Rejoice in the Death of the Boogeyman?

Anyone that has spent any amount of time reading this blog, reading my words, will know that my father's favorite past time was to reign terror on those he was meant to protect. I have forgotten the number of beatings I sustained at his hand, the number of times I was dragged from my bed at 2 a.m. to be beaten and then clean an already clean house. I have forgotten how many times I stood there quaking in my shoes as he walked down the hallway with the buckle on his belt jangling in anticipation of making contact with some part of my body yet again. I forget how many times he forced me to stand in the corner with my sodden underwear pulled down over my head because I had dared wet the bed yet again. I have forgotten how many times he drew blood from my body, created bruises to bloom prettily on my skin, or in someway damaged the flesh and bone that made up the person that was me. I have forgotten how many times my bedroom door opened in the night...

What I have not forgotten is how he made me feel.

The day my mother called me in Bahrain and told me he had died still echoes in my mind. The words speeding across the phoneline, across the planet and into my ear, words I had waited so fucking long to hear, words I whispered to myself as I laid awake at night tembling in my bed while listening closely for stealthy footsteps to come calling....words that were yearned for but never heard...words that I thought would make me rejoice in their anticipated glory.

I did not rejoice when I heard those words...I cried.

My Boogeyman was dead. Dead. DEAD!!! How could he be dead? Things like him did not die...they skulked away into the darkness to terrorize another day. Why do we have Friday the 13th part 52 if not for the fact that Jason can't be killed...cannot die. No matter the abuse to his body, the stabs and gun shots, the drowning and emmolation by fire...he merely stands up and brushes off the futile attempts at ending his henious life...and stalks away to find more prey.

For sure when I was young I prayed and begged for his death, or at least his absence from my life...but deep in my heart I did not truly believe he COULD die. Monsters dont die. My father could not be dead. If my father could die...well that only meant one thing....that I (me) could die as well. With my father's death I was faced with my own mortality and the tears sprang quickly to my eyes and fell with this new found revelation. If monsters could die....what chance did the rest of us have?

My mother had the audacity to believe I was shedding tears because, after all, he WAS my father. At the end of the day, paternal love won out and my tears fell for him...not despite him. Meanwhile years later she told me she did not shed one tear while she watched him die. (yes she was there at the time...another story). I despised the fact that she assumed she was stronger than me and that even in death his life meant nothing to her...but was supposed to have meant something to me?

No Mother, the tears fell because Death came calling. The Great Equalizer. I cried because in his death I saw mine. There was no room to rejoice at the passing of the Monster...and to this day I have not so much as smiled at the thought that he no longer walks this earth...because he stall walks the corridors of my mind. He still lives and breaths and terrorizes in the one place he cannot die...or that I am unable to kill him once and for all. The flesh and blood of my Boogeyman is dead but his words, actions, and terror live on for as long as my brain is a thinking living object of self abuse.

Did you hear that Bin Laden is dead? Yes. It's True. The Boogeyman to end all boogeymans has died an ignomous death after wreaking such havoc, such terror...after playing with the hearts and minds...and bodies of so many and leaving them shattered and broken...and afraid. I watched as the news unfolded and spread like wildfire through the Internet...like a snake twisting and slithering through the 140 character limit that is Twitter as people spread the news via their fingertips rather than shocked lips and wide eyes.

The Boogeyman is dead? Is it true? How can it be? The Boogeyman can't die. It must be a rumor, a lie...Bin Laden is legend, legends don't die....but wait...hold on...yes YES!! it is true. The President is speaking...people are smiling...clapping...rejoicing!!!

I watched and read as people rejoiced over the death of this man, this Boogeyman...and it saddened me and angered me so much I was surprised I took it so personally. Who was Bin Laden to me? I was not in New York when the towers came down....no person in my family was personally affected by that trajedy...but I was standing in the living room of a Bahraini family's home at the time as it unfolded on the large screen TV. The room grew quiet as we took in the sheer scale of the horror that was playing out like the latest Hollywood action film before our eyes. As tears started to fall and splash on my cheeks I heard a sound that seemed to not belong in that room...a sound that offended and assaulted my ears...and then my eyes as I turned to make sense of it. That family was cheering and clapping and whistling and grinning from ear to ear. Rejoicing at death!!! As those buildings burned and bodies plummeted I heard whoops and shouts of joy.

I could not make sense of it. Death is here. Death is walking among us. Death has come calling and you REJOICE!!! Death...the great equalizer. There is no rejoicing in death...even when it is your "enemy", your Boogeyman. Those Bahraini's rejoiced in the death of their fellow human beings...just as so many across the world rejoiced at the death of Bin Laden.

