FREEDOM FOR GRANTED

By Paul R Tomko

This book has been a struggle of love, just as my life has been a struggle of ups and downs. While the successes in my life have been important, I would say my failures have been even more important in shaping me into the person who God wants me to be for His glory. I see each day now as an opportunity to help others and reflect on how we can all use our failures to grow, support each other, and become better individuals.

I praise God for my successes and even more for my failures, so I learned more about Him and myself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9781639618118

Book preview

Mom, Meet Tank

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

—Matthew 5:4 (NIV)

He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.

—Psalm 147:3 (NIV)

Sometimes, when we see a person on a sidewalk avoiding stepping on the cracks, we might think, What an oddball, or perhaps we see someone open and close the same door over and over. Maybe if we are religious, we may see a person kissing Jesus’s cross an odd number of times. Well, I am that oddball person. I have always been the person whom others would stare at and mumble under their breath about. I suffered from what I think of as a potentially debilitating obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD).

When you think of someone with OCD, you notice obvious things that make you think, Wow, that guy is not normal. Most people know or have met a germophobic person who obsessively washes his or her hands or it might be the guy at work who eats the same thing in the same spot nearly every single day. We may only see what lies on the surface. We might only notice the person’s compulsions, but do any of us ever ask why that person might be doing those unusual things? Most people I have met never questioned why I did what I did. Many would ask me to stop or tell me that I’m making a scene or making them look stupid. Not one person in my entire life ever asked why. OCD wears many costumes, which determine the unusual compulsions. For instance, make someone turn a light on and off forty-four times or shave your face seventy-seven times until your face is covered in blood or, my personal favorite, not let you shop in a busy grocery store with your wife. Sometimes, it would take us several hours just to shop because I had to front (perfectly line up the products on the shelves with the products closest to the aisles so that the shelves looked full). Another one was picking up pieces of paper off the floor that might disrupt the floor’s pattern. Crazy! I know. Insane? Perhaps. But why I did these things was due to a deeply ingrained fear of death.

When I was a young boy visiting my aunt and uncle in Lorain, Ohio, I saw something horrible. My uncle had terminal cancer, and I remember that day as if a picture was stenciled in my brain. I remember the bed that my uncle was lying on. I remember all the members in the room, and I remember exactly where they were standing and even what each person was wearing. That day—my uncle’s last day on earth—has haunted me for most of my life. It was time for him to go to heaven. I was told that when God took my uncle, he would no longer suffer and that he would be happy beside Jesus. As a young boy, that sounded peaceful. But I realized that death was anything but peaceful. While we were all telling my uncle our last goodbyes, it wasn’t a happy occasion, but it certainly wasn’t somber or really sad; it was sort of peaceful, like the stars were aligning to take my uncle to heaven.

But then my uncle began to shake and cough. He tried so very hard to catch his breath, but it was like something or someone would not let him. He grabbed my aunt’s hands with one hand and grabbed the bed with the other. It looked like someone was choking him. At this point, my parents took me out of the bedroom and put me in the TV room. After they made sure I was okay, they went back to the bedroom to check on their loved one.

As a curious boy, I snuck upstairs and, ever so gingerly, walked down the hallway and pushed the door to the bedroom open, but just a crack—something I wished I had never done. My uncle sat up in the bed, pleading for someone to help him. His face was so full of fear that it sent tingles down my spine, wishing that I could do something to help him. Is he suffering? Can he still be helped? What, what should I do? He looked like he was fighting a monster within him. Peaceful, my ass! He tried to scream, but nothing came out. Eyes wide open, mouth too. Our eyes locked onto each other’s. Paul, help me. Help me, Paul. I wanted to help, but just as I was trying to go into the bedroom to reach out to my uncle, the door slammed shut. Crying ensued, and my uncle was gone. The whole family was in tears and in pain. Not peaceful one bit! It was numbing. Why would baby Jesus do this to my uncle and my family?

The paramedics arrived and took my uncle into the ambulance. My uncle was dead. My very next thought was to never let anyone I loved ever go through what my uncle had just endured, and if someone was suffering and needed my help, I would be prepared to help them. No one I loved was ever going to face this monster that killed my uncle. No one, ever!

