chapter 12: Therapy & Counseling

Chapter 13: Support Groups

Chapter 14: Affirmations

Chapter 15: Books

Part Three: Observations Along The Way

Chapter 16: Personal Change

Chapter 17: Men vs. Women

Chapter 18: Sex, Romance & Love

Chapter 19: Spirituality

Chapter 20: Family & Friends

Epilogue

INTRODUCTION

What you are about to read is a true story, or at least what is my truth. What follows is my perception of my life and my reflections on it. Presenting the accounts in this way allows you to have a different perception, equally as true as my own. You may agree or disagree with me, and that is okay. After all, what is truth? In my opinion, it is whatever resonates with us at the particular time of occurrence. As we grow and broaden our awareness, what we define as our truth may change. My story reflects my current awareness of what my past was like and, in particular, what I learned were my issues and their origins, and how I eventually came to confront them.

I profess I am not a psychologist or a professional in the field of mental health. My comments are based on what have I learned, influenced in part by counselors and professionals. You must discern your truth and define your path. There may be elements of my path that resemble your own and others that fit only for me. An element I believe fits for all of us is that we are here for a purpose, and the experiences we have help us grow and develop our greater being, whatever that may be.

The purpose of Part One is to help you begin the process of self-reflection by taking a hard and honest look at yourself. More important than the details of my story is your reflection of your own life and what you choose to do with this knowledge. My story is intended to be a catalyst for you to begin reflecting on your past and how it has affected you. There may be aspects of my life to which you can relate, or there may not be. What tends to be the same, however, is that we share something in common: a painful past. Accepting this truth is necessary to finding out what exists at the core of our beliefs about ourselves, and about life itself. Our beliefs are the basis for our attitudes and actions. If tainted, which is often the result of trauma, we can have distorted beliefs and display dysfunctional behaviors. Attempting to change our attitudes and behaviors without discovering what is behind them would simply be treating the symptoms rather than the cause. There may be a temporary relief from the situation or issue, but chances are it will return.

Consider the following technique while reading Part One. Note in a journal any thoughts, feelings or past experiences you recall, along with whatever you remember about them. You may want to note experiences you have had that are similar to mine, or those that do not relate but left you with similar thoughts and feelings. This will assist you in better understanding the significant events in your life and their effects on you, and it may alert you to patterns.

Personal growth is analogous to peeling an onion. We have many layers, and the process of discovery can be painful at first. What remains after the skin and outer layers have been removed is what drives us: an understanding of our core attitudes and beliefs. The great news is that as we find bad parts (old beliefs), we can change them out for new parts (new beliefs), and operate much more efficiently, leading to happiness.

Be prepared for a paragraph, sentence or word to trigger a painful memory. When this occurs, you may be tempted to close the book, or even throw it away. We do not like to experience pain, and our tendency is to blame the person or thing that caused it. If you are not prepared for this, set the book aside until you are ready. Part of our initial discovery is recognizing the skeletons we have hanging in our closet.

The first step can be painful. Leaving you with any other expectation would only be setting you up for a shock. Are you willing to take a closer look at yourself? Even though you may not like what you initially see, and you may not want to experience the pain that you have buried for a long time, the benefit will come from your willingness and determination to overcome these issues that have been adversely affecting your quality of life. There is a way to overcome your past and create a better future filled with more happiness, joy, fulfillment and love. The best part is that anyone can do it!

The desire to share my story is not to seek pity or condolences, but rather to help you begin the process of self-discovery. The power of sharing comes from the effect it has on others. When we listen to, observe, or read about the experiences of another, we react based on our own perceptions of what we just learned. Our reactions are opportunities to learn something about ourselves. If a passage in the book results in a joyful reaction, ask yourself what it was about the experience you could relate to. If hearing someone share his travel experiences abroad excites you, a possible conclusion may be that you like the idea of world traveling. If you were to react to the pain and hurt that someone else shares, you may relate based on having had a similar experience. The challenge is to find out more about yourself.