I didn't understand it then and I don't understand it now. Why the cause for celebration? If he can die, if the Great Boogeyman of our time can die after being little more than a rumor, a superb player of the Cat and Mouse game, a vex on the lives of global travelers who want nothing more than to get from point A to point B without having to disrobe or be felt up in the process....the "focus" of pointless wars and even more pointless deaths...so now he is dead. Great. What do we do now...once the cries of celebration are ended?

There is always room in this world for another such as he to spread terror..mayhem...destruction. Should we not stop the rejoicing and instead focus on what really matters. Why a man such as he was created in the first place...because even with this death...if we do not change the ways in which we run this planet...how we treat each other...how we force our ideals on each other rather than find room for tolerance...how we quickly rush to shed blood in the name of some Higher Good...rather than stop and listen to an opinion that is not like our own....and allow that person to have it and express it without feeling anger that he dares think and believe differently than me.

To rejoice in death but to remain intolerant in life is the very foundation of what men like Bin Laden sprang from. If he believed in his cause...if he believed in his mission...if he believed he was fighting a Jihad just as he claimed...then there is nobody who is rejoicing at the death of Bin Laden more than... Bin Laden himself....so to speak. He got what he wanted...what he worked for...what he killed for. Our intolerance will ensure that other men like him are created...and Boogeyfied...and "martyred " in exactly the same fashion....but the question is...how many more people will have to die before that point is reached? How many more Bin Ladens must we suffer through before we realize WE are the creators of our own Boogeymen?

As children we have no choice, no power, no where to turn when our Boogeymen place a hand on our bedroom door knobs and enter our lives...we must stand mute and powerless as our childhoods are stolen...ripped away while we yearn for a peaceful nights sleep. As children we do not create our own Boogeymen for they are quite happy to create themselves and terrorize without invitation. As adults the power to create men such as Bin Laden is the burden we share...each side of this global clash of cultures are people molding and shaping and giving life to the Boogeymen such as Bin Laden...and now that he is gone...the next one in line. We have that power...and oh how we love to use it.

Bin Laden is dead...so what...there are more like him...thanks to the human desire to focus on what makes us different than what makes us similar..so far...for many..death is our only commonality. What a shame.

Some Things Just Cant be Forgotten...pt 1

*I wont put any pics with this post cause seriously...I don't know what sort of pics to put....endure!!!


I realize with 24 hour news service that we are likely to see a dead body or two (or three or four) displayed for our voyeuristic pleasure...if that's the sort of pleasure you're into. Open any newspaper and what ever war is currently going on in the world will have casualties...and casualty pics always sell newspapers.


Bombs go off and torn bodies are scattered like so much confetti across the roads and throughout market places from one side of the globe to the other. The walking wounded holding their bleeding heads or torn appendages with dazed looks shattering their faces...we can turn the channels but there is always another inhumane vision awaiting us. It seems you cant escape mans inhumanity to man even if its your most ardent wish. Death follows us...in more ways then one.


Now, viewing death from the relative safety of our living rooms might give us a moments hesitation in the routine of our day...might make us pause and give thoughts of sympathy or outrage to whatever or whomever it was that caused the latest carnage...but for the most part...that moment is fleeting and we sigh and turn the channel...and get on with the process of living. Death is for the dead after all.



Now and then though we cant merely turn the channel because death decides to visit us....rudely intrudes into our safety bubble and makes its very real presence known...possibly a family member passes...a car crashes in front of us and its occupants are thrown into the road...a pedestrian is run over and laid out on the side of the road as we pass...flashing lights and rubber necking passer byes all that signal that life has passed. For many of us....an insistent need to crane our necks to get a fleeting look at a lifeless body is hard to explain...possibly we are secretly happy that WE are not the ones laid out for all and sundry to view with carnivorous delight...that we can drive on home to our dinners and families and forget the whole idea of death...for the moment. No need to go looking for death when we are fully aware, but try to ignore the fact, that death is constantly on the lookout for us.


I personally have had only two experiences with seeing a "real live" dead person (no pun intended). Both left me devastated and reeling....crying and emotionally torn apart...exhausted afterwards with the constant barrage of images that wouldn't leave the up heaved surface of my mind. The ironic thing about these bodies is that they didn't actually look dead...as much as asleep. One was an older man that had passed away after a heart attack...the other was a baby. Listen up...


When I was 14 years old my mothers best friend's father passed away from a heart attack...as I mentioned. I had never met this man before...knew nothing about him...but apparently my mother felt I should accompany her to his funeral. An open casket funeral. I was petrified. I had visions of horribly mangled bodies and blood everywhere....horror movie stuff for sure. I begged her not to make me go but she insisted that everyone should attend at least ONE funeral in their lives...make you appreciate living more....or so was her excuse. I wasn't buying it...I was a teenager remember...I was going to live forever. Death would NOT dare come intrude upon my life (unless it was me shooting my father...but that's a different story). Of course I went...who can say no to their mothers?