As my life continued, I would pose certain questions about death to my parents. One I vividly remember is asking why it is that we place our loved ones in a box and actually watch it shut for the very last time. To me, it made no sense to do such a thing. Every good memory of them would be subordinate to our loved one in the casket.

Every time I went to a funeral or was an altar boy for the deceased at their final mass, I kept seeing my uncle’s blue eyes talking to me. I kept asking anyone who would listen as to why we placed the saddest lasting memory of our loved ones, with their cold hands and rubbery skin, in a box. Why do we want to drown out the happy moments with a picture of a loved one in a coffin? My last memory wasn’t of my uncle and seeing him joking around; no matter how hard I tried, I would always see his blue eyes begging me for help. Now I have to replace my first thoughts of a deceased loved one in a coffin and work to develop another happier picture.

My obsession fueled my outlook on life. I believed that death was the enemy. I remember taking a ride as an adult with my wife and in-laws on a full day. My mother-in-law told my wife and me to look at all the beautiful leaves changing colors. I began an attack on my mother-in-law, asking, Why is it that you people are fascinated with death? All those leaves that you say are so beautiful are dying. They changed colors because there is no life. I realized at that point that perhaps it was me that had the problem. To me, springtime brings new life, new budding plants, some fawns, some goose laying her eggs. Life is the beginning, not the end. That is what I cherish—life. Not death. Or do I?

My battle with OCD hinged on death. For example, let’s say I was about to fall asleep, and as I close my eyes, I notice that there is a small speck of paper on the burgundy carpet, which obviously did not belong there. I close my eyes and try to sleep, but I cannot. My mind begins to introduce intrusive thoughts like if I did not get out of bed, someone I love would die. Crazy, I know.

I am semi-intelligent, at least I think I am, and I know that there are no causal connections between that paper on the carpet and death. I know full well there is no connection whatsoever. But the intrusive thoughts persist and worsen. Sometimes morbid, like someone I loved in my uncle’s bed, fighting for their life. I then begin to feel helpless, just like I did when my uncle’s and my eyes connected. But this time, I can get up and get that paper off the floor. This time, I am not helpless. I guess I get so caught up in the fear and the desire to want to help that I enter a new reality, one that might be the reason my loved ones lost the fights with the monster. I would forever feel as if it was my fault. If, for some reason, someone ended up dead the next morning, it would be on me. I did not pick up that paper; therefore, I killed my loved one.

I was in year four of my incarceration when my parents and brother came to visit me on Mother’s Day weekend. When my parents came into the visiting room, I greeted them with a big hug and a kiss and hugged and greeted my brother as well. My mother and I talked every single day via inmate e-mail. My mother was so proud of herself because at age eighty, she had finally learned how to e-mail someone. Every day when I got out of bed, I would e-mail my wife and parents. I wanted my wife to see my e-mail first thing every morning when she logged into her computer at work. And it was important for me to tell my parents that I loved them and hoped that their day would be filled with wonderful things. Then, after going back to my unit, I would eagerly look for both of their e-mail responses. I was eager because I wanted to know that all three of them were okay. Then, I would reply to their e-mail and, at the end of each, tell them just how much I loved them. This was certainly the highlight of every day, and I was obsessed with knowing they were all okay.

For some reason, for the first time in my incarceration, I wanted to take a picture with my parents in the visitation room in front of a summer landscape backdrop. They were puzzled as to why I wanted a picture, and I was equally surprised. I was adamant about never wanting to be seen in my prison uniform, which is why I never wanted pictures. It is not something I am very proud of. But this time, it was different. I felt that I had to have a new picture of us so that I could see and kiss them every night before the lights went out. I have a ritual of kissing a picture of my wife and parents every day. Pretty crazy, I know, but I already established my insanity.

So we all proceeded to take a picture, and when the inmate photographer showed me the shot on his camera before saving it, I thought, Wow! That is a really good picture of my parents and me. All of us looked happy to just have each other.