The purpose of Part Two is to provide you with a means to get started. I refer to this as Tools for Self Discovery. I provide you with my own experiences using these tools, along with the feedback I have heard from others. Again, I do not consider myself to be an expert in any of these areas. However, using my experiences as a guide, I feel qualified to share with you my knowledge of the tools, and their advantages and disadvantages. The tools include personality tests, journals, workshops, therapy and counseling, support groups, affirmations and self-help books–many of which are free and easy to use. You should be able to find one or more that match your budget and level of commitment.

Part Three begins with reviewing the challenges associated with personal growth, which is CHANGE. Change is inevitable and change is tough. The goal is to learn how to accept change as a part of life. We may not like it, but change is an integral part of growth; resisting it will only result in stagnation.

Change often resurrects one of our primal fears: the fear of the unknown. Throughout my growth experience I had the pleasure of observing many people—noting their behaviors and attitudes in different situations, and my reactions to them—and learning from such observations. I have discerned several distinct characteristics and consistent patterns regarding personal growth and development. Part Three includes highlights of my observations and the meanings I have attached to them.

PART ONE:

MY STORY

CHAPTER 1: THE LIFE I ONCE KNEW

This chapter illustrates my experiences growing up in a dysfunctional family. Rather than a parent-bashing account, it is meant to portray the realities of my childhood. As a child, I was not aware that so many others experienced similar dysfunction in their families, often resulting in a similar development of distorted beliefs about themselves, as I had of myself and the world. I did not discover this until I reached my early thirties.

As we experience the various forms of abuse—emotional, mental and physical—we often feel ashamed and alone. The rest of the world looks normal, so we learn early on how to mask our situation and feelings. We learn denial for the sake of appearing okay and, incredibly, most of us survive the abuse to which we were subjected.

Personal growth begins with understanding what has happened to us. For some, this has long been buried and may need the support of professionals to unearth. In any case, it is not easy confronting the pain and trauma we attempted to hide in order to appear normal to others. To better understand why we are the way we are, we need to take a realistic look at our past, beginning with our childhood. We must also look at what teachings and lessons we were provided, both consciously and subconsciously, and what we learned and accepted about ourselves, relationships and life.

Many stories could be told to exhibit the physical and emotional abuse that characterized my childhood, but I have limited them to give you the essence of these formative years.

My story begins with a poem I wrote as I began to reflect on my life experiences. It captures the core of my past, the painful awareness of my life, and my leap forward.

Let My Concerns Go Bye

Life as I once knew

Seemed tough, unloving and full of concern

This was the story of my childhood

Which is now what I know I had learned

I carried forth this learning

Into all that I did and thought

My life was unhappy

It all confirmed what I was taught

Then one day the pain was too much

I was tired of my loneliness, my unhappiness and my fears

I realized it wasn’t the world, but it was me

And then came the anger and tears

They talked about love, happiness and joy

All feelings I never truly felt

I had to learn these all over

A new deck of cards had finally been dealt

The turning point came

When I learned of the light

I am now beginning to see that within is my own lantern

That I understand how to ignite and make bright

I can see that this is all part of the process of life

That I am gifted, worthwhile and full of love

It was all necessary, of my own choice

It is what I needed to become my own spiritual dove

Despite the continued ups and downs

I am now learning how to fly

Finally I am letting go of my past

And letting my concerns go bye!

My birth certificate reads October 15, 1956. I am the son of Patrick and Mary. I don’t recall much about my parents’ lives or those of my grandparents, since they were never really discussed. My grandparents, except for one grandfather, died before I knew them. Dad was born in 1920 and was a survivor of the Depression. My siblings and I were lavished with stories about how lucky we were compared to how hard he had had it. We did have it easier regarding the basic necessities of life, but we paid emotionally and psychologically for the issues that our parents developed during their own childhood years.

I have two sisters. Karen was born in 1953, and Martha, in 1958. My brother John arrived in 1962. We were born in Albany, New York, and grew up in a suburban community. My father worked as a civil engineer for the State of New York and my mother was a housewife. We were a white middle class family.

