March 8: Mourning Turned Into Joy
Mar 8, 2012 13:22:25 GMT -5
Post by PrisonerOfHope on Mar 8, 2012 13:22:25 GMT -5
I just realized that today is the 20th anniversary of my husband's death. (I was a young widow.)
I had written a blog on MySpace about it a couple of years ago; if you want to read about what the Lord has done for me, you can do so here:
March 8, 1992. I can feel - as if I were still there in that time and place - the bitter March wind on my face as I left the hospital in the company of two church elders. My world had just collapsed around me; my husband of 3 1/2 years had just died, leaving me all alone. I wanted to die too; surely my life was over.
He had been sent home from the hospital about two weeks before. They'd sent him home to die, but I was sure I'd get the miracle I'd been praying for and he'd be healed. After all, didn't even strangers come up to me in the hospital and say, "We've heard of your great faith. If every anyone got the miracle they prayed for, it'll be you!" Meanwhile, I cared for him as best as I could on my own. He needed to be fed, and changed, and even shaved. The lung cancer which had metastasized to his brain left him muddled and confused, and eventually he went blind. It was like a knife in my heart each time he'd call plaintively, "Cookie! Why am I in this box? It's dark in here and I can't see anything - come and get me out!"
What could I say? How could I tell him he'd never see again, at least not in this life? I didn't have the words; I just prayed and prayed....and kept Scriptural messages playing on the stereo constantly.
I remember one day when I tried to help him to the bathroom and he fell. Emaciated as he was, I couldn't even drag him, much less lift him. The fire department said they couldn't spare anyone to send over; no neighbors were around (not that I knew many to ask); no one from church was available until later that evening...so I had to leave him on the floor, while I sat by his side, trying to make him as comfortable as I could for hours, until help arrived.
The seizures were the worst; they never failed to terrify me. His eyes would roll back in his head, he'd spew gibberish and drool....I don't want to even think about them, much less remember.
He first collapsed on my birthday, January 19. He was never sick, really, apart from the occasional cold. We thought he had the flu, and when he vomited on my side of the bed the night before he wouldn't get out of bed so I could clean it up; I ended up sleeping on the couch. It was the thud above my head that woke me that fateful morning; he had tried to get out of bed, and had the first of many strokes, causing him to fall. I ran upstairs, saw him, called 911....and the nightmare began.
They let me stay with him 24/7, even in the ICU. It made things easier for the overworked nurses - they showed me how to handle the simpler tasks, the ones that didn't require specialized training. Eventually they put him in the oncology ward. I stayed by his side, and when he'd fall asleep I'd walk the halls. So many hurting souls, many of them abandoned because their families "couldn't bear" to see the one they claimed to love so ill! One poor man - I never found out his name - would usually be left in the hall, in a wheelchair, head drooping. Often the blanket covering him would fall off and his nakedness was exposed, yet not one nurse or aide ever paused to help. I would cover him up, hug him, and whisper, "Jesus loves you" in his ear. I hope he believed it; I hope one day I'll see him again, healthy and whole, and be able to call him by name.
One night, as I tried to sleep in a chair next to my husband's bed, I heard his roommate gasping and making odd noises. I had heard the nurses talking earlier; he was a diabetic. I ran to the nurse's station and told them they had to come immediately. One reprimanded me; if I didn't keep quiet they wouldn't let me stay! I held my ground....the man needed help, NOW. Another nurse followed me - the patient was going into diabetic shock. My being there and hearing him saved his life. So...maybe God put me there that night for a reason.
So much of the experience was surreal, especially in the beginning. My husband in bed, with a brain tumor....doing MENSA puzzles. Or realizing that a piece of equipment that was monitoring him wasn't working quite right and - to the nurses' consternation - fixing it. (One thing I have to give him...he was a brilliant man; he'd have gone far if he wasn't a drunk.)
I remember the day his doctor took me aside, and with tears in his eyes, seeing how devoted I was to the man, told me the diagnosis. The disease had progressed so far that there was nothing that would help; it was too late for chemo or radiation. The poor doctor looked so distraught; I hugged him and reassured him with, "Hey, it's nothing that Jesus can't take care of!"