As the days, weeks, and months went by, the e-mails from my mother became less frequent. When I didn’t get the daily, highly anticipated e-mail from my mom, I began to wonder. I was always thinking of the worst. And often, my mother said that someone messed up her computer, and she couldn’t get onto the e-mail. But knowing my five-foot Italian Catholic mother, I just did not understand why she wouldn’t have asked one of the other family members to help her. Mom was strong-minded and not afraid to ask someone something or tell them exactly what she thought. Then, my mom seemed to always have a doctor’s appointment, which was not in and of itself a huge surprise because both she and my sisters are hypochondriacs. But for some reason, these appointments started to weigh on me.

Then the dreaded e-mail—Mom had gone to the hospital. The e-mail did not share what her ailment was nor her prognosis. I just had to keep checking our computer every fifteen minutes. When I couldn’t take any more, I asked Bonnie to check on my parents. Bonnie is brutally honest, so I feared what her investigation would uncover. The answer came, and all seemed good. It seemed as if Mom just had poor circulation in her legs, which were causing her discomfort.

This happened a few more times. No e-mails from Mom; then, a sibling would send an e-mail from my mom’s account letting me know she was okay and just dizzy or whatever. I thought two things to myself every time I got the e-mail from my mom’s account—that she knew that I would worry and that she can’t e-mail me on her own, which, of course, worried me more.

One day, I guess my mother was having problems walking, so my dad took her to the emergency room. The doctor admitted her for some tests. Everything seemed okay, but the doctors thought my mom needed to get stronger, so they sent her to rehab since her legs were still swollen. So off to rehab she went. Luckily, the rehab facility had Wi-Fi, so she could e-mail me from her Kindle. Things were going well, and she was getting stronger, until a staph infection vegetated her heart in an area too risky for a stent. So the doctors treated her with strong antibiotics, which were unable to fend off the bacteria causing my mom’s problems. The doctors felt that the only chance of survival was to replace the heart valve and remove the infection, although it was very risky.

My best friend, who was hugely supportive, knew of my deepest fear of losing my mom. He could undoubtedly read it on my face. As a great friend, we talked about my fears every day, and he, as a devoted Christian, prayed with me for a successful surgery. At that time, I really did not think my mom was going to make it. But I prayed and prayed, mostly with my friend and obsessively by myself.

The night before the surgery, I spoke to my mom while fighting through my tears (because I knew in my heart this would be our last conversation). My mom, a tough-as-nails Italian, assured me that she was going to be okay. Still I had my doubts. The day of her surgery approached. As my watch showed the time, I started thinking about my mom’s last vision of life as she was administered anesthesia. Then came the long hours of agonizing surgery. As I watched my wristwatch, hour by hour, I was afraid of checking my e-mail to see how things were progressing, yet somehow, I found the courage. So, I logged on, and nothing, not a single e-mail. Many hours had passed, and as each one passed, I would ritualistically log in to get a report on my mom. My fears became more and more real and darker with every passing hour as the thought of losing my mom became more realistic.

At eight that night, as we did every night for many years, I called Bonnie. She advised me that my mom was still alive and recovering in ICU. Finally, something positive. Thank you, God!

My niece had a bridal shower the next morning that the whole family attended. With heavy hearts, my family tried to give my niece their full attention. My niece is a bright girl, and I assume she knew that everyone had a heavy heart that day. Then, my wife sent an unexpected e-mail. She actually talked to my mom on the phone, and my mom sounded great. Wow! I thought. Thank you, God. Again, I felt a miracle of sorts. All my worries were for nothing. My fears were overcome with happiness. The tone of my wife’s e-mail was delightful, and I knew my mom would be okay. I immediately went to find Billy (my best friend) and told him the good news. I felt like I had won the lottery. I was rich in thankfulness, and my heart was filled with joy. I thought to myself that perhaps that picture was not the last picture of my mom, active with me by her side, and I was beginning to have faith that I would see her again. Thank you, Jesus! My mom was alive and well, and one day I will see her again. Or would I?

I talked to my mom that day, soon after my wife’s e-mail, and she sounded good. Certainly not like an eighty-three-year-old woman who has just had open-heart surgery. I was on top of the world. Nothing could bother me. I was full of joy and saw everything clearly. My mom was alive!

About two days later, my joy came to an end. My mom’s infection was back, and she was back in the ICU. My heart dropped. How could she go from eating potato chips in the ICU to her current state? What a roller coaster of emotions! I now went from the highest of highs to the lowest of lows. My fear, that monster that chisels away at my brain with intrusive thoughts, was back. This time, however, the monster was much bigger and stronger and controlling nearly every thought.

