Broken to be Blessed: A Turning Point

By Louise Beaubrun Macaluso PhD

Up until the age of sixteen, the life of Louise Beaubrun-Macaluso was for the most part idyllic. Being raised by two loving parents, with her father as the bread-winner and her mother a stayat-home mom, she and her sisters grew up in a home that many in her native country would call privileged. However, her life was about to take a painful turn

• Language: English
• Publisher: TOPLINK PUBLISHING, LLC
• Release date: Apr 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9781948962520

Louise Beaubrun Macaluso PhD

Louise Beaubrun-Macaluso is a psychologist and radio host who is passionate about life. Her near-death experience, and the ensuing struggles after a fatal house fire, taught her to appreciate being alive and not take it for granted. One of her primary goals is to pay it forward and reach out to those who are facing hardships in their lives. Years after her burn injury, Beaubrun-Macaluso wrote the book Broken To Be Blessed: A Turning Point. Though she experienced one serious circumstance after another, her sense of humor remained intact, enabling her to see the lighter side of difficult situations. Also, her perspective is whatever happens to you in this life, you have the option to "Make it your excuse or make it your purpose". She thoroughly enjoys spending quality time with her family and friends. Beaubrun-Macaluso currently resides in New Jersey with her husband.

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Broken To Be Blessed

A Turning Point

Louise Beaubrun-Macaluso, PhD

Copyright © 2018 by Louise Beaubrun-Macaluso, PhD.

Paperback: 978-1-948962-51-3

eBook: 978-1-948962-52-0

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

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Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgement

Chapter 1 New Beginnings, New Hurdles

Chapter 2 Turning Point

Chapter 3 Aftermath

Chapter 4 Road to Recovery

Chapter 5 Life in Rehab

Chapter 6 Home at Last

Chapter 7 Back to School

Chapter 8 Another Challenge

Chapter 9 Finding Love

Chapter 10 Pushing the Envelope

Chapter 11 Surgeries and Doctors

Chapter 12 Divine Moments

Chapter 13 Social Perceptions

Chapter 14 Retrospective

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my mother, a remarkable woman whom I would be grateful to have just half of her strength, charisma, and grace. It is also dedicated to my sisters; I am thankful for being part of that sisterhood. Lastly, I dedicate this book to my wonderful husband, who continues to inspire me to be a better human being through his examples.

Acknowledgement

From the bottom of my heart, I thank my adoptive parents (Jidenia and Ulrick Benoit), who welcomed me in their home, and thereby sowed in God’s destiny for my life. A heartfelt thank you to Dr. Vincent Giampapa, who is the epitome of a true physician. Most importantly, I thank my heavenly Father who raised me up, especially at my lowest points.

1

New Beginnings, New Hurdles

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under the sun.

Ecclesiastes 3: 1

Nineteen years ago, my life changed drastically. Had anyone told me of what were to occur, I probably would think of it as a nightmarish joke. It did happen though. The only difference is I now know, without a shadow of a doubt, this tragedy was a blessing in disguise aimed to make me who I was created to be. Of course, I didn’t necessarily perceive this horrific event as such in the very beginning. But, as the years went by, I gradually saw the hands of God carrying me and shaping each moment as stepping stones toward my divine des tiny.

Being originally from Haiti, I moved to the United States at the age of eighteen to live with my adoptive family. The prospect of living my country was bitter-sweet. I was excited to finally see America for myself; by the same token, I was apprehensive to leave the comfort of home, family, and friends. Although the media tends to portray Haiti in a negative light, the Haiti that I know and love has unparalleled beauty, with vibrant and talented individuals. For the first time I had to live apart from my biological mom and two sisters, two and a half years after the tragic loss of my biological father. Nothing could have prepared me for the seemingly unjust and sudden death of my dad who played such a major role in our lives. I remember several years before it actually happened, my eldest sister Betty (who is only four years older than I) had a dream about my dad being dead. She woke up inconsolable that morning. We all kept telling her it was just a dream. However, in my mind I thought that was such an unfathomable idea, given that my dad was THE picture of health. He was about 6'5, well built, and very strong. The only sickness he’s ever had that I could remember was a cold, and his remedy was squeezing lemon juice in his nostrils straight from the lemon! He made it seem as though it was just a walk in the park, which prompted me to also try that once when I had a cold. The only difference was it was no walk in the park for me… I started jumping and moaning like I had a beast coming out of my head. I then realized that squeezing lemon juice in your nostrils was no easy task; my dad simply made it look that way. And that wasn’t so shocking to me or my siblings, because we sort of saw him as a hero, even though we never voiced this belief.

