I Am Now My Brother’s Keeper (A Story of Healing and Triumph After a Childhood Filled With Emotional, Physical, and Sexual Abuse.)
Recently, after ending my 12-hour night shift at a local free-standing emergency room and then teaching an hour and a half long Pediatric Mock Code class, I drove by to check on my foster father who had just gone through major surgery. I then took a wrong turn and found myself on the interstate that led back to my old neighborhood. Abruptly, I made a decision to visit a grave I had not been to since I was 6. It was the grave of my youngest brother, Paul Daniel. Once that decision was made, I drove with a purpose I did not readily understand and soon found myself driving on tired streets full of broken down houses. A few blocks more I turned into the cemetery. After asking for directions from the caretaker, I found myself in an area full of dozens of graves of small children and babies.
At first, I had no idea why I had been led back to this dismal little cemetery flanked on one side by a busy interstate and on the other by a shabby mobile home park. A few minutes later, as I cleaned the grave site up with an old ice scraper (the only thing I could find in my car.), the breath was knocked out of me, not by the 36 degree weather and icy breeze from the lake, but rather by the thought that his death was the beginning of the end of my promising little family. That family, which until this point was beautiful and whole, would go on to be destroyed from within by my mothers addiction and psychiatric issues. As I considered this, tears streamed down my face and I was struck by how strange it was that God had brought me back, full circle, 45 years later to be here at this grave after moving back to Ohio to work at a well-known hospital system.
Relatives, letters of my parents, and other sources would later in life show me that my mothers psychiatric issues were there long before I saw them manifest. In the summer of 1974, an argument between my father and mother would result in her moving furniture in anger. She would go into labor only hours later. I still very clearly remember mom leaving in a hurry, everyone being upset and them speaking about bleeding. I also remember her not coming home. Paul Daniel would be born at around 28 weeks on July 31st. This poor beautiful boy would struggle to breath for many hours and finally die on August 1st.
A lovely neighbor woman, Jean Bolger, would come over to care for my brother and I. The next day, she would be the one to tell me and then try to help me make sense of my first taste of death. I can still remember the smell of the night air as we lay in my bed looking out the window at the city sky. She would point up and tell me my brother was with God in heaven and he was now one of the stars. Finally, after many questions, she would tell me that if I only looked up at the stars, I’d know he was there and safe in the hands of God. I didn’t know who God was back then. I’d never been introduced. My parents avoided church. I do remember thinking though that I was glad my baby brother was not alone.
My next memory is of walking into the funeral parlor with my uncle Donny. He held my tiny 6 year old hand the entire time I was in that funeral home. It was he who would walk me to the casket. I remember being incredibly saddened that I’d never know the little olive-skinned boy with the beautiful curly black hair so unlike my own blonde hair. My uncle would walk me in there over and over. He never hesitated each time I asked to be taken in there. I was trying so desperately to understand what was going on. He let me touch my brothers’ little hand and he would even let me place my hand on his chest and then his face. Looking back, I find it profoundly curious that he was only 24 years old at the time and tasked with this responsibility. He was not known as a responsible individual at all. He was wild, you would say. So much so that he went on to die before his 50th birthday. Yet on that day he was everything a 6-year-old lost little girl needed.
I don’t remember seeing my mother or my father that day. I honestly don’t have much memory of either of them for almost 2 years other than that my mother would move into our attic and not come down for months and months. She would refuse to come down despite my father trying to get her to while working hours and hours on the railroad. The only time she would come out was when someone visited. Thankfully around 2nd grade a woman from Guatemala named Victoria would come to care for my brother and I. She was the elderly mother of my father’s friend. She would get stuck in states and stay with us for over a year. I remember much more of that time and have many happy memories of her. However, after she left, life would go on to deteriorate greatly.
My mother was given valium to deal with her grief. Her condition would worsen and soon signs of addiction and personality disorder would manifest. Mind you, I’ve learned that both of these things were there years before I knew her. I have heard rumors, but have no proof, of childhood trauma that helped form these tendencies in her. I know for certain from multiple sources that her mother was an exceedingly cruel alcoholic who also suffered from psychiatric illness. My own mother would go on to eat valium like candy and eventually fall at work. She would make a claim on this fall and would go on to retire early on workman’s comp. I would end up in foster care and group homes. She would by then be using valium, Percocet and alcohol to self-medicate.
