Teardrops That Tango: Autobiography of Amber Cote

By Amber Cote

Ill never forget the last words my fianc said to me before I watched him die. You want me to end all of your problems, Amber? Ill end them all right now! He spat his words through clenched teeth, his jaw was locked. Kirks normally composed personality had disappeared, replaced with that of a hysterical mana man who was right in front of me.
His wrath had quickly diminished what I knew of the easy-going man I was scheduled to marry in two months. He struggled and clawed against the air, moving toward our bedroom. The breath locked in my lungs when he reappeared clutching his fathers 9mm Smith & Wesson.
His forehead was slick with sweat as he buried the muzzle into his right temple. A pang of futility pierced through me, blanching the color from my face. The pulsing terror was so acute I was virtually paralyzed. My mind struggled to defy this indefinable moment as Kirk wielded that gun. I was frantically holding onto his life by willpower alone, but my wits were sapped. Wrestling with reality, my vision distorted, watching my life played out like a movie on fast-forward, jumping from one random event to another. I wasnt in a real-life drama but a nightmare. How can this be happening?
Kirks legs quavered as he tried to stabilize himself. I could feel my throat begin to swell when he narrowed his eyes and tightly pursed his lips. I struggled to escape the rising panic that twisted within my newly pregnant belly and coursed up to my fingertips.
His nostrils flared as his index finger curled around the trigger.
Oh no. Please, God, no.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504900034

Amber Cote

"Teardrops that Tango" quickly became an extended personal journal for Mrs. Amber Cote. Amber draws upon her life experience with depression as a four-time "survivor" of familial suicides. Amber truly beat the odds and emerged a leading authority in suicidology. She embarks on an unlikely journey of understanding the suicides of her fiancée, mother, first husband, and cousin. Unlocking the guilt-riddled questions about suicide and mental illness, Amber creates a better awareness and eclectic approach to the emotional, functional, and physiological factors that influence mental health. Amber was the youngest editorial writer for "The Dallas Morning News" at the age of seventeen. She earned her BS in psychology, graduating summa cum laude and cementing her place as a lifelong member of the Alpha Chi national college honor society. Her educational background has given her a broad base from which to approach many topics with her creative flair and lyrical style. For "Teardrops that Tango," Amber has been interviewed by Robin Stienberg from the International radio talk show "The Critics Choice." She currently writes and counsels people through many online publications. Her writing and dedication has been greatly influenced by her family's support. She currently lives life in fast-forward with her husband of fifteen years and their five children. See more of Amber's freelance writing on Facebook at "Teardrops that Tango."

Book preview

cover.jpg

AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2015 Amber Cote . All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 03/24/2015

ISBN: 978-1-5049-0005-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-0015-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-0003-4 (e)

Print information available on the last page. 2015904944

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.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Chapter One: Kirk

Chapter Two: Silent No More, Since 2007

Chapter Three: Life Springs From Death

Chapter Four: Meet The Parents

Chapter Five: Cleaning Out My Closet

Chapter Six: Mother Dearest

Chapter Seven: The Jungle

Chapter Eight: Mom Has Breast Cancer?

Chapter Nine: Mom’s Getaway

Chapter Ten: Burning Down The House

Chapter Eleven: She Has His Eyes

Chapter Thirteen: The Scapegoat, The Victim Is Also The Perpetrator

Chapter Twelve: Slick Steve

Chapter Fourteen: Mom’s Last Threat?

Chapter Fifteen: The Black Widow?

Chapter Sixteen: Suffer The Little Children

Chapter Seventeen: My Reward

Chapter Eighteen: Your Father Is Going To Die

Chapter Nineteen: Little Orphan Anni-…Oops, Amber

Chapter Twenty: Pre-Birth Communication

Chapter Twenty-One: How My Son With Down Syndrome Helped Me Up!

Chapter Twenty-Two: Hope And Cope

Chapter Twenty-Three: Making It A Baby-Steps Kind Of Day

Chapter Twenty-Four: Give (The King Of) Peace A Chance

Chapter Twenty-Five: Forgive And Forget?