Back to Billy I went and to my e-mails to my wife and back to worrying. It was an eternity—day by day getting out of bed, wondering if my mom would take her last breath that day. Looking continuously at my watch, I wondered what time would be the last moment. I was able to talk to my mom although she was weak, and although she asked me to be strong, I just could not. I was a wreck. My wife was with my mom and Bonnie’s parents and my family. Mom was in hospice, and her death was unfortunately inevitable. My wife and her parents later told me that Mom had asked them to take care of me. But of course, none of them said a word to me until much later, feeling that I would lose it.

Then it happened at 10:04 a.m. on the fourteenth of August. I received the dreaded e-mail from Bonnie. Mom had passed. I was so sad. But just as Mom would have wanted, I went back to work. Then, over the loudspeaker, over the entire prison, I heard the dreaded call to chapel by the chaplain. This call over the loudspeaker is the one call every inmate hates hearing. We all know that the chaplain’s call meant the death of a loved one. And the mood of the prison yard changes.

Now, every other inmate knew, as did the staff, that Mom had died. Billy, as soon as he heard the call, came running out of his office to talk to me. And he did as much as he could. I expected tons of support from Billy because I knew what kind of person he is. I was so grateful that he was there for me every day.

Then we had to deal with the funeral. My wife knew that I did not want to see my mom in a box. She knew that I wanted my last picture of mom to be a good one. She knew that seeing my mom in a coffin would have affected our lives. We, as a team, with her unconditional love and support, elected for me to mourn in prison. I could have asked for a furlough, a temporary pass, to leave prison and go to Mom’s funeral. But those are very seldom granted, and because I was in the SHU (Special Housing Unit) or the hole earlier that year, I knew the warden would have to deny my request. It was just policy. I was very confident I would not be able to go.

Most of my siblings, on the other hand, thought I was being a selfish brat. And from others, I heard the ridicule that came from their mouths. I even heard that Mom’s death was my fault because I broke her heart when I went to prison. We will never know for sure what part my incarceration played in Mom’s death, but my siblings did not know either. The thing is, if they wanted me to be at the funeral and told everyone I should be there, they would have told me when the funeral was. My mom’s funeral was rushed, and even if I had asked for a furlough, my family certainly did not give me any time to make a request to the federal government for a pass or a furlough. Nothing in the government moves quickly, even when someone dies. Many different people in different departments must approve my temporary release, and there was no way I could have gone even if I wanted to, because my family never tried to confirm the arrangements with the prison.

My wife was told where to be and when to be there. Even then, she was given just an hour’s notice to get to the funeral home, as if her participation was an afterthought or she was purposely not present until all the arrangements were made. She received a call asking her to be at a funeral home an hour and a half from her place of employment and asking how soon she could get there. Only one brother even mentioned to my wife the day before the time of the meeting but never confirmed it. She was called when all the planning was done and told she could order the flowers.

Now, on top of my greatest fear becoming a reality, I also felt very distanced from most of my siblings. Only one responded to my numerous e-mails, but day after day, there was nothing. I was in a slump during and immediately after the funeral. I was very sad, but at the lowest point in my life, something happened. It is something I cherish and will never forget. It was an encounter with a most unlikely person, a person who looked and acted very differently from me. A person with whom I had never even had a conversation within nearly five years.

As I was coming back from dinner with Billy, who lived in another unit nearly a quarter of a mile away, I put up my coat and headed to the veteran’s wing in my unit. The veteran inmates train dogs in our prison, and getting through tough times, I routinely went to the dogs to seek consolation and freedom from my intrusive thoughts. The dogs were my therapy.

But that day, a trainer who was not caring for a dog saw me come in with Billy. It was during this encounter that my life changed forever. An intimidating and large handicapped African American man approached me. He offered his hand to shake mine, and as I reached for his hand, this big guy pulled me toward him and hugged me, telling me he was sorry I lost my mom. I was thinking, I do not even know this guy. But here he was, at least two and a half times my size, and he was helping me.

This man’s name is Tank. Although we now speak to each other,