Bizarre as it all was, I settled into a routine that was almost comfortable. I'd get my husband to sleep, the hall lights would go dim, I'd go down the corridor to shower, then try to get some sleep myself in two arm chairs facing each other next to his bed, listening for any sound that would indicate he needed something.
One day he had to be taken to a remote facility for an MRI. He had been cooped up inside for almost a month at that point, and I'll never forget that moment for which he was outdoors between the hospital and the ambulance. He saw the sky for the first time in weeks, looked up at it, and smiled as if he had just seen the most wonderful thing imaginable.
Anyway, back to the morning of March 8...it was a Sunday that year, too. I hadn't been able to get him back to the bed; he was asleep on the couch, and I slept on the floor next to it. It was a change in his breathing that woke me - it was very heavy and labored. I couldn't rouse him; I called 911 and told them my husband was dying. The ambulance came and he returned to his "prison." Yet, I had been praying and praying....and I knew he'd be healed. While waiting for the ambulance I called the church; some elders would meet me at the hospital.
They took my husband into the ER, and put me into a small room to wait. They asked if I wanted to sign a DNR order, and I refused, telling them to do everything possible to save him. I was sure God would heal him, even then. Finally someone - I don't recall if it was a man or a woman - came in and said, "I'm sorry - there was nothing we could do." I staggered for a moment, one of the elders caught my arm before I could fall, and I asked to see him.
I remember the first day we were in the ER, back when it all began, and had to wait for hours and hours before a doctor even looked at him. Someone had died, and when the family was brought in to see him, the patients and staff in half the ER were moved into the other half, which was separated by a door. I guess they didn't want the patients to get upset if the loved ones of the deceased "lost it." That day, March 8, 1992, it was our turn.
I was led into the eerily empty and quiet ER, and directed to a bed that had curtains drawn all around it. And there he lay, with a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin on his face. I remember my first thought was a desire to slap him for looking so doggone happy, and I wanted to shout, "How dare you look so happy after leaving me all alone?" But I kissed him, still too numb to cry. At least I knew where he was...just a few days earlier, I had led him to the Lord; he was born again, and in heaven. Later one of the elders said to me, "Didn't you feel it? The presence of God was all over that cubicle!" The same elder went on to add, "I've been with many people when they passed away. Some died in torment, because they rejected the Lord. Others I saw were happy because they were His, but," continuing with a shake of the head, "I've never seen anyone look that happy!"
It was exactly fifty days - almost to the minute - from the time he first collapsed until he died.
What would I do now? His company had gone out of business shortly before he got sick, and since he had apparently been healthy, he told me that we couldn't afford to keep the life insurance policy his employer had previously paid for - but surely he'd have a new job soon which would provide insurance. Meanwhile, he had an old policy that he had gotten years ago for his son, whom he saw twice a year; he promised to change the beneficiary to make sure I was taken care of in case anything ever happened to him. He never did it...but his ex assured me she'd take care of the funeral expenses out of the insurance proceeds.
In a daze I prepared for the funeral. I gathered together the same clothes he had married me in, two days short of 3 1/2 years earlier. A friend who had come to help offered to iron his shirt; "NO!", I snapped. I wouldn't be deprived of the last chance to do something for him. I tried to remember everything that was necessary: I called his friends, his family, his ex wife, his former co-workers...and some of my own, long-neglected friends. I tried to recall every professional organization he belonged to for the obituary. I even remembered - just in the nick of time - to call the American Legion, so he would have an honor guard. I'll never forget the funeral director expressing his condolences in what seemed a sincere manner, then coldly adding that he had to have money up front before they could even collect the body from the morgue: "We're not a bank, you know!" So much for compassion towards the bereaved.