Consequently, it was extremely hard to wrap my head around his dying at only fifty seven years old… even though it was an accident. He had his own business and had to be on the road a lot. He owned a couple of eighteen wheelers which enabled him to deliver products en masse to stores across the country. During one of his business trips, as he made a stop around 1 or 2 a.m. and was crossing the street, a truck similar to the ones he had, ran over him. Needless to say that he died instantly, as his body was crushed by the truck that was coming at full speed. His body, which was unrecognizable, had to be picked up with a mat and then put in bags. My middle sister Beby, who was considered the most daring of the three of us, went to see the body at the morgue. She only recognized him by his fingers. One of his thumbs had a distinct shape that was due to an injury he incurred during his youth. Thus, that particular thumb played an instrumental part in my sister’s ability to identify my father.

My dad’s death occurred eight days after my sixteenth birthday, which I spent at an annual missionary trip organized by our church. Those missionary trips were a usual occurrence for us since we were little, because my mom dedicated us as promised children to God. That particular year we came back the day after my birthday. I was so excited coming back since I knew my dad was picking us up at the church. Given that he traveled so much, it was always a special treat for him to be home and be able to pick us up. God forbid, if we were home when he came back from one of his trips. My poor mom, who didn’t like any noise, had to put up with us jumping and screaming, as if God Himself had honored us with an in-person visit. Even the dogs were jumping out of happiness for seeing my dad. The dogs seemed to have been as enamored with my dad as we were; we had a beautiful golden retriever (Mickey) and what was probably a beagle (Kiteyo). That little beagle drove me crazy when we first got her. She would chase me all over the house, until I ended up climbing our dining room table, fearing she was going to bite me. Anyhow, when dad came home, both our jumping and screaming and the dogs joining in, were as normal for us as breathing. The strangest thing however was the passing of the beagle the day after my dad’s death, in front of my parents’ bedroom door. We were all dumbfounded when we found him there that morning. It was as though he knew and was so grief stricken that he passed away.

So we came back from the missionary trip on a Monday afternoon. My paternal grandmother, who was visiting, also went with us; the prospect of having my whole immediate family and grandma in one place, even for a couple days or day and a half, made me happy. And I could tell my dad was happy too. He picked us up in our pick-up truck, which meant we the kids were in the back. One of my precious memories is as I was sitting back there, while we stopped for a traffic light, my dad turned and winked at me. The next day, my siblings and I were at the table eating and chatting away as usual… I looked out the window, there was my dad standing on the porch by the window looking at us as though we were the most precious gift he had. At the same time, he seemed quite pensive. This happened on a Tuesday, the day after we returned from the missionary trip. I didn’t fully understand my dad’s behavior (i.e. his pensive look mixed with the intense look of a father’s love) until he passed away the following Sunday morning. It’s as though he had a premonition about his death the way he was looking at us.

It was a huge blow to face the fact that he was gone and there was no hope of his coming home again, as was the custom of his returning from a business trip. My mother was devastated. To make matters worse, her best friend decided that it was important for her to see her husband one last time before the funeral. Her best friend, who we recently lost to breast cancer, wanted my mother to have some sort of closure by seeing my father’s body. We lived in the city of Port-au-Prince, but the accident occurred not too far from my father’s brother, uncle Charles, who lived in another state. My uncle was the one who was called to go to the scene of the accident. Consequently, he had them take the body to a morgue near his house. That Sunday morning, the phone rang around 6. My mother picked up the phone in her room. I stayed in bed listening to her response: I sensed something was wrong. Sure enough, after hanging up, my mother came in our room to tell us my dad was in an accident. My heart dropped. However, since my uncle gave the impression that my father was alive, I thought I don’t think I’ve ever told him I love him. I resolved to do so when I went to see him in the hospital; but I did not get the chance to tell him for he died instantly. He was a very good father who loved us to pieces. The Saturday before his death, my sisters and I went on a day trip to the beach with a literary club to which we were members. The president of the literary club was telling the group how, before we left for another day trip, my dad kept telling him Watch out for my girls.

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A day at the beach. Me in the middle

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Me at the age of 16

Also, even though I was the youngest, my dad did not deprive me of certain activities because of my age. For example, when it came time to teach my sisters how to drive, my dad did not exclude me. I therefore was blessed to learn how to drive, with my sisters, at the age of twelve.

