Hope, Courage & Triumph

By Connie Bent

Hope, Courage & Triumph is the story about one young widows journey through adventures and madness. Determination and love were the key elements of her being as she struggled to face the demons of the illness of her husband, Jerry. Tragedy was no stranger to her. No one knew what horrors lay behind the closed doors of her life, yet hope drove her on.

One evening, after work, Jerry held her in his arm, confessing his love to her. Suddenly, a glaze covers his eyes, and a look of hatred crosses his face. Looking at her, he began talking weird about things she knew nothing of. He said, Ive heard that before. You know what Im talking about. She couldnt move. The glaze left his face as suddenly as it came, and moving toward her, he said, I love you more than life itself. Hope drove her as she struggled to pull him out of the pits of hell.

An earlier marriage between two teenagers is also addressed in Hope, Courage & Triumph. One day, after I said, I love you, he squeezed my hand, opened his eyes, and looked directly at me. There was no more joy, for hope and courage were lost, and there was not triumph.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 6, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524507022

Connie Bent

Connie Bent was born in Brookfield, Missouri, in 1941. She has been a very determined person from the moment she was born. If she wanted something, she went after it. Bent grew up in a small town in Missouri and married at the age of sixteen. She quit school before her senior year, but knowing education was vital, she wanted to graduate. During that time, mothers were not allowed to return to school. Bent, being the tenacious person she was, convinced the school board to allow her to come back to school and graduate, becoming the first mother to graduate from her school. Bent knows tragedy well, for she became a widow at the age of twenty-five years old. She is a mother of three children. Bent earned her master’s degree in clinical social work from Kansas University. She completed a family therapy externship at the Menninger Foundation in Topeka, Kansas. Bent spent the next thirty years employed in a community mental health center, providing therapy for people who suffered from mental illness. She specialized in providing family therapy and play therapy, which she felt were important to families who were dealing with a mental illness.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Good-bye – Hello

I awoke abruptly to Dickie’s voice shouting, Connie, wake up! Jimmie’s been in an accident. I sprung out of bed wearing my sheer pink baby-doll nighty, which I began stripping off. Suddenly, I realized that I was standing naked in front of Dickie, one of Jimmie’s closest friends. While I flung on my jeans and top, Dickie woke Louisa and Robert and took them to the car. I raced outside, and we all quickly drove to town to take the children to mother’s house. Dickie then sped to Cushing Hospital in Leavenworth, which was eleven miles away. Dickie told me that he was the first car to come upon the accident and that he didn’t know the man who was driving the car, but he was alive. Dickie said that he couldn’t recognize the passenger’s face, but when he saw the man’s hands, he knew that it was Jimmie because he had such large hands. Driving up the hospital emergency ramp, we saw the ambulance parked beside the emergency exit. I jumped out of the car and ran toward the door, when somebody grabbed me. The person let go of my arm, and I quickly ran into the hospital. A nurse told me that the doctor was with Jimmie. I could see Jimmie and the doctor. The ambulance driver told us that the doctors were preparing to send Jimmie to Kansas University Medical Center and that we should start driving there. Dickie and I were silent as we drove the twenty-five miles to the hospital. With red lights flashing and siren blaring, the ambulance passed. As the miles sped by, all I could do was pray.

When we arrived at the medical center, Dickie and I were escorted to the waiting room of the Intensive Care Unit. After what seemed like hours, the doctor came out and told us that Jimmie was in a coma and that it might be a few days before he would recover. He explained that the injury was to the brain stem. The doctor took me inside the room so that I could see Jimmie for a few minutes. I told him how much I loved him, that I would be in the waiting room, and that I was allowed to come in for five minutes every hour. I also let him know that Dickie was outside. I hated the dark furniture and drab dark green walls of the waiting room. The nurses told me to talk to Jimmie when I was with him because they believed that a person in a coma can hear; however, days passed and Jimmie did not wake up. I talked constantly as I rubbed his arms and his head and held his hand. Then, excited, I yelled for the nurse and explained what had happened, but when I looked down at Jimmie again, his eyes were shut. When the doctor arrived, he explained that this may have been an involuntary reflex. He told me that I could spend more time with Jimmie in the hope that he might react to my voice. I was thrilled.