For much of my adult life my childhood memories remained a blur. Even today voids still exist, but with the help of therapy I have been able to glean enough of what happened to know what it was like. I felt, and was, alone much of the time. I didn’t have any playmates except for those I created in my head. I was skinny and the neighborhood kids loved to call me names and tease me. I rarely played with my sisters. I had five cousins, all girls, whom I saw only once or twice a year. I enjoyed playing with them, but I missed having male companions. Dad never seemed to be interested in playing with me. He was too busy working around the house and yard, or spending time with his father, William.

I remember going along on the two-hour drives to visit my grandpa in the Catskill Mountains, where my dad’s family grew up. My grandpa lived in an apartment above a bar, the latter being where I spent most of my time playing a bowling game and eating peanuts. My grandpa did not appear to like me very much, preferring his Camel cigarettes and whiskey. He ended up in the Veterans hospital in Albany where he remained until he died.

I do not recall much about grade school. Time just seemed to slip by. The only positive memories I have were the time I attended a friend’s birthday party where I mistook a bowl of butter for vanilla ice cream; riding my mini-bike fast enough to evade a local police officer; building dams in our stream; going to the local amusement park; and scoring a touchdown in gym class in fifth grade—memorable because I was not very athletic or coordinated then.

An additional memory that especially stands out was the gymnastics event that took place in front of all the parents and teachers. I was asked to walk on the balance beam, and I stumbled and fell. The crowd giggled and other kids laughed, while I felt embarrassed and full of shame. Following that humiliation, the coach made me climb a rope, which I had never been able to do in class. Once again, all I heard was laughter. Instead of receiving sympathy at home, I was ridiculed for not having succeeded, and then sent to bed. Such shame characterized my childhood.

I had crushes on girls, but they didn’t seem to notice me. I frequently daydreamed about having a girlfriend like Stacey. She was very pretty, and I loved to stare at her and fantasize about holding her hand. During one of my fantasies I wrote on the cover of one of my textbooks, I love Stacey. One day while I was bearing the brunt of other’s jokes, a boy pushed my books to the floor. The book with my admission about Stacey fell on top of the pile. One of the boys saw it and snatched it up. He announced his finding to the rest of the class, which of course included Stacey. I stood unable to run away and hide, feeling the familiar shame and embarrassment I knew too well.

I was desperately envious of the other kids, especially the jocks who gained much attention from my peers. I craved a shred of that attention. I often wished I could be like one boy in particular, Ken. He had girlfriends, nice clothes, even peach fuzz before most of the other boys. I remember looking in the mirror hoping to see some signs of hair on my face, but I only saw another reason not to like the reflection.

I spent most of grade school doing homework and helping Dad with household chores, which he loved assigning. We had a lot of property so there were always sticks that needed picking up, flowers that needed watering, landscaping and whatever other tasks my dad could think of. I heard the other kids at school talk about Little League baseball, playing with their friends, having birthday parties and seeing movies. I felt sad and left out. When I went to bed, I took small solace in clutching my tiger pillow and my cat, my two best friends.

Instead of garnering sympathy or understanding from my dad, I was in constant fear of him. Most of the time my siblings and I were not allowed to play. Instead we had to work or suffer the wrath of the strap, an old belt of his. It hung in the closet in the kitchen, visible to all of us—a constant reminder of who was in charge and what would happen if any of us got out of line. We each got this treatment often for reasons unknown, if there were any at all. As kids we were like Pavlov’s dogs, responding to Dad calling our names with a sense of urgency. Dad had a terrible temper and I would never know when he would lose it. I was on guard all the time, watching where he was, watching every move to try and anticipate when he would get angry.