We arrive at the funeral and everyone is sitting already while the Priest? Father? I'm not sure really...my first funeral and all...was giving the eulogy (possibly). I might add that this family's native tongue was Spanish...and thus...not only was I out of my comfort zone physically....I had no idea what anyone was saying for the most part. Added to my emotionally confused state I might add.


Thanks Mom.


After the eulogy everyone stood in a line moving towards the front of the church. I was not quite aware at that point what we were all shuffling our feet towards...remember...I had never been to a funeral...I figured we were lining up to meet the family...give our condolences and move on.


We were actually...sort of.


As we neared the front of the line I heard a deep moaning sound that made the blood in my body absolutely freeze...like a wounded animal keening from some dark place in the woods. The moan grew in intensity until it was more of a wail...and I was absolutely sure at that moment that I definitely DID NOT want to confront whatever was making that heart rending sound. My mother would not allow me to go sit in the car and wait for her...I still remember that Mom.


I finally reach the front of the line and I'm faced with two things. An open coffin with a dead man who could be sleeping lying in it....and a large Mexican woman wailing and beating her chest...and holding out her arms to me in anticipation for the hug of condolence I'm meant to give her. WTF!!!


She had copious tears flooding her face making rivers of misery that dripped from her chin like a tiny rainstorm. She wailed in Spanish of which I understood not a single word...but could understand the meaning of none the less...she had lost her mate...her love....her partner....she was alone now...and none of us want to be alone in the life.


Despite not knowing this woman...despite not understanding a single word she said...despite never having anyone I personally know die in my lifetime...despite not knowing the man who lay there "sleeping"...and despite wishing I was anywhere but there....I ran into her needful open arms and cried right along with her. While enveloped in her bear of a hug, pouring out words of condolence of which I cant remember a single word of...she continued to wail and I felt as I were coming apart. Touched by her abject misery that seeped into my skin and invaded my bones...my tissue...my heart...until all hopes of ever experiencing happiness again in my life was like a lost dream of impossibility.


The whole experience lasted only moments until she opened her arms allowing me to move away so she could embrace the next in line...my mother. Shaken I moved forward and came face to face with the coffin...with a man that lay sleeping yet would never ever wake up. There was no blood...no broken bones...nothing to indicate that life was violently snuffed from this body and not taken softly and with little fanfare. He died in his sleep....not even his wife, who slept beside him, knew of his death until she tried to wake him in the morning. It seemed so unfair that this man could lie there looking for all the world as if he would open his eyes at any moment, sit up in this coffin with a confused look in his eye...and ask those gathered for whom or what were they gathered...for he had been merely taking a nap and all was well.


Life taken so easily and quietly absolutely horrified me. Ive never been able to fall into sleep with quite the same blase' attitude since that funeral. Always wondering if I myself might "wake up" to find myself in a coffin someday...having been taken by death...stealthily sneaking in upon me while I slept....perhaps dreaming of tomorrows hopes and dreams. It was soooo freakin UNFAIR...I was completely overcome by anger at that point and seethed...holding back my thoughts until my mother was finished and we left the church.


While still crossing the street to her car I finally unlocked my tongue and shouted at her without remorse...."I hope you die long after me mom cause I will NEVER go to your funeral. I will NEVER go to ANOTHER FREAKIN FUNERAL AS LONG AS I LIVE....!!!!!"


She remained quiet until we got in the car and had sat there for a few moments. My chest was heaving as I fought to control my tears of fear and trepidation...I realized that I was fearful of the day I would have to face my mothers body lying in a casket...to view her with no expectations of eyes opening and that smile of hers I loved so well. That twinkling look that always shined from her coffee brown eyes. Knowing the life my father forced us into....the constant barrage of physical abuse we endured...I had a deep fear that she would never end up lying in a coffin looking for all the world as if she were asleep. He wouldn't allow such a peaceful sort of death to claim her...of that I was sure. If there was ever a body to bury in the first place that is as I secretly believed I would come home from school some day only to be told my mother had decided she didn't want to be our mother anymore and so had "abandoned" us...never to be seen again.


I lived with that fear of my mother "leaving us" under mysterious circumstances everyday of my childhood. Attending that funeral made it all so much more real for me of the possibility that I would and could lose my mother...while she "slept" beside my father. I was devastated and hated her a little bit for forcing me to go and experience that devastating and horrible fact.


She looked at me and told me that I already knew life wasn't pleasant but because we had faith we could feel joy for that man who had passed....because he had left behind all earthly sorrows and was with our Father in Heaven now. That was the the only thing we should focus on ...that he had moved on from this life onto the next...and I should be happy for him. As if.