Everybody's a Christian, right? Well, his "Christian" ex decided she wasn't going to part with a dime. I had given up my job shortly after getting married; the stock market had crashed, and as a Wall Street executive recruiter, the commissions weren't coming in - not to mention, it was impossible to get up at 6 a.m. for my two hour commute after one of his drinking nights. I had no money, and we had no savings. Well, sometimes you do what you have to do. He had a lot of credit cards, most with a considerable amount of available credit. I found his PINs, and went from one ATM to another, withdrawing money, until I had enough to cover the funeral home expenses. I knew I could never pay it back...but they could go after his ex and her son for it. What else could I do? Thankfully, because he had been in the Air Force, he would be interred in a national cemetery, so that at least took care of the burial plot and headstone.
I had prayed for a miracle, and I didn't get that particular one....but I got many others. The first day of the viewing, his best friend stood over the casket in tears. "Mike," I asked, "do you want to be able to fly with Charlie again one day?" (We're all pilots.) "YES!", he replied eagerly. I explained that he could...but first, he'd have to be born again. I called to an elder who was there, and over my husband's dead body his friend received the Lord. (And so did his wife not long after!)
Others heard the message as well. In fact, the Holy Spirit impressed upon me that I had to do a eulogy. Oh, I couldn't do that! But He persisted. So, at the appointed time, I got up before all those people, feeling both scared and sick. Suddenly I felt a THUD! on my chest, as if something had entered into me. Unseen hands grasped my shoulders and made me stand up straight. After my voice broke on the first few words, I spoke clearly and confidently...somehow, I "knew" exactly what I was to say...I was just an instrument in the hands of the Lord, and He had chosen to use me that day. I don't remember everything that was said, but there wasn't a dry eye in the room. When I was through there was an altar call...and many more got saved.
I was still in the Twilight Zone. A friend from NJ - one whom I had known for years and who kept in touch even though I wasn't permitted to make long distance calls - drove in with her mother for the funeral, and to take me to the cemetery: I had always been a NYC girl, and my husband wouldn't let me learn to drive after I moved to his suburban home...more of his subtle abuse. Afterwards, I was to go back home to NJ with her for a few days; I couldn't bear the empty house with its lonely echo. I wore a borrowed grey coat; my husband wouldn't ever buy me new clothes, and I had sold my professional clothing to get other things I needed long before. We went to the cemetery. If you've never been to a veteran's funeral, it's done differently. The casket is on a cart under a canopy to protect everyone from the rain and sun; you're nowhere near the grave site. Prayers were said, I think....all I could hear was a dull roar. Two of his friends and co-workers from Pan Am stood on either side of me, Phil and Pucci. Taps was played, and when I was handed the folded flag that had covered the casket I started to go down, but Phil and Pucci - both wonderful guys - grasped my arms and held me up. It was over. Everyone started to leave. I was alone. I kissed my fingertips, touched them to the bronze colored casket that I had so carefully selected, and walked away...looking behind me for as long as I could.
So, here I am, 17 years later. I never thought I'd ever say this, but I'm glad he's gone. I honestly have to say I made him very happy and took good care of him; he often admitted it. In fact, he used to love to take me to work with him sometimes, just to show me off - beautifully dressed, with homemade goodies for his co-workers. He was so proud that I could discuss aviation and politics with them; he boasted of my intelligence - I wasn't one of those wives who just talked about diapers and laundry. My life revolved around him; all I cared about was making him happy. Unfortunately, it was one-sided. You see, he was an alcoholic and an abuser. Oh, he'd never, ever admit it. After all, he didn't go out and get drunk...he only drank at home! And he didn't get drunk every night...just every other night.
