Pain has always been a reminder to me that I was alive. Looking back pain is like the highlight reel. To clarify, when I say pain I mean emotional pain. I did have my fair share of physical pain as a non-diagnosed child with ADHD I was clumsy to say the least. My mom used to joke that I would have died young had it not been for the Pediatric Doctor living next door. From the ages of 3 to 9 I was usually found barefoot, with or without clothes, up a tree in our backyard. Ratted hair and all, my mother let me just “be”. What a smart lady. She did not try and change me or calm me down, except if there was company, she just threw me in the tub at the end of the day and washed off the mud. Remember when you were small enough to swim in the bathtub. Close your eyes and feel that energy course through your limbs; the genuine joy and laughter that was created in the most mundane of tasks. A bath was actually a swim across the Atlantic. Carefree and un-tethered by the reality of life and death.
And then suddenly the world changed me forever. It was the summer of 1987, I was only 9 years old and in the joy and freedom of summer vacation I had no idea what was coming. Isn’t that how it always is as we look back at the tragedy of life? Everything was just fine “until”. Screw “until.” Momentary lapse, back to the story. I grew up in Phoenix, Arizona but my parents were both from Detroit, Michigan. So every summer we would get on a plane and four hours later be the center of attention for 2 weeks. I loved it. Aunts, Uncles, Cousins surrounded us and it was an endless stream of activity and fun. This particular year was my mothers family reunion and my sister’s 12th birthday. We had 6 houses to visit and split our time accordingly. The second stop was my Dad’s sister, Barb. I woke up one morning and with sleep still in my eyes walked down to the kitchen in my cotton underwear and child tank top. My hair was, of course, sticking up on the back of my head with a perfect rat’s nest like a crown. Slow feet pulled me to the food. Then I looked up and saw a familiar face sitting at the table reading the paper. 5.4.3.2.1…DADDY!!!! My father never came to Michigan with us. He always spent the time working. And yet he was here!!! I lunge-jumped into his lap and was filled with joy and love as you can only feel at 9. For the next 7 days we played, fished, talked, ate, and enjoyed. I had not seen my mother and father that happy in such a long time. Dad did not work while he was with us and spent all of his time hugging and holding us. As all good things do his week ended and we took him to the airport to head home. We of course had another week of vacation. As we hugged goodbye I remember feeling so peaceful and happy. If only it could have stayed like that forever. As we pulled into the driveway of my Aunt’s house I was excited to play and ready to get out of the car. We went in and quickly busied ourselves with activity. I am not sure how much time passed. Suddenly, someone in the family was calling everyone to come and watch the television. From the tone and quickness of their voice I knew something was not right. I went up and stood in back as I watched the adults around me start to look crazy and confused. The sound of fear is something that can immobilize a child. It lingers clenching your chest and making it hard for you to breath. Death entered my life for the first time out of nowhere. Michael Murray Peacock age 39 died August 16, 1987. My dad was gone. I would find out later that his plane had crashed on take off killing all but one little girl.
In the wake of the chaos I remember feeling scared. Not because I understood that my dad had been killed, or what death was, but because all of the people that I looked to for strength and containment were, for lack of a better description, losing their shit. Crying, screaming, and shaking filled the 6 or so people in the room. My cousin scooped me up and I started to sob, I was so scared and confused my emotional release took over. They comforted me for something I did not understand and I tried to figure out what to do to make it all go away.
My mom slept with us that night. Three blond girls exhausted curled up. I fell asleep to the sound of her tears. I felt helpless and alone. The next few days are like a flip book of pictures in my memory. I wanted to play and make my mommy laugh and everyone just sat and cried. I was lost.
After a few days my little brain put together the pieces. And it decided they were wrong. I totally knew that Dad was just lost somewhere. He had accidentally gotten on a different flight and was stranded in some far away country. Remember, cell phones and such were not around in 1987. We were primitive way back then. My little 9 year old brain was protecting me. What a great perspective right! I mean if you don’t like what people are telling you, just make up your own story. Ok, maybe not the best idea if you are older than 9. I found myself starring up at the stars every night and making up stories to make my heart and head feel better. Lord, knows I wish I could buy into that now.