It took me quite along time to get over that funeral.....as a matter of fact the image of him lying there has never left me....the image of his wife wailing and opening her arms to me has never left....white hot anger I felt at my mother has dimmed but has never truly left me. I might understand her motives at this advanced age...but still cant forgive her taking me unprepared and completely against my will. I can't imagine ever doing the same to my own children...but then again....in this culture viewing the body at a funeral is not really an option. Anyways...


*to be continued

Grandparents...hot and cold. pt 2

The relationship I had with my grandfather was something else all together when compared with the one I had (or didnt have) with my grandmother. He and I were pals and we got along great.

As I mentioned in the last post you could usually find him sitting on the porch in his broken down chair drinking beer and telling stories of his life...usually his younger years. I was never able to learn whether he was telling the truth or just wishful thinking...but I loved his stories anyhow. They were colorful (language as well as use of adjectives) and I never got tired of hearing them.

Because my grandad was an alcoholic most of his life there are only a few occasions when I can remember going anywhere with him. My mother was very careful about that and made absolutely sure he hadnt been drinking before allowing me to go off with him. We'd get into his late model car, roll down the windows and head off down the road...generally keeping traffic backed up for miles as he never seemed to go much faster than 30 mph and for some reason never remembered to turn off the turn indicator. We'd have cars horning behind us in impatient outrage and he'd seemingly be completely oblivious to the road rage he was instigating behind him. While people were anxious to horn in frustration I dont personally remember anyone actually taking him on or gunning the engine and making a dangerous move to get around him...as they are so quick to do these days. We always had a good time together and I do sorely miss them.

I spent quite a lot of our vacation time on the porch with my grandpa...in his garden (while still able to get around he loved his garden) or just shuffling down the road going nowhere in particular....and always talking. When he'd been drinking more than usual I never really understood the things that might come out of his mouth...but now when I think about it I realize he was just as bitter and angry as my grandmother about his "wasted" life and failure to make something of it....but that anger only seemed to come out with the helping hand of alcoholic lubrication. I didnt see it often when I was with him.

Gramps loved to go fishing and we loved going fishing with him. Oklahoma has some pretty fishing holes and plenty of wildlife to look at while your busy not catching anything. I remember once sitting on a small out crop of rocks and was surprised and scared silly to see a cottonmouth snake come slithering out into the water. We all knew the dangers of snakes in that area and this was a bad one as far as snakes go...so imagine my amazement to see gramps calmly stride over, grab the thing matter of factly and hurl it off across the water...then calmly walk back to his fishing. Most people dont believe me when I tell that story but all I can do is tell it the way I saw it...believe it or not. Mom said he was probably drunk and didnt know what he was doing, didnt realize the dangers, but I dont recall seeing gramps drinking that day as he usually didnt when out with us...only at home while sitting on the porch for the most part. I prefer to think of him as my non-drunk hero...sigh.

One thing that stands out more clear than anything else in my childhood was grampas choice of clothing. As you can see from the pic he nearly always wore overalls...I can hardly remember a day that he didnt have them on. He'd get holes in them and demand my grandmother mend them...it was one thing he seemed adamant about her doing despite her protests. He wanted his overalls mended and that was that. She usually did it...complaining the whole time.

Ive loved writing stories my whole life...started when I was old enough to know I could...and I wrote a story about gramps and his overalls while in my senior year of school writing class. I got an A on that paper and my teacher read it out loud to the class...something she hadnt done with other stories up to that point. In my high school year book she signed it saying..."I will always remember your Old Overalls"...which was the name of the story.

As I mentioned in the last post...the last time I seen gramps he was nearly in tears about us leaving early due to grammas constant complaints about everything....mostly me. He tried to talk mom into staying...followed us out into the driveway promising everything would be fine...to ignore her cause she was "crazy" and not let the vacation be ruined cause of it. Mom wasnt listening in her intent to get away. She had had enough and we were gone with barely a hug and whispers of goodbye. I still remember gramps scratchy beard and extra hard hug...promising to see me next time.

I never seen gramps again. I left home and went into the military a few months later...then came to Bahrain. He died the first year I was here and of course I couldnt go to his funeral. When my mother called me and told me gramps had passed it was a feeling like no other. I already felt lonely and isolated here in Bahrain. I felt cut off from the family and all that was going on with them...and cause gramps and I had been so close...I was especially hard hit to have to suffer this grief alone.

A few weeks later I received a package from my mom. Inside was a cassette tape with grampa's funeral written on it. I listened to the tape and was completely overcome with emotion to realize mom had taped pertinent parts of the funeral for me. Gramps favorite song was playing in the back ground. People stood up and said their piece about him....and then something familiar came on...something that I had no idea had even made the trip to OK much less to gramps funeral. My cousin Diane was reading my story...the one I had written about gramps and his old overalls. She started out well enough but before too long she could barely get the words out...and I could hear everyone in the room crying or commenting in some way.