My mother was a pro at keeping up appearances. People heard rumors of “taking too many pills” and such, but none had a clue about what really went on. In front of others, she was the epitome of the good mom. At home, behind closed doors, the tone of the day would vacillate depending on her mood. During good days she doted on my other brother and avoided me. On bad days she would repeatedly tell me she hated me and wished I was the one who died. On the worst days, she would randomly attack me, usually from behind and often after being weirdly nice to me. Until the day she was killed, I never could read my mother and she remains the most terrifying person I have ever known. Unfortunately, she was not the only monster around me. Predators love unprotected children. As a result, I would also be the victim of multiple molestations from both men and women. The better days were when my father was home from work.
I truly loved my father and could not wait until he had a day off. When I was a child, I never knew how those days would go. Though my mother was not the monster who often attacked me when he was not home, they would often have terrible arguments and fight. She and my father’s relationship would be volatile to the point of madness. It would be so bad that at times she would pull out guns and shoot at him. At other times, she would chase him with brooms and other objects. I have no idea how she did not kill him. The older I got the more time my father spent away at work. In addition, the older I got the more my fathers terrible anger would be turned towards me. It was at this point that I ran away. Once my father turned on me I had no safety left. I was in two foster homes, a group home and then was emacipated. Through it all my father, though by no means perfect, would stay with her because he did, in fact, love her. Towards the end of his life, they would somewhat heal their relationship briefly and have about 3 good years together. It was never perfect and my daughter still vividly remembers her chasing him with a broom one day towards the end of his life.
Several years before my father died at 57 of smoking related heart disease, he and I went on to heal our relatinship. When he died he left my mother set for life, though still very broken emotionally. He left her a beautiful house that my grandfather built by hand, a new truck and a new camper. All were paid in full. She had income as well from him and workman’s comp. She would almost immediately move my brother in and sign all over to him. He, his wife and eventually their two children would all live there for several years. They appeared to be a normal healthy family. Then a few years later, due to addictions and my brothers lack of work ethic, his wife would move out and file for divorce. After that it was only my brother, his boys when he had them and my mother at the big house on the hill. Things would skid downhill very quickly from there.
During this time, I was on my own journey.
I would go on to undergrad, medical school, and finally residency training. For most of these years I had sporadic contact with my mother and brother due to my lack of extra money and their lack of interest.
It was not until 2012 when I finished all of my medical training that I became interesting to my mother and brother again. For several years after, I was the person they called when they needed money. I, desperate to be part of my own family, would comply several times. Then, I would realize I was only enabling them and refuse during one of their calls for money. This would result in them screaming at me and even threatening my very life. My husband would take the phone and hang it up. He would also then block their calls for me. From 2015 until 2017 I did not have any contact with my mother nor my brother. My own healing would require that I cut them out of my life.
Though I had little contact with them, there were people around them who kept me informed. I also kept in touch with my nephews and my sister n law. I would hear rumors they were driving back and forth to obtain and trade drugs. This would be confirmed years later. The madness in the house would spiral further than even I would have predicted. My brother would even go on to lose all rights to his 2 beautiful children. The beautiful home on the hill that my Grandfather had crafted lovingly by hand would be systematically and horrifically destroyed during the final 7 years of my mother’s life.
My mother finally moved out and spent the last three years of her life living with my uncle. Soon after, in December of 2017, I would see her for the last time. She and my brother (who had a few weeks of least partial sobriety) would spend 2 weeks with us at our home. It was a beautiful Christmas. I will forever be grateful for that time with her. I would hear from her only sporadically over the course of 2018. During this time, she was still driving him all around WV and even up to Ohio to deal drugs, often for 10-12 hours per day. Though she had found some healing finally, she could not for whatever reason simply walk away from him. She would die this year due to being knocked down and mauled by his dogs. Though, in shock, I would be tasked with arrangements and eulogy. He would tell everyone she died of a heart attack, worsen his use of drugs and sell what was left of the home for a song to those who knew how to exploit his addictions.
