What is it that allows some people to move on, following a traumatic event, while others just shut down? How can two people witness the same tragedy and have two completely different reactions? I don’t know either. Whatever it is, I apparently have the stuff that allows me to move on.

I can’t say my childhood was traumatic. Oh, there were fights with neighbor kids, pets that died, parents arguing, and normal things like that. It wasn’t until I was in 10th grade that I experienced my first, true traumatic event. I saw my good friend get hit, and killed, by a car.

Kim was coming to the house to go to the high school football game. I think DuPont (us) played Charleston High that evening, October 17, 1981. I was in the band and my mother hauled equipment in our van. Kim was going to ride in the van so she didn’t have to pay to get in. She rode the KRT (city bus), and I met her at the four-lane. Instead of waiting for the bus to pull out, Kim walked around front, just like you do a school bus. A woman was speeding past and struck her.

Then, in 1982, I lost my first child, Victoria. I married my first husband, in May,  when I was 17. That August, my first child was born, three months premature. My husband was in the Army. The Red Cross flew him home in time to see her. She passed after just a few hours. We buried her at Graceland, in Ruthlawn where so many of our family rest.

In 1984, we lost another child. This time we were at Fort Hood, Texas. He was in PLDC (Primary Leadership Development Course) and was not allowed to leave the campus. When the contractions became noticeable I was home, alone.  I drove myself to the Army hospital. The ER refused me and said to wait till the OB-GYN Clinic opened, several hours later. By the time I was examined, the doctor was furious and shipped me straight to the Labor and Delivery floor.

The hospital wasn’t equipped to handle a premature child like Angela. She died within minutes. I made her funeral arraignments from my hospital bed, because her father wasn’t allowed off campus. We flew her home, so she could lie with her sister.

The next child, a son, managed to make it nearly full-term. It wasn’t without difficulties. My files were flagged as high-risk. At the first sign of trouble I was confined to the hospital, in bed. I would be fine for three or four days, then start contracting again. My cervix was sewn shut and I remained on medication to stop labor. Sometimes it didn’t work.

Eventually I was flown to San Antonio, Lackland Airforce Base, until I reached the point where my son would be OK. It was a three hour drive from Fort Hood, so I rarely saw my husband. I went home on a Friday in January, 1986. My son was born the following Monday, a healthy six pound two ounce squalling bundle.

In 1989, my younger son, and last child, was born at 24 weeks gestation. He was one pound nine ounces, thirteen inches long. He stayed in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit 99 days. His first three years was mostly doctor visits and hospital stays. When he was about five, he seemed to turn a corner. He didn’t get sick as often. He was pretty well caught up, developmentally, with the other kids his age. Other than a mild eye-glass prescription, his eye-sight was good.

A few years ago, my younger son was accused of a crime. There were no witnesses, no evidence, just an accusation. But, the accusation cost him a position in the WV Air National Guard. It caused him to be held in a Boston jail for a year, just in case, for something he didn’t do. It took a forensic exam of someone’s hard drive to get him released and the charges dropped. In that time I traveled as often as I could to visit him.

After two years of court hoopla, he took a plea, telling me he just wanted to get it over. He spent nearly a year at the Anthony Correction Center in Greenbrier County. I visited him every two weeks. Then, four weeks after he came home, he hung himself.

I buried my third child.

It’s been almost a year to the day that we found him. I am still moving on. Slower, I’ll grant that. But I am still moving on. How? Hell, I don’t know.

I was told many years ago that G-d doesn’t put more on you than you can handle. And I know that Jesus said, “…if you have the faith of a mustard seed” you can move mountains. (Matthew 17:20) These things must be my mountains.

I know the physical and emotional pain are temporary. Like a significant injury, they will heal in time, often leaving scars. While I am not the greatest Christian on the planet, I have to trust in Christ and the Father that things will work out.

Tags: death, Job, pain, son, suicide, tragedy, woman