Chapter Twenty-Six: Survivor’s Erroneous Guilt

Chapter Twenty-Seven: A Meaningful Life Is A Life With Meaning

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Coffee And Anti-Depressants

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Knock, Knock? Who’s There?

Chapter Thirty: You Won’t Like Me When I’m Angry

Chapter Thirty-One: You Can’t Save The World, Amber

Special Thanks

No mistakes in the tango, Donna, not like life. Simple, that’s what makes the tango so great. If you make a mistake, get all tangled up, you just tango on. (Al Pacino as Colonel Slade, Scent of a Woman, 1992)

Heather’s amazing, inspirational life story consists of multiple horrific events that most of us will experience only in nightmares we try desperately to forget. Yet she has not only survived, but burst out of these events with a triumphant and contagious smile of victory. Read about early deaths of loved ones, including a legacy of suicide, losing her home along with all her belongings in a devastating fire, and finding out that her son (and fifth child) would face serious challenges during his lifetime. Her strength and determination to survive the challenges and protect her children as well as any mother lioness could will leave you grateful that your trials didn’t come close to hers. (Trust me, they did not.) After reading this book, you will be singing It Is Well With My Soul. (Colorado State Representative Kim Ransom)

Amber Cote has an innate talent as an inspirational and motivational writer. Her intuitive nature forms a unique style, expressing intricate and delicate subject matter to a vast audience. Her experiences and obvious expertise in Suicidology is unselfishly shared in, Teardrops That Tango and I can’t help but be moved by the intensity and heartfelt touch of words used to convey something that words usually fail to describe. Her writer-to-writer tone removes fear, builds confidence, and causes the reader to shout, ‘Yes! I can do this!’ With wit, candor and nuggets of fiercely intelligent wisdom; Amber’s entertaining writing will grasp onto you and not let you go! Don’t just read her work, I recommend you engage her fully. (Ken Wyble; Executive Vice-President at Clarity Community and Wellness Center. 10/1/2013)

Amber has a unique ability to tackle challenging topics and weave words together that stimulate interest, and creates and easy flowing read. (Jeff Wasden, Owner, PROformance Apparel)

This autobiography is

dedicated (and ends happily) thanks to my unbelievable husband, Christopher Robin, and our five incredible children; Kyra, Valorie, Hoyt, John, and Josiah. There’s a saying that death is sad only for those who are left behind. This book is for everyone who has felt left behind. Need to Talk? 1-800-272-TALK; 911; 1-800-SUICIDE

*Per publisher’s limitations in content, all names and some locations have been changed for any possible privacy and/or copyright infringement.

CHAPTER ONE

Kirk

A mere moment too late and we can never reach them any more in this world. They will not be cured by our most efficacious drugs or slain with our sharpest swords. (F. Scott Fitzgerald)

I’ll never forget the last words my fiancé said to me before I watched him die. You want me to end all of your problems, Amber? I’ll end them all right now! He spat his words through clenched teeth, his jaw was locked. Kirk’s normally composed personality had disappeared, replaced with that of a hysterical man—a man who was right in front of me.

His wrath had quickly diminished what I knew of the easy-going man I was scheduled to marry in two months. He struggled and clawed against the air, moving toward our bedroom. The breath locked in my lungs when he reappeared clutching his father’s 9mm Smith & Wesson.

His forehead was slick with sweat as he buried the muzzle into his right temple. A pang of futility pierced through me, blanching the color from my face. The pulsing terror was so acute I was virtually paralyzed. My mind struggled to defy this indefinable moment as Kirk wielded that gun. I was frantically holding onto his life by willpower alone, but my wits were sapped. Wrestling with reality, my vision distorted, watching my life played out like a movie on fast-forward, jumping from one random event to another. I wasn’t in a real-life drama but a nightmare. How can this be happening?