I tried recently to save him. He called me and asked for help. It was during his call for help that I learned of the IV Methamphetamine and Heroin use. Of course, once I got him back up to Ohio, he told me he was “not that bad.” I asked him, “How much worse does it need to get?” he attempted to manipulate his way into being able to stay at my home and continue being as he was. I adamantly refused. You see, God and I have worked for 35 years on putting me back together. I am very committed to keeping dysfunction and madness such as his as far away as possible. He signed out of the hospital he was in and walked out AMA to a ride from the family that bought the home my grandfather built for a song…
I stayed to finish my 12-hour day shift at that same hospital. It is the hospital I work in now as an emergency physician. I love my job and I am blessed to be able to do it. Im blessed because of my biological father and my Father in Heaven. Two days before my father passed away from congestive heart failure in the VA in Beckley, West Virginia, he strong-armed me into a promise to return to school. I would go on to keep that promise by traveling every day over a mountain 1.5 hours each way to get a degree in genetics and chemistry. In the middle of this, I would get a very clear message from God above that I should go to medical school. I would then move across the state to attend medical school. I eventually trained thousands and thousands of hours while a single mother of three. My acceptance of Jesus as my savior at 27 changed my life in multiple ways. The God I was only briefly introduced to when 6 years old would help me move mountain after mountain, sometimes seemingly one rock at a time. Father God, whom I would learn to trust completely, would show me how to destroy mountains of pain from physical, emotional and sexual abuse. Through his direction I would go on to fulfill dreams I’ d long given up on and become a physician. All it took was faith, determination and one step at a time.
Now every day at work I see either my father, my mother, or one of my brothers. Each time I do everything I’m trained to do and I try to save them. Some times they listen and sometimes they do not. I still try again and again every day. You see, I’m the only one left to visit, clean and maintain my brothers grave. I couldn’t save him, my mother or my father. I’m not optimistic about my ability to save my younger brother. I will keep trying to save others both in the hospital and with my story of faith. I will also keep maintaining my brother Paul Daniels grave.
You see I have a responsibility given to me by my Father in Heaven and my Daddy. I am the only one left to be my brother’s keeper.
Im here to tell you healing IS possible. Success IS possible. Even after unbelievable trauma! I would love to tell you more of my story and quite possible help you find yours. I want to teach you about the God who will teach you HOW TO MOVE MOUNTAINS!
Recently, after ending my 12-hour night shift at a local free-standing emergency room and then teaching an hour and a half long Pediatric Mock Code class, I drove by to check on my foster father who had just gone through major surgery. I then took a wrong turn and found myself on the interstate that led back to my old neighborhood. Abruptly, I made a decision to visit a grave I had not been to since I was 6. It was the grave of my youngest brother, Paul Daniel. Once that decision was made, I drove with a purpose I did not readily understand and soon found myself driving on tired streets full of broken down houses. A few blocks more I turned into the cemetery. After asking for directions from the caretaker, I found myself in an area full of dozens of graves of small children and babies.
At first, I had no idea why I had been led back to this dismal little cemetery flanked on one side by a busy interstate and on the other by a shabby mobile home park. A few minutes later, as I cleaned the grave site up with an old ice scraper (the only thing I could find in my car.), the breath was knocked out of me, not by the 36 degree weather and icy breeze from the lake, but rather by the thought that his death was the beginning of the end of my promising little family. That family, which until this point was beautiful and whole, would go on to be destroyed from within by my mothers addiction and psychiatric issues. As I considered this, tears streamed down my face and I was struck by how strange it was that God had brought me back, full circle, 45 years later to be here at this grave after moving back to Ohio to work at a well-known hospital system.
Relatives, letters of my parents, and other sources would later in life show me that my mothers psychiatric issues were there long before I saw them manifest. In the summer of 1974, an argument between my father and mother would result in her moving furniture in anger. She would go into labor only hours later. I still very clearly remember mom leaving in a hurry, everyone being upset and them speaking about bleeding. I also remember her not coming home. Paul Daniel would be born at around 28 weeks on July 31st. This poor beautiful boy would struggle to breath for many hours and finally die on August 1st.
A lovely neighbor woman, Jean Bolger, would come over to care for my brother and I. The next day, she would be the one to tell me and then try to help me make sense of my first taste of death. I can still remember the smell of the night air as we lay in my bed looking out the window at the city sky. She would point up and tell me my brother was with God in heaven and he was now one of the stars. Finally, after many questions, she would tell me that if I only looked up at the stars, I’d know he was there and safe in the hands of God. I didn’t know who God was back then. I’d never been introduced. My parents avoided church. I do remember thinking though that I was glad my baby brother was not alone.