So my pain shadow was born. This event that followed me everywhere and effected everyone around me. I was quirky and different before, but now I was just a freak. I spent most of my time trying to be who people wanted me to be. I was so afraid that if I was not someone that they wanted they would leave me. I saw their pity and fear when they learned of our tragedy. I hated that look. I became a perfectionist people pleaser. Yes. It is a monster of sorts. This Triple P demon was there to point out every time I was not enough, every time I let someone down with my inadequacies. I was not pretty enough, smart enough, psychic enough, tall enough, enough, enough, enough.
To adults I was an angel. I helped out without being asked, I was polite, I started working at 12, I cleaned the house, I volunteered with the homeless, and the list goes on. It was exhausting, and really no matter how long the list got I never felt any better. I was actually becoming more and more empty. I only felt happy and worthy when others were praising me. When alone I felt worthless and depressed. I had no self worth apart from my external image, and I was dependant on others to approve me. This is a recipe for disaster. If you relate to this please pay close attention to what I am about to say. Life does not have to be like this. You are being robbed!!!
I focused all of my attention on being the daughter that would make my dad proud and my mom happy. I was scared all the time to tell her anything was wrong because I did could not stand the thought of losing her to the pain again. My father’s death changed us all. I decided that my mother was not strong enough to handle any problems. So I tried not to have any. This back fired a few times. Most notably in 7th grade. I moved schools, under duress, because my mom did not want to drive me to my old school when we moved. I entered a small private school in a class of 20 kids, most of whom had been together since kindergarten. I was outgoing and fun. This did not make the leader of the pack happy. Within 4 months she had started a campaign against me. I got letters signed by all my classmates telling me to leave, no one would talk to me let alone play with me at lunch, and so I went to the library. I liked adults better anyways. However, by Spring it was too much. I was broken and feeling so bad about myself at 13 that I finally broke down and told my mother. To my surprise Mama Bear was mad, really, really, mad. She went into the school and “raised hell.” She apologized for not knowing and told me that I was never to keep something like that from her again. She put me back in my public school and happily drove me the extra few miles.
Throughout the next few years I would continue to become independent and focus on taking care of myself. I loved my mom with my entire heart and soul and would do anything to bring her joy and hear her praise. She had married a verbally abusive alcoholic a year after my Dad’s death. Unknowingly, of course. She just did not have the strength to get through life alone. She paid dearly for that. I have countless memories of screaming and yelling. Mom retreating in tears, and an overweight man on the sofa asleep. I tried to step in. To be a caretaker for her. Especially when she became pregnant. I was 14 and even though I tried to spend as much time away from the house as possible when I was home I was cooking or helping mom with chores. I could feel how unhappy she was and it hurt my heart. After my adorable baby sister was born early there were a number of complications and surgeries this tiny little being had to endure before she was finally a toddler on the run. She made my mom so happy. I think that Sara, kept my mom going in the midst of so much pain. She gave her hope and joy again like nothing else could. She is still that way if you are wondering. A vision of hope and peace.
When I was 17 things came to a halt. My mom had had enough. She gave my step father ultimatums and he disregarded each and every one. So we moved out and sold the house. He moved in with his parents, and the divorce began. I was so proud of my mother. After years of pain, embarrassment, and fear she had chosen to be alone rather than to stay. I can never make her understand what a turning point that was for me and how it helped my personal growth. I went to university 30 minutes from my house and got to spend weekends and some nights with my mom. One in particular will always be with me. At the end of my freshman year, I was working on our theater awards ceremony and blew off rehearsal to go get my hair cut and spend the night at home. Mom made friend rice (one of the few edible dishes she procured) and I curled up on her lap after Sara went to bed and we watched “While You Were Sleeping.” It was a perfect weekend. She returned me to school and I slid back into my classes feeling rested.
Twenty four hours later I was returning from rehearsal and as I approached my dorm room heard the phone ringing on the inside. I rushed to get the door open and grap the handset.
“Hello?” I said.