Kirk’s legs quavered as he tried to stabilize himself. I could feel my throat begin to swell when he narrowed his eyes and tightly pursed his lips. I struggled to escape the rising panic that twisted within my newly pregnant belly and coursed up to my fingertips. His nostrils flared as his index finger curled around the trigger. Oh no…. Please, God, no….

Merely hours before, our joy had been looked upon as enviable. How did we get from selecting baby names to this desperate position, characterized by twisted threats of self-execution?

In the Beginning

I’ll send someone right over, Amber, the raspy, male voice responded through the walkie-talkie’s static. Offended by and annoyed by customers like the one I was about to meet, I crossed my arms and tapped my foot, glancing every now and again at the watch I wasn’t wearing. I had never required a captain’s (our appealing name for bouncers) assistance at work before; their faces were unfamiliar images that melded with those of the masses of other employees at the restaurant. I only recognized their sharp business attire.

The plastered patron who had initiated my need to summon the captain attempted to pinch my back side again, tumbling off of a bar stool in the process. I was incensed with him, my irritation recognizable in my offended grimace. I waited impatiently for my co-worker to remove this guy. Reinforcement began to funnel toward me in a posh blue suit. The atonal music of the busy night seemed to hush in the awareness of him. Mid-tap, my foot went motionless, my mouth gaping in awe.

Demanding veneration, this captain walked in long, big strides, appearing like a force of nature. I kept my eyes trained on this man, feeling drawn to him as though he was tugging some invisible rope around my waist. My arms plummeted lifelessly to my sides in submission. Who is that?!

At six feet, eight inches tall, it was impossible not to take notice of this striking man. He was intimidating but beautiful, hoisted head and shoulders above everyone else. I squinted to see the black name-pin on his upper chest. A step closer and it came into focus: Kirk.

He was smiling indulgently, his faultless olive skin radiating from under his clothing. He had straight jet-black hair that was slicked back, but delectable stubborn ringlets curled up at the nape of his white Oxford collar. His piercing brown eyes intensified his cultural élan, making my knees buckle.

I suddenly couldn’t speak, so I pointed to the drunken culprit. Without saying a word, Kirk looped his hand through the inebriated cat-caller’s Western-style belt and carried him at least fifty feet to the front doors, using the man’s head to swing them open. With fluid harmony, he lobbed drunken sticky fingers into a waiting cab. When the taxi zipped away, Kirk straightened his tie, smoothed his hair with both hands, and swaggered back inside. He was astoundingly quick, the delinquent activities resolved in less than two minutes. My stomach quivered as he came back inside and boldly promenaded towards me again. Speak Amber, get yourself together girl!

Are you okay…? His stunning eyes began to search my blouse for my name badge, making my chest feel fiery.

Amber! I almost shouted, thrusting out my hand for him to shake. Y—yyes, I’m ookay now, Kkkirrrk, embarrassed by my stuttering.

It’s nice to meet you, Amber. He accepted my handshake with a demure but amused smile, his enormous hand consuming mine. Forked lightning speared through my body when our hands joined; my eyes darted up to meet his. Did you feel that? I marveled at the sensation and questioned his eyes to see if he felt it, too, but he seemed even and unruffled.

You just let me know if you have any more trouble, he said. I bobbed my head up and down to indicate that I would. Uh, yeah, I’m scorched from your heat, but I’m good. I evaded eye contact with him once more, but when I dared to sneak another peek, he winked at me before walking away. I flushed, tingling from head to toe. His smile seemed to glow in the dark. I realized I had been holding my breath and finally exhaled in a huge whoosh. When I regained my footing, I turned towards my co-worker and whispered, He’s mine.

I couldn’t stop ogling him throughout the night. A moment more with Kirk and I would be the cat-caller removed for sexual harassment. Returning home after my shift, I was still thinking about him. How handsome and mysterious he was. How swiftly he had rescued me. I couldn’t wait to see him again. That night, when I checked our work schedule for his hours, I saw he was off tomorrow. I worked. Crap!