The beatings resulted in bruises—external and internal. We were made to lie on the bed and pull down our pants, and then the beating ensued. As if that was not bad enough, we were forced to walk naked in front of our siblings to show what would happen when we misbehaved. Fortunately the bruises were on my behind, and therefore almost always out of sight at school. During one gym class, however, a boy pointed out the bruises to the other boys, shaming me yet again. I hastily invented a story that I had fallen out of a tree, as there was no way I would admit to being beaten at home. The boys would never let me live it down.

Though much of my time was spent working, I did have a brief window to play when I first got home from school. This time would always end abruptly at 4:15 when Dad got home. I remember standing in front of the living room picture window with my mom and siblings, waiting for his car to turn the corner. We had learned that how fast he came around the corner leading into the driveway, and how quickly he exited the car, reflected his mood. The faster he was the more nervous we were. Waving goodbye to Dad as he left for work and greeting him at the door when he returned were forced rituals.

When Dad arrived, my focus quickly left whatever I was doing and turned to dread. We all had to prepare for his arrival. Dinner needed to be ready unless he was going to work in the yard until dark. At any moment things could change dramatically with his ever-shifting mood. The fear of the strap and the embarrassment of being beaten were powerful motivators. In order to survive, staying in line was a constant goal. Sassing back or forgetting an order were the worst crimes we could commit. It was best to keep quiet and do as we were told.

During dinner, Dad usually complained about work. He told us continually about how they were always doing something unfair to him. He spoke of the exams he completed to earn promotions and how he had scored top marks. But the bastards chose some nigger, Jew or ass-kisser who scored below me, he would say. He often devised strategies to get revenge, using the press to reveal departmental issues. We frequently visited Dad in his office, where he had a reputation as a jokester, ridiculing the State offices and management in a comical way. He seemed like a different person there.

When Dad had bad days at work, he was frightening. Even though life was lonely when he wasn’t home, time spent climbing trees and playing with imaginary friends was far better than walking on eggshells when he was there, especially if he was in a foul mood. When he was home, there was no safe place in the house. My heart would stop whenever I heard his footsteps approach my room or hear him yell out my name—I knew I would be ordered to do another errand, or he just wanted to yell at someone. No matter what was said, I had to respond with Yes, Dad. He served in the Army during WWII, and we lived with the discipline and regiment of a boot camp.

Dad was a perfectionist and nothing I did could measure up to his impossibly high standards. He could not stand idleness and always had something for me to do. Completing the errand or task was not adequate. Upon inspection there was always something I missed or did not do well enough. Along with this came the ridicule and comments that I would never amount to anything. Though I came to believe that I was useless, no good and just in the way, I still wanted to please him, so I kept trying harder.

God forbid when we received our report cards. Anything less than straight A’s was reason for punishment. What scared me the most were the teacher’s comments. Good comments were expected, while criticism was met with the strap. Although life seemed lonely and unloving, I adapted. I invented excuses to the other kids when they finally asked me to come out and play. I tried to explain that I couldn’t because I was going to help Dad around the house. Soon they stopped asking. I also learned the art of lying. Any excuse was better than telling the truth, and after a while I believed my lies.

Until I was ten my family and I had to do everything together. In the evenings we took our ritualistic walk around the block, hearing the neighbor kids teasing as we passed by. I hated the walks.

I do not remember playing with my sisters. After dinner we did our chores, homework, and watched a little bit of TV. The girls had to have their hair curled, which they hated. I watched them sit in the chair as Mom tied rags into their tresses to create curls. Dad was very demanding with how we wore our hair. Even though trends changed, we had to maintain the same style we always had. I had to wear my hair exactly like Dad’s using Vitalis hair gel to grease my strands back. The other kids were growing longer hair, and I still had the 1940s cut—another cause of embarrassment. I carried my own comb and attempted to change the style while on the school bus, but then I just had greasy hair.

Each of us kids had hellish days. We dreaded getting caught for any of the things we attempted to get away with. Karen hid the book bag Dad made her carry, and Martha did the same with her lunch box. I hid my boots and changed my hairstyle. Karen and Martha sometimes brought a change of clothes when they hated what they had on. At times we lost the items we hid. One time Karen hid her book bag in a drainage pipe and there was a downpour. By the time she got off the bus the book bag was long gone. We frantically tried to come up with excuses to avoid facing Dad’s terrifying temper.