The following day, the doctor came out and told me that Jimmie’s brain was swelling. He explained that if the swelling continued, he would have to go in and open the skull. This sounded so frightening. Over the next few days, Jimmie’s brain would swell and then it would go down. Jimmie had been in the Intensive Care Unit for eight days when the doctor asked me to come to his office. He explained that Jimmie was not improving and that he might not recover because a brain stem injury was very serious. This was the first time anyone had mentioned the possibility of Jimmie dying. Distraught, I sobbed uncontrollably. I heard the doctor ask me if I wanted to donate Jimmie’s organs should he die. I mumbled. Yes. The doctor said he was sorry, but he needed to make room for another patient in the Intensive Care Unit, so he would be transferring Jimmie to a private room later that day. This was upsetting for he no longer would have round-the-clock nursing care, although he would still have the special mattress that kept his body temperature down and would still have the other machines that were helping to keep him alive.

Every couple of days, I would drive back home to mother’s house so I could spend a few hours with my children, take a bath, and put on clean clothes. I would eat something before returning to the hospital. One day, while I was home, a man from the local gas station came to the house and told me some of the townspeople collected money to buy me a set of tires because they worried about me driving back and forth from Weston to the hospital in Kansas City. Only people in a small town would reach out in such a caring way. How kind they were.

A few days later, the doctor told me that he planned to transfer Jimmie to a hospital closer to my home. I was shocked! I couldn’t believe it! He was sending Jimmie to another hospital to die. The following day, an ambulance drove Jimmie back to Cushing Hospital. I was depressed, for I knew that the end was near. After sixteen days in a coma, Jimmie died.

At the funeral service, my knees buckled as I leaned over to give Jimmie one final kiss. No words could express the depth of the pain I felt saying good-bye to the man I loved. Tears flowed down my face that warm memorial day as we slowly followed the hearse to the cemetery. My children and I never felt so alone. I was a twenty-five year old widow.

After Jimmie died, the children and I moved into my mother’s home due to financial issues. I had been told that it would be sometime before I received social security payments, and my paycheck would not cover my school loan and car payment in addition to providing for the basic needs of my family. We simply had to move into mother’s home, and I greatly appreciated her kindness. Unfortunately, it would be some time before I would have enough money to rent a home of our own.

I was so thankful that I had completed cosmetology school six months before Jimmie died. Otherwise, I would have ended up being a waitress and earning less than I did as a hair stylist. I worked in a salon in Leavenworth. During this time, the children and I had to deal with our grief and face life alone. We missed Jimmie so much.

This story begins in the fall of 1968. My mother worked at Fort Leavenworth as a secret service administrative secretary. Her boss, Clem, was a colonel. My mother and Clem often discussed my situation as well as that of his child. Clem’s son had been in a coma for years and had never recovered; therefore, he was protective of me.

One Tuesday evening, on returning from work, Mother said, Connie, today at work, my boss told me that the officers from the bachelor’s quarters are throwing a party next weekend. There will be many nice young men there.

What’s this all about? I said suspiciously.

Clem told me that he thought you would enjoy yourself if you went, Mother replied.

Why? I’m happy as I am, I told her.

You need to get out and meet people, Mother said.

Mom, I feel much older than my twenty-seven years. I just don’t want to go.

Mother said, Just think it over, Connie.

Maybe I will go visit Bonnie and talk with her about the party and see what she thinks, I replied.

Bonnie was also a young widow, and we were related by marriage as our late husbands were cousins. I became close to Bonnie after her husband died. She had often told me that I needed to get out and meet men. Her late husband was an enlisted man, so she trusted military people. Bonnie and I discussed the party and decided that it might be fun. I told her I would pick her up Saturday evening.