How I dreaded it when he'd come home from work shortly after midnight with a big smile on his face, so happy so see me as I ran to the door as I always did when I heard him drive up. I'd smile back at him...hoping that if it was an "alternate" night it would, by some miracle, be different; hoping that he hadn't stopped at 7-Eleven...but my smile would invariably fade as I'd see him reach into the back seat for his case of beer. Then it began. I was forced to sit up with him as he got drunker and drunker...never knowing if he'd be a mean drunk, a stupid drunk, a garrulous drunk, or an affable drunk; it depended on how his day had gone. If I tried to go to bed he'd either get angry and say I didn't love him, or he'd do the "sad face" and claim I didn't love him. (I know now it was emotional blackmail.) I didn't have much choice...I had to stay up with him until the sun rose, even though I could hardly keep my eyes open and my head ached from fatigue. I don't know how many times I had to listen to the same stories - over and over again - stories of how his two ex wives had been so mean to him...they weren't nice, like me. (For all the good that did me!) Stories of all the people in his life who had ever done him wrong. He did cruel things to me at times; more than once I had to hide in terror from him. One night - the day we buried his father and he decided to have two cases of beer, one for himself and one for his dad - he even tried to kill me. I managed to escape, ran out into the cold, found a pay phone and called the police. They said they'd come and get me. I saw police cars - sirens blaring - pass me by and turn into our street; hey, didn't they see me? Turned out he had called 911 as well - he told them that I had been abusing him! One look at my bruised face (combined with his being falling down drunk) told the truth - he was arrested and taken to jail.
I won't go into all the details. He was very happy in the marriage, as he had all he ever wanted; I was miserable. When I met him I had been earning near six figures; soon I had no money at all. If I wanted a little cash I would have to gather up ten cases of empty beer cans, tie them in two stacks of five cases each, walk two miles to the nearest supermarket, and redeem them for five cents for each can. There was plenty of money for all the "toys" he wanted for himself - every tool you could imagine (most of which he never used), a $3,000 ham radio, a new computer, over $500 a month for beer and cigarettes...but never once did he say, "Here's $20 - go buy yourself something." I didn't realize it at first (obviously), but I had married an abuser. He cut me off from my job, from my friends...from everything. I wasn't allowed to call my friends, because "the phone bill will be too high." While he was at work, the thermostat had to be set at 62° in winter. I wasn't allowed to run the AC when he wasn't home...we "couldn't afford" it. It wasn't long before I realized that he had married me only to take care of his mother, who lived with us until we were able to get her on Medicaid and into a nursing home. Without money and without transportation, I was a captive in my own home, forced to listen to his drunken ramblings. Unknowingly, I soon became a victim of Stockholm Syndrome, and my deep depression (that I still have to fight at times) began. I had gone from being an independent, successful woman with a bright future to being someone's prisoner and slave.
The torment didn't end with his death. When I eventually was able to pay to hire a lawyer (Mark Rosenberg, of Patchogue, NY, who has had to answer to the Lord by now) to settle the estate, the scumbag got into cahoots with a shyster realtor and my late husband's son - semi-literate punk who thinks the world owes him because he exists. I was robbed of everything, including all that was legally mine (75% of the estate, by NY law). Rosenberg took advantage of my situation and forced me to sign a contract under duress; he knew very well that, at that point, I was on disability because of a physical problem and had almost nothing, yet he chose to side with a 6'6" healthy young man - who, no doubt, gave him a cut of the spoils- over a disabled widow. I ended up destitute and homeless, and had a breakdown. I hope I get to watch their trial come Judgment Day...I want to see them try and explain themselves; I have no doubt I'm not the only widow Rosenberg cheated.
So, on that day in March of 1992, I thought my life was over. The years that followed have been hard, but you know what? God has been faithful, and it's been getting easier. I've gone back to school, and am preparing for a new career as a Christian counselor - I want to work with people who are victims of abuse, and those who have been preyed upon by psychopaths. As I heard a pastor say, "God doesn't waste pain." I'm going to take what Satan intended for evil, and turn it to good. Somehow the Lord not only meets every need...He meets an awful lot of my wants as well; He's even provided a house of my own! Now, I'm my own woman once more...and will never allow myself to become totally dependent upon a man again. I don't know what would have happened if my husband had lived - I'd probably (hopefully) have divorced him by now, as there were many problems he refused to get help for...he would never admit that there was anything wrong with him. (For example, his drinking was dismissed with, "I'm an old Kraut, and we Krauts like our beer!") Maybe he would have killed me (although, to be honest, he never physically attacked or even hit me again after I had him arrested) - or, if he did, I might have fought back and killed him. One might argue that he became a Christian, and would have changed...but I doubt it; he was the sort who didn't want to think about spiritual things until his mortality confronted him and he knew he was about to die. But he's been saved, I'm free, I'm finding my lost self again, and I'm making a whole new life for myself...and that's cause for celebration.