When Dad caught wise to our hiding schemes, there was a great price to pay. Even though none of us liked liver and onions, we were forced to clean our plates. Karen once hid a mouthful of the detestable dinner in her coat pocket and forgot to throw it away. A few days later Dad checked our coat pockets, as nothing was sacred in our house and everything was susceptible to his spot checks. When he found the liver in her pocket, he demanded that she eat it right there in front of him, even though it was dreadfully old by then.

We each had our stories of being beaten and reprimanded, and unfortunately they were quite common. We followed a strict upbringing and did our best to stay in line. There were the rare good times, but it was the exception rather than the norm. We had fun when Dad was in a good mood. He told jokes and we went out for ice cream. Sometimes he even played catch with me in the driveway. When I did everything Dad wanted me to, and did it perfectly, I got the Good boy response which felt good.

My dad was the dominant presence in our house, while my mom wasn’t involved with us kids very often. She was always cooking or running errands for Dad. He yelled at her all the time and she cried. She took her share of physical abuse as well. Dad hit Mom when they were fighting, often in the middle of the night, and it really scared me. Karen, Martha and I would hide in our rooms and pull the covers over our heads, or start screaming, Please, stop it! Dad would yell at Mom and call her terrible names, then demand that she take off her clothes. I had no idea what it all meant, just that it was Mom’s turn to get it from Dad.

What hurt the most was when Dad asked us kids to line up and tell Mom she was wrong. When we did, we were rewarded and sent back to bed. This confused me; it didn’t seem right. Why is this happening? I wondered, and often asked God, but there was never a response. I couldn’t make sense of it so I blocked it out and returned to my fantasy world. Nice people loved me, I had girlfriends, and I was the star of the basketball and baseball teams. Life was too painful to live in the moment, so I escaped into my self-created reality.

Mom wasn’t allowed out of the house, nor was she allowed to work. Neither she nor my dad had friends. Dad was extremely jealous if Mom spoke to a neighbor or anyone outside of the home. She seemed to live in her own world too.

One of the worst fights I remember was a result of a discrepancy of a few dollars in the family budget. Dad wrote Whore in the book where he tracked all the expenses. He kept close track of every penny, and God help us if anything was forgotten or missing. The fights always seemed to end with Mom apologizing in front of all of us, admitting she was wrong.

Things took a dramatic turn when I was twelve. Dad came to our school and grabbed us kids and we headed to the hospital. He started crying, telling us that our mommy was going to die. Although life was already difficult, things quickly became more complicated, confusing and dysfunctional. It felt as if I had detached from my body. My heart was empty and my mind blocked these messages. It was all too incomprehensible. How could such a thing happen? I was alone and scared. I reacted by going into another dimension.

Mom was diagnosed with breast cancer and was told that she needed to undergo a mastectomy. Dad immediately initiated his crazy routines. Not only did he lose his temper, he acted like a crazy person. He made highly animated gestures, waved his hands, made faces and changed the tone of his voice. He paced the halls. We were required to sit and listen while he carried on his tirade. His own fears and sadness were portrayed as anger and rage. He frequently pulled us aside and carried on about our mommy dying and how terrible it was for him. Never once did he consider that maybe we needed support or attention, or acknowledged that we had feelings too; he was too consumed with his own fear and pain. However, the worst was his continual blaming us for her sickness. He said over and over that Mom had cancer and would die because she had children. Eventually, I believed him.

By the time Mom came home from the hospital, we were young kids acting like adults. We did all the housework in addition to our homework and usual chores. We were to be on our best behavior. The only expressed emotions that existed in the house came from Dad. I lived in fear, not only of Dad and his temper tantrums, but now of Mom dying. When I went to bed I wanted to cry, but the tears never came. Fortunately I had my cats, Spot and Tigger, to cuddle with and give me enough of a distraction to succumb to sleep.