On the way to the party, I told Bonnie that I was both excited and nervous. She assured me that after we were there a little while, I would calm down and enjoy myself. I told her that I hoped so. We saw the officer’s quarters and were able to park close by. There was a veranda on the front of the large two-story brick building, and a large group of people was standing under it talking. I was uneasy as I walked toward them, but I told myself that if I didn’t like the party, I would leave. This would be the first time that I had been to a party without an escort. My heart was pounding as I walked through the small crowd, opened the door, and stood in the hallway, which was flanked by men chatting, laughing, and drinking. Loud music filled the room. Each man extended his hand and introduced himself. One audacious man leaned over and kissed me after shaking my hand. This shocked me, so I walked away. (How could a gentleman act in such a manner?) Smiling, another man walked up, introduced himself as Michael, and led the way to the bar, where he ordered Bonnie and me a drink. He then led us upstairs to the balcony. A few people were standing around talking, and the music playing was soft and romantic. We talked with Michael for a little while. When he looked at his watch, he apologized and said that he had to go back downstairs to greet people as they came in the door. Bonnie and I walked to the edge of the balcony enjoying each other’s company and the cool, crisp fall evening. Bonnie was a flaming redhead who knew no strangers. Normally, I was outgoing too, but tonight, I was a little shy.

Turning to Bonnie, I said, Have you ever been to a party like this?

Yes, it’s a good way to meet people. Just calm down, Connie. It will be a fun evening.

I’ll try to have fun, I said unconvincingly.

Several men came over and introduced themselves. They were easy to talk to, so I relaxed and enjoyed our conversation. During the course of the evening, I felt uneasy as some couples were openly hugging and kissing. I wondered if they already knew each other. If not, was this their normal behavior? I certainly wouldn’t partake in such intimate behavior, I thought.

I had been married for nine years before my husband died. I still bore the scars of losing the battle to his death, and I was a sore loser. Why chance getting close and possibly failing in love again when death can strike so unjustly? The pain is not worth it.

Bonnie and I stood on the balcony, talking to the men, when a door opened and out walked a very distinguished looking gentleman. He was a tall, large frame man with beautiful silver hair. Our eyes locked and held as he walked over to join us, holding out his hand to me.

Hello, I’m Jerry Bent. I’ve never noticed you here before.

Smiling, I said, I’m Connie. This is the first time I’ve been here.

Do you work in Leavenworth? he asked.

Yes, I’m a hair stylist. My salon is close to the entrance to Fort Leavenworth, I replied.

What do you enjoy most about being a hair stylist? he asked.

It’s plain and simple. People walk in to the salon feeling that they don’t look beautiful, and when they leave, they have a spring in their step and feel more positive about themselves because they look prettier, I explained.

What do you do for a living? I asked.

I’m a dentist, he said, grinning and displaying a fine set of teeth.

Oh, I hate dentist, I said without thinking.

His face lit up, and he burst out laughing and said, I’ve heard that before.

Jerry realized I did not mean it the way it sounded. I just feared going to see dentists. The men teased Jerry, saying the he might as well just walk away as I hated him.

Laughing, I said, That’s not true.

We stood there talking for some time. One of the men mentioned the presidential election between Nixon and McGovern was coming up, and the group started talking about it.

One man asked me, Are you interested in politics?

Yes, I come from a county that has been under one political party for the past 129 years. I’m involved in working to make a change but more on the local and state levels, I said.

Jerry said, I’m impressed that you’re interested in politics and is so actively involved.

In the beginning, I knew little about what each political party stood for, but now, I’m more knowledgeable, I explained.

Jerry said, How wonderful that you had the opportunities to meet politicians. You’re the cutest little politician I’ve ever seen.

Laughing, I said, I shake more than a little when the television cameras are on me when I am introducing senators and representatives at campaign meetings.

After sometime, Jerry took my hand and led me toward the dance floor. Neither of us spoke during the first dance, but sparks were flying between us.

When the music stopped, Jerry looked down at me and said, Connie, you don’t belong here. Your dark eyes mirror your fear of what’s going on around you. You look so innocent.

Bursting into laughter, I said, I can’t be that innocent because I’m a widow with two young children.

Your eyes express what you’re feeling, he replied.

I told Jerry, Yes, I was nervous when I first arrived. I’m not used to strange men walking up and kissing me. I guess I’m a little square after all.

Walking back from the dance