Sometimes miracles come in a different form than you expect them to.
I had written a blog on MySpace about it a couple of years ago; if you want to read about what the Lord has done for me, you can do so here:
March 8, 1992. I can feel - as if I were still there in that time and place - the bitter March wind on my face as I left the hospital in the company of two church elders. My world had just collapsed around me; my husband of 3 1/2 years had just died, leaving me all alone. I wanted to die too; surely my life was over.
He had been sent home from the hospital about two weeks before. They'd sent him home to die, but I was sure I'd get the miracle I'd been praying for and he'd be healed. After all, didn't even strangers come up to me in the hospital and say, "We've heard of your great faith. If every anyone got the miracle they prayed for, it'll be you!" Meanwhile, I cared for him as best as I could on my own. He needed to be fed, and changed, and even shaved. The lung cancer which had metastasized to his brain left him muddled and confused, and eventually he went blind. It was like a knife in my heart each time he'd call plaintively, "Cookie! Why am I in this box? It's dark in here and I can't see anything - come and get me out!"
What could I say? How could I tell him he'd never see again, at least not in this life? I didn't have the words; I just prayed and prayed....and kept Scriptural messages playing on the stereo constantly.
I remember one day when I tried to help him to the bathroom and he fell. Emaciated as he was, I couldn't even drag him, much less lift him. The fire department said they couldn't spare anyone to send over; no neighbors were around (not that I knew many to ask); no one from church was available until later that evening...so I had to leave him on the floor, while I sat by his side, trying to make him as comfortable as I could for hours, until help arrived.
The seizures were the worst; they never failed to terrify me. His eyes would roll back in his head, he'd spew gibberish and drool....I don't want to even think about them, much less remember.
He first collapsed on my birthday, January 19. He was never sick, really, apart from the occasional cold. We thought he had the flu, and when he vomited on my side of the bed the night before he wouldn't get out of bed so I could clean it up; I ended up sleeping on the couch. It was the thud above my head that woke me that fateful morning; he had tried to get out of bed, and had the first of many strokes, causing him to fall. I ran upstairs, saw him, called 911....and the nightmare began.
They let me stay with him 24/7, even in the ICU. It made things easier for the overworked nurses - they showed me how to handle the simpler tasks, the ones that didn't require specialized training. Eventually they put him in the oncology ward. I stayed by his side, and when he'd fall asleep I'd walk the halls. So many hurting souls, many of them abandoned because their families "couldn't bear" to see the one they claimed to love so ill! One poor man - I never found out his name - would usually be left in the hall, in a wheelchair, head drooping. Often the blanket covering him would fall off and his nakedness was exposed, yet not one nurse or aide ever paused to help. I would cover him up, hug him, and whisper, "Jesus loves you" in his ear. I hope he believed it; I hope one day I'll see him again, healthy and whole, and be able to call him by name.
One night, as I tried to sleep in a chair next to my husband's bed, I heard his roommate gasping and making odd noises. I had heard the nurses talking earlier; he was a diabetic. I ran to the nurse's station and told them they had to come immediately. One reprimanded me; if I didn't keep quiet they wouldn't let me stay! I held my ground....the man needed help, NOW. Another nurse followed me - the patient was going into diabetic shock. My being there and hearing him saved his life. So...maybe God put me there that night for a reason.
So much of the experience was surreal, especially in the beginning. My husband in bed, with a brain tumor....doing MENSA puzzles. Or realizing that a piece of equipment that was monitoring him wasn't working quite right and - to the nurses' consternation - fixing it. (One thing I have to give him...he was a brilliant man; he'd have gone far if he wasn't a drunk.)
I remember the day his doctor took me aside, and with tears in his eyes, seeing how devoted I was to the man, told me the diagnosis. The disease had progressed so far that there was nothing that would help; it was too late for chemo or radiation. The poor doctor looked so distraught; I hugged him and reassured him with, "Hey, it's nothing that Jesus can't take care of!"