Over the next couple of years I had few breaks from the living hell at home. I was able to make the high school soccer team and attended practices after school and games on the weekend. I was excited to be away from home, and became depressed as the bus approached home. Dad criticized me for spending time away from home instead of getting the work done around the house. He reminded me that he never had time to play sports as a child as he had to feed the pigs and chickens. Dad was never interested in what I was doing outside of the home, and I began to feel guilty. My brother was only six at the time and Karen and I shared the responsibility of caring for him. He was always very quiet, and even though we slept in the same room, we seldom played together.

Mom underwent continual radiation therapy, which made her sick. She avoided speaking about it and merely rocked back and forth in her chair. Home became an even more depressing environment. Dad lost his temper more frequently, and I did not know how to deal with Mom or the fact that she was so sick. The only discussion about her condition entailed Dad yelling at us that our Mommy was going to die. I still did not want to believe it.

During the two and a half years she was sick, life was at its worst. With everything we did, Dad would pull us aside and say that this may be our last time to do this as a family. I learned to not portray any feelings since they would just get me into trouble. Anger only provoked Dad, while being happy resulted in feeling guilty because I wondered how anyone could be happy at a time like this.

At this time, Karen was in her late teens and began to venture out more on her own. She bore the brunt of a lot of Dad’s anger because he was offended at her being away from home. An incident one New Year’s Eve reflected such turmoil. Karen went to a friend’s house for a party. When it was close to midnight, Dad went over and, in front of everyone, grabbed her by the hair and screamed, How dare you be away from Mommy’s last New Year’s Eve! Dad saw to it that we had no lives of our own.

The nights were lonely. I didn’t know what to make of life and felt a great injustice. I prayed to God to help Mom, but the prayers seemed to go unanswered. I wondered how God could let Mom die. She was very religious, so we made the trek to the Catholic Church every Sunday. It felt like a waste of time to me and I began to lose any faith I had once been taught.

Dad became a rebel for returning the church back to its original Latin Mass. He organized a Mass where the traditional ceremony would be offered, which attracted hundreds of people. There were plans to continue these Masses but someone in the hierarchy of the Church threatened the priest and others with excommunication. Even though I didn’t care for the Masses, it only supported the belief in our house that the Church was a fiasco, one comprised of a bunch of politicians and hypocrites. I became more agnostic.

On Sundays we were required to go to Church School, which was led by what appeared to be angry nuns. Once again we had to act like saints, lest we be punished with the ruler. On one occasion I asked to speak to the priest. I got up the nerve to ask for his help with respect to life at home and, in particular, problems with Dad. I hoped to finally find someone who could listen to and help me deal with this nightmare. Instead I received a lecture, another sermon on the mount. I was reminded of one of Commandments to honor thy father—which he stated also included my Dad.

During the last few days of Mom’s life, we lived at her bedside in the hospital. We were constantly confronted with her severe condition without respite. She ended up in a coma. I sat listening to her erratic breathing. It was clear she was getting worse, and my fear of her dying increased. I could not imagine life being any worse. I was petrified at the thought of having no mom and having to live alone with Dad.

On her last night, a miracle seemed in the making. Mom sat up, alert and smiling. She told us that she was going to be one hundred percent better. We left to go back to an empty room where we had been staying. Each of us kids was excited. The next morning we were awoken and returned to see Mom, only this time I watched her take her last breath and die. It was March 13, 1971, a day I wish I could forget, but one that would end up affecting me for years to come. How could she die? What did all this mean? Was I really to blame? It was not until many years later, while volunteering in hospice care, that I realized there was a lot more to what transpired the night before she died than I had ever thought.

I thought life had been terrible up to that point, but I was about to realize that it could get worse. Our lives became a living memorial to the life of Mom and Dad. Dad often pulled us kids together and read Mom’s last words over and over. We retraced every step the two of them made during their lives. Even our vacations replicated the previous journeys Mom and Dad made together. Evenings were spent reviewing old