I sauntered off to my work station, frustratingly kicking at invisible stones on the floor. Sooner than my heart could sink, I saw him walking right towards me.

Oh God! I spun around and quickly slathered on some lip gloss. He reminded people of the actor Steven Seagal, and I could see the association, especially since he was into karate. He had obviously just showered and was wearing karate pants, and a clean white T-shirt. Tightly knotted on his waist was a black belt. The scent of soap and a mild men’s cologne wafted from his body. He casually sat in one of my booths.

His hair was disheveled in such a cute way that I wanted to reach out and slowly twirl one of those black ringlets around my index finger. Stop that, Amber! I anxiously flattened out invisible wrinkles in my skirt, combed my fingers through my hair, and walked towards him. Just don’t fall on your face!

I nonchalantly smiled, the actress in me taking over with a composed, even detached job performance. Robotically, I offered him a menu and asked if he’d like something to drink. I was looking back and forth between him and the quivering menu in my hands. Why can’t we will ourselves not to tremble? When he reached for it, it was clear he wasn’t shaking. His large hand instantly covered half of the menu size.

Kirk never broke eye contact with me, which caused me to inadvertently start biting my lip and shift my feet. It was as though he relished seeing me flustered. Guess who immediately failed in her coolness attempt?

He finally answered, I’ll just have a bottle of water, please. His voice was so suave and cultured that I didn’t respond right away. My stomach was too busy quivering, and the restaurant suddenly felt so small.

Are you all right? he asked. Hearing his voice again made me blink out of my daze, and I stammered back into gear. My father had taught me how to interpret men; I knew this god in a suit was trouble.

Of course, I said thickly, determined to respond casually. I was irritated with myself for appearing so awkward and frazzled. One water, coming up, I chirped and scampered away like a frightened rabbit.

I tried to keep from looking in his direction, but every time I risked a glance at him, I saw that he was watching me intently. His gaze was almost sexual; I nearly felt taken right there. Lawd, this man is hot! Upon the delivery of his water, he began to invite me out on a date, but I accepted before he could finish asking.

The intensity of our magnetic attraction was so powerful that we fell in love almost instantly. We were two kids in love, I was eighteen and Kirk was twenty-one when we heaved ourselves into a relationship that took off at a fierce gallop. If we weren’t working together, we were playing together. I was always linked to his arm or enfolded in his embrace. I loved being wrapped up in his chest; he made me feel sheltered and important. He was sociable, humorous, and trendy, always donning the most modern Italian fashions, most of which he had custom-tailored because of his height. We frequently went dancing, shared laughs at comedy clubs, or dined out at his favorite restaurants, especially small bistros.

Kirk was sociable, humorous, and trendy; always donning the most modern Italian fashions, most of which he had custom tailored because of his height. We frequently went dancing, laughed at comedy clubs, or dined out at his favorite restaurants, especially small bistros.

Kirk had everything going for him. He was intelligent, educated, and ambitious. He worked part-time for a multinational information technology equipment and services company. It was a vast career opportunity for a twenty-one year old.

Kirk had a quick wit and silly sense of humor. He had no trouble meeting people and could single-handedly break the ice with style. When he entered a room, he’d usually slap the top of the doorframe with his palm. He’d whirl around and grab his forehead, moaning as if he’d smacked his head, grunting like a hurt animal. The room would explode in laughter. Little did I know at the time that these comedic episodes disguised a man so tormented by depression that he’d tried to take his life before we met, requiring hospitalization after overdosing on handfuls of medication.

Bartending was exceptionally popular, even chic, in the early nineties, with academies and schools popping up like convenience stores in every city. We had recently seen Tom Cruise shine as a sexy bartender in the new movie Cocktail. With stars in his eyes but cautious feet still planted in his business aspirations, Kirk wanted to shift his position at our workplace from a captain to a (much more highly paid) bartender. He studied for months, memorizing drink recipes and receiving challenging pop-quizzes from me. Flash-cards and drink recipes speckled the apartment walls and were taped daily to the bathroom mirror and refrigerator. Before I knew it, I found myself dreaming about bewildering cocktail requests: A sex on the buttery iron curtain, please. Oh no! How do we make that?