Bizarre as it all was, I settled into a routine that was almost comfortable. I'd get my husband to sleep, the hall lights would go dim, I'd go down the corridor to shower, then try to get some sleep myself in two arm chairs facing each other next to his bed, listening for any sound that would indicate he needed something.
One day he had to be taken to a remote facility for an MRI. He had been cooped up inside for almost a month at that point, and I'll never forget that moment for which he was outdoors between the hospital and the ambulance. He saw the sky for the first time in weeks, looked up at it, and smiled as if he had just seen the most wonderful thing imaginable.
Anyway, back to the morning of March 8...it was a Sunday that year, too. I hadn't been able to get him back to the bed; he was asleep on the couch, and I slept on the floor next to it. It was a change in his breathing that woke me - it was very heavy and labored. I couldn't rouse him; I called 911 and told them my husband was dying. The ambulance came and he returned to his "prison." Yet, I had been praying and praying....and I knew he'd be healed. While waiting for the ambulance I called the church; some elders would meet me at the hospital.
They took my husband into the ER, and put me into a small room to wait. They asked if I wanted to sign a DNR order, and I refused, telling them to do everything possible to save him. I was sure God would heal him, even then. Finally someone - I don't recall if it was a man or a woman - came in and said, "I'm sorry - there was nothing we could do." I staggered for a moment, one of the elders caught my arm before I could fall, and I asked to see him.
I remember the first day we were in the ER, back when it all began, and had to wait for hours and hours before a doctor even looked at him. Someone had died, and when the family was brought in to see him, the patients and staff in half the ER were moved into the other half, which was separated by a door. I guess they didn't want the patients to get upset if the loved ones of the deceased "lost it." That day, March 8, 1992, it was our turn.
I was led into the eerily empty and quiet ER, and directed to a bed that had curtains drawn all around it. And there he lay, with a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin on his face. I remember my first thought was a desire to slap him for looking so doggone happy, and I wanted to shout, "How dare you look so happy after leaving me all alone?" But I kissed him, still too numb to cry. At least I knew where he was...just a few days earlier, I had led him to the Lord; he was born again, and in heaven. Later one of the elders said to me, "Didn't you feel it? The presence of God was all over that cubicle!" The same elder went on to add, "I've been with many people when they passed away. Some died in torment, because they rejected the Lord. Others I saw were happy because they were His, but," continuing with a shake of the head, "I've never seen anyone look that happy!"
It was exactly fifty days - almost to the minute - from the time he first collapsed until he died.
What would I do now? His company had gone out of business shortly before he got sick, and since he had apparently been healthy, he told me that we couldn't afford to keep the life insurance policy his employer had previously paid for - but surely he'd have a new job soon which would provide insurance. Meanwhile, he had an old policy that he had gotten years ago for his son, whom he saw twice a year; he promised to change the beneficiary to make sure I was taken care of in case anything ever happened to him. He never did it...but his ex assured me she'd take care of the funeral expenses out of the insurance proceeds.
In a daze I prepared for the funeral. I gathered together the same clothes he had married me in, two days short of 3 1/2 years earlier. A friend who had come to help offered to iron his shirt; "NO!", I snapped. I wouldn't be deprived of the last chance to do something for him. I tried to remember everything that was necessary: I called his friends, his family, his ex wife, his former co-workers...and some of my own, long-neglected friends. I tried to recall every professional organization he belonged to for the obituary. I even remembered - just in the nick of time - to call the American Legion, so he would have an honor guard. I'll never forget the funeral director expressing his condolences in what seemed a sincere manner, then coldly adding that he had to have money up front before they could even collect the body from the morgue: "We're not a bank, you know!" So much for compassion towards the bereaved.
Everybody's a Christian, right? Well, his "Christian" ex decided she wasn't going to part with a dime. I had given up my job shortly after getting married; the stock market had crashed, and as a Wall Street executive recruiter, the commissions weren't coming in - not to mention, it was impossible to get up at 6 a.m. for my two hour commute after one of his drinking nights. I had no money, and we had no savings. Well, sometimes you do what you have to do. He had a lot of credit cards, most with a considerable amount of available credit. I found his PINs, and went from one ATM to another, withdrawing money, until I had enough to cover the funeral home expenses. I knew I could never pay it back...but they could go after his ex and her son for it. What else could I do? Thankfully, because he had been in the Air Force, he would be interred in a national cemetery, so that at least took care of the burial plot and headstone.