I was completely gutted...

My mom knew I was upset about his death and that I couldnt be there...so she had made sure I was there at least in some fashion....and it was the absolute right thing to do...I was both eternally grateful and overcome with emotion...both incredibly sad and insanely happy at the same time. That cassette was one of my most prized possessions for years...until in a fit of rage my (ex)husband shattered it and threw it away...calling it morbid to listen to a funeral again and again. Why do some people have absolutely no compunction to hurt in this way for no reason what so ever?

I find it strange that my gramps died back in 1988 and so had been gone for many years...but up until I was able to visit OK 6 years ago (before grammas death) knowing he was gone and believing it were two different things. Until I was able to visit his graveside and see his name written on a headstone was I able to finally believe in my heart that he was gone. It was a peaceful day for me somehow.

When my grandmother passed away after suffering a year and a half with Alzheimer's in which my mother cared for her up until her passing...I can honestly say that I didnt feel sad...I wasnt upset...it really meant nothing to me. I feel like an ogre for saying that but its the truth. I was very sad for my mother for losing HER mother...but for me it had no affect. This upset my mother to some degree...she WAS my grandmother after all...but we cannot manufacture grief if it isnt there...and it wasnt there for me.

Incidentally mom says that the last year of grammas life in which she suffered through the destructive deterioration of Alzheimer's gave her an insight into what her mother might have been like if life hadnt kicked her down so hard and made her an angry bitter woman. All though I never seen her myself Mom tells me that gramma died a sweet compliant woman that never complained or got upset with anything. Obviously it was the disease that had made her forget her life and her reasons for the anger etc...but my Mother was very happy that she had got to see what she hopes was her "real" mother. Im glad she was able to see that for her own peace of mind.

I miss my gramps and wish I had that funeral tape still...but I do have my memories...and those will do me just fine.

Out of the Pan...into the Fire!!!...pt 1

(this is I-80 in Wyoming...not the one I rode my bike on but close enough)


Anyone that has read this blog for any length of time (thank you btw) will have realized by now that I came from a childhood home that, hindsight tells me, Im lucky to have escaped from with my life. No lie. Read this little adventure I had and tell me someone wasnt smiling on me that day (night).

My family lived on a farm of sorts the last two years I was in high school. It was situated about 17 miles outside of Rock Springs just off highway I-80. We were isolated and at the complete mercy of my insane father who kept us wondering on a moment by moment basis as to when his newest rampage would begin...and would we come out the other side with limbs and lives intact?

This farm had a tank in which we could haul clean water and fill it up to use in the house etc...or fill up with ordinary water for watering the animals or just day to day activities. For the longest time it was filled with sweet water so that we could drink directly from the tap in the house...as well as all other household needs.

Unknown to any of us the tank had formed a crack in one of its underground walls and therefore rainwater or whatever ground water there was had gotten into the well. My father knew this and had taken a sample to be analyzed to see if any impurities had gotten into the tank.

Apparently the answer was positive for impurities. Father did not bother to tell me this when I arrived home from school and went about my usual chores and preparing dinner. I also made a pot of coffee which was required to be made at all times in our house.

I had a feeling something was up though because he kept pacing around the house like a caged animal waiting for someone to get too close so he could lash out and strike...leaving torn skin and shredded nerves behind. I stayed well clear...I knew the potential for violence was never far away. Little did I know that the caged animal had me in his sights.

Finally my father stormed into the kitchen shoving some papers under my nose shouting about poisons and plots and how I was surely going to hell for trying to murder my own father...WTF!!! I desperately looked at the wall clock and realized my mother wouldnt be home for another hour or so. I was alone with a mad man.

A mad man who apparently thought I had tried to poison him though coffee made with tainted water. Water he didnt bother to tell me was tainted to begin with.

For the next half hour his anger and agitation grew more volatile with every new accusation of plotted murder and threats of sending me directly to hell. I was literally shaking in my shoes at this point. I had seen him go off on a wild rant before but this was something else entirely. Every few moments he would come charging back to me shoving the papers anew...spitting out numbers that were supposed to mean something to me about so much % of taint in the water...then he would start circling the house again. I would take that time to try and calm down and figure out my escape...for escape I knew was my only solution. He was on a true and straight course for violence...and the fact that he was whipping himself up into an ever greater frenzy left me feeling like I wouldnt live to see the sun come up much less my mother arriving home to calm things down.

I had to take action...no time like the present as they say.

I might mention that by this time my younger sister had arrived home from school and walked into a scene of impending domestic violence...she backed out into the driveway again without my father even realizing she was there. She knew how to lay low when it was called for. Of course this meant she was a witness to my get away.