My next memory is of walking into the funeral parlor with my uncle Donny. He held my tiny 6 year old hand the entire time I was in that funeral home. It was he who would walk me to the casket. I remember being incredibly saddened that I’d never know the little olive-skinned boy with the beautiful curly black hair so unlike my own blonde hair. My uncle would walk me in there over and over. He never hesitated each time I asked to be taken in there. I was trying so desperately to understand what was going on. He let me touch my brothers’ little hand and he would even let me place my hand on his chest and then his face. Looking back, I find it profoundly curious that he was only 24 years old at the time and tasked with this responsibility. He was not known as a responsible individual at all. He was wild, you would say. So much so that he went on to die before his 50th birthday. Yet on that day he was everything a 6-year-old lost little girl needed.
I don’t remember seeing my mother or my father that day. I honestly don’t have much memory of either of them for almost 2 years other than that my mother would move into our attic and not come down for months and months. She would refuse to come down despite my father trying to get her to while working hours and hours on the railroad. The only time she would come out was when someone visited. Thankfully around 2nd grade a woman from Guatemala named Victoria would come to care for my brother and I. She was the elderly mother of my father’s friend. She would get stuck in states and stay with us for over a year. I remember much more of that time and have many happy memories of her. However, after she left, life would go on to deteriorate greatly.
My mother was given valium to deal with her grief. Her condition would worsen and soon signs of addiction and personality disorder would manifest. Mind you, I’ve learned that both of these things were there years before I knew her. I have heard rumors, but have no proof, of childhood trauma that helped form these tendencies in her. I know for certain from multiple sources that her mother was an exceedingly cruel alcoholic who also suffered from psychiatric illness. My own mother would go on to eat valium like candy and eventually fall at work. She would make a claim on this fall and would go on to retire early on workman’s comp. I would end up in foster care and group homes. She would by then be using valium, Percocet and alcohol to self-medicate.
My mother was a pro at keeping up appearances. People heard rumors of “taking too many pills” and such, but none had a clue about what really went on. In front of others, she was the epitome of the good mom. At home, behind closed doors, the tone of the day would vacillate depending on her mood. During good days she doted on my other brother and avoided me. On bad days she would repeatedly tell me she hated me and wished I was the one who died. On the worst days, she would randomly attack me, usually from behind and often after being weirdly nice to me. Until the day she was killed, I never could read my mother and she remains the most terrifying person I have ever known. Unfortunately, she was not the only monster around me. Predators love unprotected children. As a result, I would also be the victim of multiple molestations from both men and women. The better days were when my father was home from work.
I truly loved my father and could not wait until he had a day off. When I was a child, I never knew how those days would go. Though my mother was not the monster who often attacked me when he was not home, they would often have terrible arguments and fight. She and my father’s relationship would be volatile to the point of madness. It would be so bad that at times she would pull out guns and shoot at him. At other times, she would chase him with brooms and other objects. I have no idea how she did not kill him. The older I got the more time my father spent away at work. In addition, the older I got the more my fathers terrible anger would be turned towards me. It was at this point that I ran away. Once my father turned on me I had no safety left. I was in two foster homes, a group home and then was emacipated. Through it all my father, though by no means perfect, would stay with her because he did, in fact, love her. Towards the end of his life, they would somewhat heal their relationship briefly and have about 3 good years together. It was never perfect and my daughter still vividly remembers her chasing him with a broom one day towards the end of his life.
Several years before my father died at 57 of smoking related heart disease, he and I went on to heal our relatinship. When he died he left my mother set for life, though still very broken emotionally. He left her a beautiful house that my grandfather built by hand, a new truck and a new camper. All were paid in full. She had income as well from him and workman’s comp. She would almost immediately move my brother in and sign all over to him. He, his wife and eventually their two children would all live there for several years. They appeared to be a normal healthy family. Then a few years later, due to addictions and my brothers lack of work ethic, his wife would move out and file for divorce. After that it was only my brother, his boys when he had them and my mother at the big house on the hill. Things would skid downhill very quickly from there.