“Hello, Lisa Peacock?” The woman on the other end responded.
“Yes.” (as something in me knew that this was not right, my stomach clenched) I replied.
“Did you get our messages?” she asked.
“No, I just walked in. What….” I started to say. But she cut me off.
“Hold on one moment.”
“Lisa, don’t freak out but your mom was in an accident. She is alright but this woman is gonna talk to you.” My cousin Gail who was one of my best friends told me in her holding it together voice.
It was a lie. Why would my cousin be there with this woman if everything was alright. Where was my mother and what was going on?
“Lisa, do you have a way to get to the hospital? We are at John C Lincoln on Dunlap.” The woman was back.
My mind raced, but I forced myself to focus. “Yes I will call my friend who just dropped me off and see if she can bring me.”
“Ok I will call you back.” She responded and the line went dead.
I frantically dialed the numbers. I noticed that my hands were shaking. She did not answer and I was trying to breathe. I left a message for her to call me as soon as she got the message my mom was hurt and I needed to go to the hospital. The minutes waiting were the longest I remember. Feeling so helpless and wanting to just start running there. Jordi, my friend, called me back and told me she was on her way. The woman called back and I told her we were coming. She gave me directions and hung up. I remember seeing the phone drop from my hand in slow motion. I couldn’t breath and all I felt was fear and loss. This could not be happening again. I grabbed my bag and ran from the room. I stood outside the dorm sobbing. Arms wrapped around my chest trying to make sense of anything. A resident assistant slowly walked up to me. Being cautious not to take me off guard. I think of it now and that was really smart cause I was not always aware of my surroundings. I just remember that he wrapped his arms around me and let me cry until my friend pulled up. He let me go and I never saw him again but I am forever grateful that I did not spend those moments alone.
We drove to the hospital and I was taken into a waiting room with other members of my family. Oddly all members from my Dad’s side but to our family they were just family. Mom was part of the clan. They came in and told me she had been in an accident and was removed from the car with “the jaws of life” unconscious. That sounded bad. All the details they were giving me I really did not hear. I was just waiting for the punch line. Was she dead? No, but she was in really really really bad shape. She would be coming through to go up to surgery and I would get literally a moment with her by the elevator.
As I write this 18 years later I am still in tears. Watching the words form on the screen in front of me as the image of my broken mother lying unconscious with a neck brace, missing her glasses, scratched all over her face, hair everywhere, lying there, just lying there fills my head. I grabbed the edge of the gurney and leaned over her face kissing her cheek I said,
“I love you mom.”
Then she was gone. I spent 22 hours in the hospital she went through 2 or three surgeries. Her pelvis was broken in 3 places, she had a hole in her diaphram, her aorta burst, and the internal bleeding was making her body swell to an unrecognizable form of a woman a used to know. She never regained consciousness. My sister had arrived late in the night from Los Angeles. She appeared so much stronger to me. She went to visit my little sister the next day. I would not leave the hospital. Amy brought back a cassette tape of our little sister singing/talking to our mother. It is the sweetest and most beautiful thing I have heard to this day. Pure. In the early evening, I think, the doctors took me and Amy into a small room and told us that it was not if she would die but when. Without missing a beat I said. “NOW.” I could not make her suffer anymore. She had really died the day before we just could not accept it. And now it was time. As we stood in a circle and prayed I was numb. When they started to turn off the machines I could not get out of the room fast enough. I was good at running from things, and this was definitely something I wanted to run from.
As I pushed the doors of the Intensive Care Unit open I looked up to see a smiling red headed 2 year old running towards me. My second cousin, soon to be more like a brother, filled my arms with hope and joy. He was untouched by the pain and was everything that I needed to know it would be ok.
In most of the trauma and pain that comes into our lives if we look there is also joy and inspiration to help us through. That little boy would do more for me over the next few days and years than he will ever know.
Through the tragedy that started my life I learned how to cope and focus on resilency through all of the problems that arose in front of me. I know all to well that no one can tear me down better than me. So now that you know my story I want to give you the insight and inspiration that has gotten me through every day after.
freelancinglife 