I had prayed for a miracle, and I didn't get that particular one....but I got many others. The first day of the viewing, his best friend stood over the casket in tears. "Mike," I asked, "do you want to be able to fly with Charlie again one day?" (We're all pilots.) "YES!", he replied eagerly. I explained that he could...but first, he'd have to be born again. I called to an elder who was there, and over my husband's dead body his friend received the Lord. (And so did his wife not long after!)
Others heard the message as well. In fact, the Holy Spirit impressed upon me that I had to do a eulogy. Oh, I couldn't do that! But He persisted. So, at the appointed time, I got up before all those people, feeling both scared and sick. Suddenly I felt a THUD! on my chest, as if something had entered into me. Unseen hands grasped my shoulders and made me stand up straight. After my voice broke on the first few words, I spoke clearly and confidently...somehow, I "knew" exactly what I was to say...I was just an instrument in the hands of the Lord, and He had chosen to use me that day. I don't remember everything that was said, but there wasn't a dry eye in the room. When I was through there was an altar call...and many more got saved.
I was still in the Twilight Zone. A friend from NJ - one whom I had known for years and who kept in touch even though I wasn't permitted to make long distance calls - drove in with her mother for the funeral, and to take me to the cemetery: I had always been a NYC girl, and my husband wouldn't let me learn to drive after I moved to his suburban home...more of his subtle abuse. Afterwards, I was to go back home to NJ with her for a few days; I couldn't bear the empty house with its lonely echo. I wore a borrowed grey coat; my husband wouldn't ever buy me new clothes, and I had sold my professional clothing to get other things I needed long before. We went to the cemetery. If you've never been to a veteran's funeral, it's done differently. The casket is on a cart under a canopy to protect everyone from the rain and sun; you're nowhere near the grave site. Prayers were said, I think....all I could hear was a dull roar. Two of his friends and co-workers from Pan Am stood on either side of me, Phil and Pucci. Taps was played, and when I was handed the folded flag that had covered the casket I started to go down, but Phil and Pucci - both wonderful guys - grasped my arms and held me up. It was over. Everyone started to leave. I was alone. I kissed my fingertips, touched them to the bronze colored casket that I had so carefully selected, and walked away...looking behind me for as long as I could.
So, here I am, 17 years later. I never thought I'd ever say this, but I'm glad he's gone. I honestly have to say I made him very happy and took good care of him; he often admitted it. In fact, he used to love to take me to work with him sometimes, just to show me off - beautifully dressed, with homemade goodies for his co-workers. He was so proud that I could discuss aviation and politics with them; he boasted of my intelligence - I wasn't one of those wives who just talked about diapers and laundry. My life revolved around him; all I cared about was making him happy. Unfortunately, it was one-sided. You see, he was an alcoholic and an abuser. Oh, he'd never, ever admit it. After all, he didn't go out and get drunk...he only drank at home! And he didn't get drunk every night...just every other night.
How I dreaded it when he'd come home from work shortly after midnight with a big smile on his face, so happy so see me as I ran to the door as I always did when I heard him drive up. I'd smile back at him...hoping that if it was an "alternate" night it would, by some miracle, be different; hoping that he hadn't stopped at 7-Eleven...but my smile would invariably fade as I'd see him reach into the back seat for his case of beer. Then it began. I was forced to sit up with him as he got drunker and drunker...never knowing if he'd be a mean drunk, a stupid drunk, a garrulous drunk, or an affable drunk; it depended on how his day had gone. If I tried to go to bed he'd either get angry and say I didn't love him, or he'd do the "sad face" and claim I didn't love him. (I know now it was emotional blackmail.) I didn't have much choice...I had to stay up with him until the sun rose, even though I could hardly keep my eyes open and my head ached from fatigue. I don't know how many times I had to listen to the same stories - over and over again - stories of how his two ex wives had been so mean to him...they weren't nice, like me. (For all the good that did me!) Stories of all the people in his life who had ever done him wrong. He did cruel things to me at times; more than once I had to hide in terror from him. One night - the day we buried his father and he decided to have two cases of beer, one for himself and one for his dad - he even tried to kill me. I managed to escape, ran out into the cold, found a pay phone and called the police. They said they'd come and get me. I saw police cars - sirens blaring - pass me by and turn into our street; hey, didn't they see me? Turned out he had called 911 as well - he told them that I had been abusing him! One look at my bruised face (combined with his being falling down drunk) told the truth - he was arrested and taken to jail.