Perhaps basic bartending skills can be taught, but a truly great bartender ensures that every detail is perfect and executed correctly. Before long, Kirk was acing numerous bartending tests. He loved bartending and took pride in electrifying people with unusual flairing, such as flaming glasses and juggling bottles. I watched him with pride as he captivated and mesmerized customers with his newfound talent. On the many nights we worked together, I would literally jump at sudden loud surges of shouting and applause originating from the main bar. What in the world is going on? I had to explore the enthusiastic noise only once. I saw Kirk entertaining hordes of people; he was so charming. The flock of mesmerized people pressed me into the bar. Everyone clapped in sync to each movement. When he poured, he reigned!

Knock for Six

My period had always been fairly regular, so when I suddenly felt hung-over, dog-tired, and experienced a bout of nausea without the fun of drinking, I bought an at-home pregnancy test while Kirk was working. Tearing it open, I followed the crude steps. Pee on the little stick, and wait, and wait.

I sat on the toilet, plopped up my elbows on the sink, and stared at the stick-test as if it were lethal. It felt like the longest three minutes of my life. Kirk and I had been together only eight months, so when those two fuzzy pink lines suddenly told me I was pregnant, I felt irresponsible and reckless. The real world was about to become all too real. I must’ve looked childish when I told him I was pregnant, fidgeting like a little girl, fearful of his reaction. I was astonished at his over-the-moon, delighted anticipation to become a father. He was exceptionally happy, almost as if he’d desired this baby all along.

About a week had passed after discovering I was pregnant. We were both hard at work when I unexpectedly heard Kirk’s voice over the main intercom. Miss Amber Cote, would you please come to Reservations? I was surprised to hear his voice, as he didn’t typically use the intercom as part of his job. He was up to something; I just didn’t know what. I sprinted towards his voice at top speed. My heart jumped hurdles as I chased his voice excitedly. What is this all about?

I saw him leaning confidently against a mahogany podium. I caught my breath and looked around, realizing that every eye had turned to watch us, to watch Kirk. Swaying towards him, I swung my body extra hard in order to feed the adoring swarm of hopelessly romantic people. I blushed in flighty delight.

He smiled at me, winked, and confidently announced, Amber Cote, I love you. The intercom suddenly protested with some squeaky feedback that made everyone giggle, Will you marry me?

He let go of the microphone and sprang down in front of me, dropping down to one leg. The whistling and men’s hooting increased. Even on his knees, I was almost eye-to-eye with him. I excitedly shouted, Yes! He took my left hand and placed a stunning engagement ring upon my finger and kissed the top of my hand. I was bright-eyed and thrilled as I shot up into his arms, kissing his cheek.

Romantic whistles and varying tones of Congratulations! reverberated throughout the restaurant. The throng around us cheered and clapped. He laughed. His amusement sounded like the bark of a content seal. I was anxious about life happening so fast but excited about creating a family together.

That night after watching our favorite late-night program, Kirk cuddled up behind me and whispered sweetly into my ear, you’re going to have a girl, you should name her Kyra. What did he mean by I will have a girl, what happened to we? Children keep you alive, he mumbled as he closed his eyes. He lovingly laced his hands over my belly, and we fell asleep.

Red Flags

I rushed home from work, feeling violently ill, but I wasn’t sick. I was operating on instinct now: Kirk had threatened his life. His battle with depression surfaced a few months into our relationship. As I fumbled for the house key, my unsettled thoughts summoned up all of the times my own mother had threatened suicide. The current ordeal involving Kirk wasn’t as shocking to me as it may have been for someone else—that is, until I stepped inside.

Eerie analogous notes were scattered throughout the apartment. Each incorporated his farewells, valedictions, and directives for his funeral. Play Me was haphazardly scripted on a Post-It note and smoothed onto the metallic silver of our stereo.