The moment my father stalked off once again I was out the front door and taking my life into my hands in the only way I knew how...I grabbed my bike and hit the road. I might remind you that we lived off a major Wyoming highway....17 miles from town...and it was just reaching sunset.

I had nowhere to go...but I was damned if I was going to stay and willingly be hurt (or worse) by that man who had violence on his mind if there was something I could do about it.

I got on the highway and road like the hounds of hell were on my heels.

Some of you are probably thinking right now...how the hell could she even think about doing something like that? A long stretch of lonely highway...unknown potential predators behind the wheel of every car or semi that went by? Sun going down and miles between me and the next town. Believe me...not once did I even think about the dangers I was willingly riding into because the danger I was escaping held me in a grip of reckless abandon...better to escape the Monster I knew...then worry about the ones that might lay ahead of me.

Unknown to me...I would find out later...my mother had arrived home but obviously got a condensed and cleaned up version of what had been going on prior to my hitting the highway. Since my father didnt know my younger sister had been there...he assumed his story would be the only one that mattered. When sis told mom what Really happened...she called the police. Father apparently wasnt too worried about daughter on the highway at night...but mom was right on it!!!

However, once she called the police, father was all ears and full of fake concern. Remember he had already had a year in jail for accusations of killing my older sister (old post...cant link sorry) so he wasnt about to keep up his rampage when the cops were on the way...suddenly he was concerned father worried about his wayward daughter. Yeah...right

As well as waiting for the cops to show up my mother had gone down the road both ways thinking I hadnt gone very far...but by this time I was miles away headed for town. (wasnt sure what I was going to do when I got there...worry about that later)

Lucky for me (yeah lucky) I happened to be wearing a white tshirt...it had Mickey Mouse on it. Dont know why I remember that...but at least it showed up clear and bright on that dark stretch of highway...otherwise I could easily have been hit by any car or semi that went by. Unknown to me I had obviously been spotted by a few semi's that had gone by (nearly knocking me off the road anyhow with the blow back)...and someone thought it prudent to call the highway patrol. Whoever I was...I sure wasnt safe on the road at night on a bike.

Of course all this time my mother was freaking out back home...she also realized what bringing the police into it might do to our house...while the police were there father would be the epitome of domestic bliss...once they were gone...lets just say...you would hate to be us. When the cops arrived they gave a sanitized "teen upset so ran away" story as a cover. My mother was too scared to say what really had been going on. My father had that affect on us.

So here I was, black highway stretched before me. Only the occasional billboard to light the way. The sky was clear but the moon wasnt that bright. I could just barely see the road well enough to stay on it...all though the lights of passing cars helped...but the horn that they sounded now and then scared the crap out of me every time. To this day Ive often wondered why not even one car or semi stopped for me...with honest intentions of help or...ahem...something else....I didnt even get one slow down and shout out the window. Im absolutely positive that wouldnt happen here in Bahrain if the situation were the same.

On I rode. My back was killing me...not to mention my ass. I had visions of never being able to sit properly again....but on I rode. I never once considered turning around and going back. Fear kept my adrenaline on high octane.

Eventually the highway patrol caught up with me. Not the ones my mother had spoken too actually but ones that had gotten several call outs from passing semi's that had spotted me in the dark. These ones did not know who I was at the moment.

For some reason these men in blue (or is it brown for the highway) decided to come up RIGHT THE FREAK BEHIND ME before turning their lights on and hitting the WHOOP WHOOP!! of the siren.

To tell you that my heart nearly flew out my mouth as I barely kept myself from flying off the side of the road into the ravine running along side the highway hardly describes it. When I realized the cops had found me...I wasnt in the least happy to see them. All I could think about is that they were going to take me back home...he would make up some crap story about me being a bad daughter...they would leave with severe warnings to "behave myself and keep of the highways".

So I did what any kid would do in my situation...I lied to the cops.

*to be continued

Can You Tell Me Whats Wrong With You?

For a few years in the 90's we lived out in Hamad Town. This is a govt housing complex that just seems to go on and on without end. There are 22 sections of housing, or neighborhood type settings, and we lived in the 19th section. We were among the first families in that particular area...and only second family on my street...we did not own a car at that time nor have a phone...and neither did our Syrian neighbors. It was a sort of new found freedom for me as I could actually go outside and enjoy the sunshine etc...something I couldnt do in my MIL's house because of its design etc. I could take a chair and sit out in front of my house as very few cars even drove by. It had a sort of desolate and isolated feeling to it and because we didnt have a car...very very far from anywhere...it was during this period of time that I discovered I was allergic to ant bites...particularly the solid little (not so little) black ones that could be found everywhere. Picture this...