During this time, I was on my own journey.
I would go on to undergrad, medical school, and finally residency training. For most of these years I had sporadic contact with my mother and brother due to my lack of extra money and their lack of interest.
It was not until 2012 when I finished all of my medical training that I became interesting to my mother and brother again. For several years after, I was the person they called when they needed money. I, desperate to be part of my own family, would comply several times. Then, I would realize I was only enabling them and refuse during one of their calls for money. This would result in them screaming at me and even threatening my very life. My husband would take the phone and hang it up. He would also then block their calls for me. From 2015 until 2017 I did not have any contact with my mother nor my brother. My own healing would require that I cut them out of my life.
Though I had little contact with them, there were people around them who kept me informed. I also kept in touch with my nephews and my sister n law. I would hear rumors they were driving back and forth to obtain and trade drugs. This would be confirmed years later. The madness in the house would spiral further than even I would have predicted. My brother would even go on to lose all rights to his 2 beautiful children. The beautiful home on the hill that my Grandfather had crafted lovingly by hand would be systematically and horrifically destroyed during the final 7 years of my mother’s life.
My mother finally moved out and spent the last three years of her life living with my uncle. Soon after, in December of 2017, I would see her for the last time. She and my brother (who had a few weeks of least partial sobriety) would spend 2 weeks with us at our home. It was a beautiful Christmas. I will forever be grateful for that time with her. I would hear from her only sporadically over the course of 2018. During this time, she was still driving him all around WV and even up to Ohio to deal drugs, often for 10-12 hours per day. Though she had found some healing finally, she could not for whatever reason simply walk away from him. She would die this year due to being knocked down and mauled by his dogs. Though, in shock, I would be tasked with arrangements and eulogy. He would tell everyone she died of a heart attack, worsen his use of drugs and sell what was left of the home for a song to those who knew how to exploit his addictions.
I tried recently to save him. He called me and asked for help. It was during his call for help that I learned of the IV Methamphetamine and Heroin use. Of course, once I got him back up to Ohio, he told me he was “not that bad.” I asked him, “How much worse does it need to get?” he attempted to manipulate his way into being able to stay at my home and continue being as he was. I adamantly refused. You see, God and I have worked for 35 years on putting me back together. I am very committed to keeping dysfunction and madness such as his as far away as possible. He signed out of the hospital he was in and walked out AMA to a ride from the family that bought the home my grandfather built for a song…
I stayed to finish my 12-hour day shift at that same hospital. It is the hospital I work in now as an emergency physician. I love my job and I am blessed to be able to do it. Im blessed because of my biological father and my Father in Heaven. Two days before my father passed away from congestive heart failure in the VA in Beckley, West Virginia, he strong-armed me into a promise to return to school. I would go on to keep that promise by traveling every day over a mountain 1.5 hours each way to get a degree in genetics and chemistry. In the middle of this, I would get a very clear message from God above that I should go to medical school. I would then move across the state to attend medical school. I eventually trained thousands and thousands of hours while a single mother of three. My acceptance of Jesus as my savior at 27 changed my life in multiple ways. The God I was only briefly introduced to when 6 years old would help me move mountain after mountain, sometimes seemingly one rock at a time. Father God, whom I would learn to trust completely, would show me how to destroy mountains of pain from physical, emotional and sexual abuse. Through his direction I would go on to fulfill dreams I’ d long given up on and become a physician. All it took was faith, determination and one step at a time.
Now every day at work I see either my father, my mother, or one of my brothers. Each time I do everything I’m trained to do and I try to save them. Some times they listen and sometimes they do not. I still try again and again every day. You see, I’m the only one left to visit, clean and maintain my brothers grave. I couldn’t save him, my mother or my father. I’m not optimistic about my ability to save my younger brother. I will keep trying to save others both in the hospital and with my story of faith. I will also keep maintaining my brother Paul Daniels grave.
You see I have a responsibility given to me by my Father in Heaven and my Daddy. I am the only one left to be my brother’s keeper.
Im here to tell you healing IS possible. Success IS possible. Even after unbelievable trauma! I would love to tell you more of my story and quite possible help you find yours. I want to teach you about the God who will teach you HOW TO MOVE MOUNTAINS!
Comments