I won't go into all the details. He was very happy in the marriage, as he had all he ever wanted; I was miserable. When I met him I had been earning near six figures; soon I had no money at all. If I wanted a little cash I would have to gather up ten cases of empty beer cans, tie them in two stacks of five cases each, walk two miles to the nearest supermarket, and redeem them for five cents for each can. There was plenty of money for all the "toys" he wanted for himself - every tool you could imagine (most of which he never used), a $3,000 ham radio, a new computer, over $500 a month for beer and cigarettes...but never once did he say, "Here's $20 - go buy yourself something." I didn't realize it at first (obviously), but I had married an abuser. He cut me off from my job, from my friends...from everything. I wasn't allowed to call my friends, because "the phone bill will be too high." While he was at work, the thermostat had to be set at 62° in winter. I wasn't allowed to run the AC when he wasn't home...we "couldn't afford" it. It wasn't long before I realized that he had married me only to take care of his mother, who lived with us until we were able to get her on Medicaid and into a nursing home. Without money and without transportation, I was a captive in my own home, forced to listen to his drunken ramblings. Unknowingly, I soon became a victim of Stockholm Syndrome, and my deep depression (that I still have to fight at times) began. I had gone from being an independent, successful woman with a bright future to being someone's prisoner and slave.
The torment didn't end with his death. When I eventually was able to pay to hire a lawyer (Mark Rosenberg, of Patchogue, NY, who has had to answer to the Lord by now) to settle the estate, the scumbag got into cahoots with a shyster realtor and my late husband's son - semi-literate punk who thinks the world owes him because he exists. I was robbed of everything, including all that was legally mine (75% of the estate, by NY law). Rosenberg took advantage of my situation and forced me to sign a contract under duress; he knew very well that, at that point, I was on disability because of a physical problem and had almost nothing, yet he chose to side with a 6'6" healthy young man - who, no doubt, gave him a cut of the spoils- over a disabled widow. I ended up destitute and homeless, and had a breakdown. I hope I get to watch their trial come Judgment Day...I want to see them try and explain themselves; I have no doubt I'm not the only widow Rosenberg cheated.
So, on that day in March of 1992, I thought my life was over. The years that followed have been hard, but you know what? God has been faithful, and it's been getting easier. I've gone back to school, and am preparing for a new career as a Christian counselor - I want to work with people who are victims of abuse, and those who have been preyed upon by psychopaths. As I heard a pastor say, "God doesn't waste pain." I'm going to take what Satan intended for evil, and turn it to good. Somehow the Lord not only meets every need...He meets an awful lot of my wants as well; He's even provided a house of my own! Now, I'm my own woman once more...and will never allow myself to become totally dependent upon a man again. I don't know what would have happened if my husband had lived - I'd probably (hopefully) have divorced him by now, as there were many problems he refused to get help for...he would never admit that there was anything wrong with him. (For example, his drinking was dismissed with, "I'm an old Kraut, and we Krauts like our beer!") Maybe he would have killed me (although, to be honest, he never physically attacked or even hit me again after I had him arrested) - or, if he did, I might have fought back and killed him. One might argue that he became a Christian, and would have changed...but I doubt it; he was the sort who didn't want to think about spiritual things until his mortality confronted him and he knew he was about to die. But he's been saved, I'm free, I'm finding my lost self again, and I'm making a whole new life for myself...and that's cause for celebration.
Sometimes miracles come in a different form than you expect them to.