For most of my life (up til the time of this event) I had been a pretty healthy person. Never found myself in the hospital for anything more serious then delivering my babies. Oh I had a case of food poisoning now and then just like most everyone else...but nothing that ever left me feeling as if my very life was hanging in the balance. The interesting thing about discovering I was allergic to ant bites...was that I had been bitten by them many times before in the years I lived in Bahrain without nothing more then a red swollen bump and some mild pain to show for my suffering. All that changed one afternoon while I was taking a nap on a cushion on the floor.

I woke up feeling a sharp pain on my leg and when I investigated the source I
discovered some large swellings like in this picture...and a black ant smooshed
against my skin. Within just a few moments of waking I started experiencing one

of the worst sensations I have ever known....an
extremely intense and horrible itching feeling all over my body...it felt as if a million and one little creepy crawlies were under my skin and having a party of sorts. It was absolutely horrendous and there are hardly adequate words to describe the intense desire to actually scratch open your skin and get the "buggers" out.

Every part of my skin was alive with that crawly itchy feeling and it was then I realized those couple of small swellings had spread throughout my entire body. I had welts from top to bottom...which made it impossible to scratch as everything was tender to the touch. Having no idea exactly what was going on I shouted to my husband who came to see what I was fussing about.

He took one look at my face and nearly passed out. I didnt realize it but of course my face was busy swelling up too. He pulled me up and dragged me over to a wall mirror and the beast that was reflected back at me was the stuff that nightmares are made of. My eyes were swollen, my lips looked like I had botoxed the hell out of them and my entire face was just a mish mash of lumps and bumps...it was then I realized my tongue was swelling up to...along with my throat.

At this point Im fairly sure not more than 3 or 4 minutes had passed from the time I woke up from the sting...to when I was standing in front of the mirror...and yet I looked like something that belonged in a freak show....but none of that worried me half as much as the fact that I was finding it harder and harder to breath properly....my throat was closing up.

My husband went in search of a car (no neighbors remember and no phone) while I put some clothes on as best I could. By the time he came back having found a rare car passing through our neighborhood...my breath was literally whistling through my very small windpipe. It was here that I felt the stirrings of potential death looming over me...we all need to breath to live right...and my ability to breath was being seriously threatened...and we were far from anywhere...far from the nearest hospital. I was freaking out big time.

On the way to the hospital I was alternating between trying to concentrate on breathing...and not scratching myself to death. Everywhere on me was on fire and I wanted to tear my clothes off...and then my skin!!! By this time my tongue had swollen so much I actually could not close my mouth around it nor swallow very well. I had tears streaming down my swollen eyes that were nearly closed completely and even my hearing was affected so I assume inside my ears had swollen as well. It took around 20 min to reach the hosp and by this time I couldnt walk due to the swollen state of my feet...so my husband ran to find a wheelchair.

Once he had me inside he left me with a nurse while he dashed off to sign me in and get my paperwork. Up till this point in my life I had never seen anyone suffering from an allergic reaction other than the comedic routines you might see on tv that make fun of the face swellings etc...none of those had ever shown the really dangerous side of allergic reactions...the potential fatal aspect of it due to anaphylatic shock (the result of your body fighting against the allergen by flooding the body with histamine..which results in the extreme swelling of all soft tissues etc)...for many people, from the onset of the allergen entering the body to the inability to breath etc it can take mere moments and if immediate medical attention is not sought and an adrenalin and anti histamine injection given to reduce the swelling and other symptoms...the reaction can be fatal. Up to this point in my very short life as an allergy patient suffering from anaphylatic shock...I assumed the nurse standing before me would immediately understand what had happened, what was happening, and what needed doing about it...instead she looked at me with one of the most curious and puzzled looks Ive ever seen on a human face before and said...

"can you tell me whats wrong with you?"

Uh what? Isnt that your job...Im just the helpless victim here who cant answer you even if I wanted too because my tongue has swollen so much there is no room for adequate speech. My hands flying up to my face indicating my inability to speak did not apparently register properly with her as she asked me the same question several times. Ditto with the hangs clasped around my throat indicating I couldnt breath propely....nothing.

Now I dont want to make light of this situation (all though now I can almost laugh about it...almost) but it really just seemed like something out of an In Living Color episode. Something Jim Carey would have been doing some crazy skit over...you know...nearly dying patient...crazy mixed up doctor (nurse) and hilarity had by all...except nobody was laughing...least of all me.

My husband thankfully showed up at this time and gave the nurse her much sought after answer then asked her if she was sure she was a nurse? Again with the confused look on her face...ok whatever...just wheel me to the REAL medical expert so I can get some actual medical aid for Gods sake!!

Thankfully the doctor took one look at me and immediately ordered the anti histamine and adrenalin shots and an IV etc and I spent the next 2 hours under observation to make sure my airway didnt close completely and all was fine. It didnt and I was so I went home. All though all the swelling had pretty much gone down by this time the bitten area on my leg was extremely tender and painful and would remain so for about a week.