Tentatively pushing play, the grief-stricken melody No One is to Blame by Howard Jones resounded through the small apartment, crying out to anyone who would listen. My chest went tight with sympathetic sorrow, my breathing redoubled through pain-constricted lungs. I’m so sorry, Kirk.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see another memo on my VCR. As if in a dream, my fingers wobbled as I nervously pressed play. The television lit up the room, the volume so jarringly high that I flinched. The movie Young Guns was describing the epitaph of Billy the Kid. It was heartbreaking to observe; I could easily resist confrontational urges to scream or bark at him. In my mistaken bravado, I thought I could help him. I could restore him and relieve all of his pain and trepidation by talking him through this episode (as if I were a doctor, psychologist, or some magical muse who could supernaturally expunge his despair). This is a vital mistake that many people make when dealing with someone who is suicidal.

I didn’t want to embarrass him in front of his family, but I finally told his best friend about his suicidal tendencies. I was stunned when he wasn’t the least bit surprised and told me, quite matter-of-factly, that Kirk had overdosed about a year before we met because of a failed relationship. It seemed as though Kirk’s terrorizing threats weren’t surprising to anyone but me, but I didn’t feel any safer discussing details after that. What have I gotten myself into?

Kirk unexpectedly walked through the door of the apartment, with a fevered look in his eyes. He was rumpled over and looked like he felt hopeless. I weightily threw my arms around his neck, almost knocking him over. I was so thankful he hadn’t hurt himself. We stayed up all night talking and crying it out, our noses running like faucets. We never went to sleep; greeting the sunrise with swollen and sore eyes. We were chortling and laughing unrestrainedly to old Sam Kinison videos, Kirk’s favorite comedian. The whole event was inappropriately sentimental but morose. I may have been victorious today, but not unsurprisingly, I would end up failing Kirk.

I believed that on the present, fateful night, as he waved a gun directly above me, his threat would be like the ones I had heard other times someone I loved had flippantly threaten suicide. Only a threat. I was dead wrong.

There was no time in the room. His rage-transformed face was repulsive, his glower unwavering as he loomed over me, still menacingly wielding the gun. I gaped at him, the blood pounding hard in my ears. His brow was furrowed, showing his disorientation and inability to collect himself. Deluged with aggression, this ticking time bomb was not the Kirk I adored.

He began to pace the apartment like a restless tiger in a cage, unrelentingly wandering back and forth, back and forth. Kirk sustained his patrolling pace but increased in tempo, making me feel hysterical. What’s going on? I blinked back tears and tucked my legs tightly beneath me on the couch, it somehow made me feel safer.

I turned my head up to look at him. I wanted to up the ante of rationale. Put down the gun, Kirk, you’re really scaring me, I pleaded, suddenly needing to clear my throat. He hesitated and glanced sideways at me. He allowed the weapon to drop to his side but held his grip. I was appreciative the gun was not pointed at his head. That fragment of relief was all too fleeting.

I nervously stroked the leg of the coffee table with my foot; I had no idea what to say or do next. He took a menacing step closer. In a defeated tone, I asked him, Why in the hell are you doing this to me? I know it sounds cliché, but everything slowed down as if I were watching a movie. I bristled, stock still.

Overcome, Kirk squeezed the gun’s base so tightly that his knuckles went white. Knowing what was coming next, his face went taut, and he scrunched his eyes shut. No, no, please, no! Even though time stood still, I had no time to react.

A loud pop echoed throughout the room, and Kirk’s head jolted back. It didn’t sound like a gunshot; it sounded like a firecracker, until Kirk struck the ground. The flooring quaked beneath him. Thud! I fluttered my eyes open and closed, trying to block out the image that was playing in front of me. But he didn’t evaporate; this wasn’t a dream. Kirk lay there unnaturally still, like a broken mannequin. I felt like running away in panic. This can’t be happening. What do I do? What do I do? Call for help!

I leapt for the phone in a panic. Flustered, I dialed 1411. Oh God, I can’t remember the number for 911! Trying not to lose