On the eve of the funeral, we spent the night at Uncle Charles’ before heading to my grandparents’ state of residence. My mother was beyond devastated by my father’s passing. To make matters worst, her best friend thought it was important for my mom to see her husband one last time before the funeral. Given the gruesome repercussions of the accident, it was decided it would be best to have a close casket funeral. Her best friend, who we recently lost to cancer, wanted my mother to have some sort of closure by going to see my father’s body. Therefore, that morning my mom’s best friend convinced her to go and say goodbye at the morgue. 30 minutes later, they returned carrying my mom; the shock of seeing my dad’s body in such a state was so overwhelming that she fainted. Even after she came to she was unable to walk. To this day, if you ask my mother she would not be able to tell you what happened the rest of that day. Although she could walk by afternoon to attend the funeral, it appeared as though she had checked out emotionally and was semi-unconscious. Now that I have a better understanding of the human psyche, I theorize that her grief was so unbearable that she subconsciously stepped away from the reality of having to bury her husband, who was her first and last love. My sisters and I did not realize that until days later when we were talking about a specific thing that took place during the funeral, and my mother had no recollection of anything. She had no idea who sat next to her or walked with her as we made our way to the cemetery. The custom in my country, especially in the country side, is to have a procession where everyone walked from the church to the cemetery, following those who were carrying the casket. The idea that we were walking toward a cemetery to bury my father was nothing but surreal to me. I simply did not want to accept that I will not have my dad around anymore.

My parents were very traditional. By that I mean my father was the bread-winner, while my mother was a stay-at-home mom who took care of us (my father included), as well as transitioning relatives. When my sisters and I came back from school, my mother was always home with food waiting for us on the table every day. My dad, on the other hand, was often away on his business trips, coming back every two days only to leave again the following day. Sometimes he wouldn’t get home until the wee hours, with my mother always staying awake waiting for him. My dad would also leave quite early when it was a busy week. As a result, my sisters and I would go a whole week without seeing my dad when we slept in during summer time.

But, by the end of the week, my dad who couldn’t stand not seeing us for that long, would knock on our bedroom door just to get to say hello, before he left for yet another trip. So, we groggily woke up and kissed him while he was saying I haven’t seen you girls in days. And as usual he gave us some money (what is called allowance in America) before leaving. One thing I came to realize after moving to the U.S. and learning about the American culture is that parents give weekly allowance to their children. However, my dad usually gave us our allowance about three times a week (especially during the school year). The months after my father’s death were extremely challenging, to say the least. His indefinite absence triggered a tremendous void in our lives, which persists to this day.

Two years after my dad’s death, I had to move to the United States. I had mixed feelings about moving. As a teenager, I was excited about migrating to a new country and get to immerse myself in a new culture. By the same token, it was not only difficult to even think about leaving behind everyone and everything I was accustomed to, but it was also daunting to imagine having to face such tremendous transition. The more I thought about it, the more I became apprehensive and sad at the thought of leaving my mom and sisters, friends, and my very first boyfriend. As a result, I started having migraines that were so debilitating that I had to walk slowly in order to prevent more pain.

The day to migrate to the United States quickly arrived and reality set in. In a few hours I was going to have to say goodbye to the people mentioned above. Everyone in the house fussed over me in their own way. About two days before, my two biological sisters went shopping for an outfit for me to wear to travel. they also gave me some of their clothes, which we used to share anyway; that was (and still is) the beauty of having siblings close in age where you can share not only clothes, but interests as well. Due to the small age-gap and having had to spend copious amount of time with each other (rather than going out with friends), because of our overly strict parents, we developed ways to entertain ourselves. To this day, we still reminisce about specific moments filled with jokes, laughter, and pranks. To get back to the D-day when I had to leave, one of my cousins fussed over me by insisting on giving me both a manicure and pedicure. We usually have what’s called dinner here at around 1 or 2 o’clock in the afternoon, and around 7 or 8pm we’d have supper, consisting of a lighter meal. That day, I got to have a very special dinner, even though my stomach was in knots and my heart was torn. But of course, I put on the brave girl face throughout the morning and early afternoon as I got ready to head to the airport. As I’m writing about how I felt, I wonder what was going through my mom’s mind and heart. I can only imagine that it wasn’t an easy day for her to let go of her youngest daughter.

I’ve had relatives, including my parents, who’ve been traveling to America since I was little (starting at about 5 years old). So, I knew about the U.S. and always wanted to see it for myself… hence the excitement about moving here. Consequently, the day I was leaving my country, both excitement and deep sadness were raging in me simultaneously. But as time was growing closer and closer for me to get to the airport and board the plane, my chagrin grew more. The reality of separating with my family and friends became more imminent. My sisters, a couple cousins, and my then boyfriend took me to the airport. As usual we were joking around; in the meantime my heart was breaking and I was so close to letting the tears flow in front of them. I unwilling said goodbye when we got to the security area where travelers have to say goodbye. As I was walking away, I was fighting to prevent the tears from flowing. I wasn’t one who like to show my tears, so I wiped them away so that people didn’t see me crying. Being a teenager (18 years old), I thought people would think I’m a big baby for crying. Even though the tears were fighting to come out, I did my best to control them as I was waiting for boarding time. Still a few got away; I quickly wiped them off, fearing someone would notice. I finally