I had never been so scared in my life as I was that day. Not being able to draw a breath has got to be one of the most frightening experiences for anyone to go through and I wouldnt want anyone to find out the truth of that statement. I immediately went and researched all I could about allergic reactions and what I could do if it happened again.

One of the best lines of defense against allergic reactions is to have one of these Epi-pens. Immediately upon realization that you have been bitten you can self
inject (or have someone else do it if you cant) and it gives you a dose of adrenalin which will help fight against the massive swelling etc. until you can get to the hospital. I went to the doctor in order

to be prescribed one and discovered they dont have them in Bahrain. Considering how fast someone could die from anaphylatic shock....and the odds that there must be lots of people in Bahrain that are allergic to something...I was surprised and rather angry that this life saving medical aid wasnt made available here. I did find out it was available in Saudi but had no way to get it personally (husband wasnt the sort to go out of his way to save my life...going to Saudi was out of his way).

This meant of course that every time I have been bitten in Bahrain by one of those black ants I have had to suffer varying degrees of an allergic reaction. Sometimes its fairly mild...with maybe just intense itching etc..or other times just some mild swelling (Ive gotten pretty good at determining just how strong or mild a reaction will be as my body lets me know literally withing 20 to 30 seconds whether or not I need to seriously hustle to the nearest hospital) but at least 4 times I have had to be rushed to the hospital with full blown anaphylatic shock in progress and count myself lucky that I made it in time..each time.

This last visit to the states I actually remembered to go see a local doc and he prescribed me the Epi Pen...two of them actually since its not available here...but Ive only got one as they are expensive and I couldnt afford both at the time...but I count myself lucky to have that one...it could be the difference between life and death for me...now all I have to do is wonder if I will have the nerve to jab my thigh with it when and if the time comes...Im thinking not!!! Ouch!

*side note* after that first harrowing encounter with anaphylatic shock...I went home exhausted and scared out of my mind praying that I never had to go through that again...as fate would have it (oh you fickle fate)...the VERY NEXT DAY I was back in the hospital having been bitten on the arm while sitting on the couch. At least that time the nurse I saw took immediate action and I was able to avoid the comedic routine...sigh.

Now That Your Gone...pt 3

So my Father was in jail awaiting trial for the murder of my sister Nay. Our house was torn between feeling the desire to celebrate our new found "freedom" and worrying about the outcome of the trial. I was only 5 at the time but I clearly remember the tense atmosphere and the many whispered discussions between my Mother and her family.

As I said before I dont know the exact procedures that occurred that kept my Father in jail for nearly a year...I do know that my Mothers testimony was the key that was going to be the "deciding factor" as to whether he went to prison or not...I would have to assume there had to be some other sort of evidence...but my Mother has never said what it was...or even if there was. I do know that she was extremely torn up with guilt over her accusation. As horrible and abusive as he was...she couldnt make herself truly believe he was a child murderer.

Eventually her guilt got the better of her (or maybe the worst depending on how you look at it) and she decided she couldnt go through with it. She went to the police station and dropped her charges against him. Told them she was mistaken and was just emotionally distraught and not thinking straight at the time of her accusations. Without her "eye witness" testimony I guess the prosecution had little else to go on...and so my Father was released after nearly a year in jail.

Now I realize I have been calling him my Father all this time...but in fact they werent actually married up til now. He had been living with my Mother for years without marriage...when I mentioned marriage earlier I was referring to later on in their relationship (just wanted to clarify that). Later on as in after he was released from jail. Now here is the truly interesting part (and something I will remark about later on)...after being accused of murdering her child and spending one year in jail...with the possibility of life in prison...rather than turn and run away from this "crazy" woman...he came home directly from the jail...and told her they were getting married. I do believe my Mothers deep sense of guilt was the major deciding factor in her agreement to marry him...I cant believe or think of any other reason for doing so.

They were quickly married without too much fanfare and within a year my little sister was born. Now up until my sisters birth I believe my Mother could have actually made the effort to leave him if she truly had wanted to. There was nothing tying her to him...she would just need to work up the nerve and take that first step. However, with the arrival of little sister...she was suddenly bound to him in ways she couldnt imagine. Suddenly that little baby was a tool in his hand to keep my Mother by his side whether she wanted to be there or not. Over the years she made several efforts to leave him (I have forgotten the number of times she threw everything in the car along with us and took off without much planning)...only for him to track her down and drag her back...all with my little sister as the "threat"...as in...if you dont come back I will take her and you will never see her again. Take it from me...women can suffer a lot just for the sake of their children...especially when they feel helpless and powerless. Every time she left...he would track her down and bring her back.

Now, my Mother will tell me and everyone she knows that I am the one that suffered the most at my Fathers hands. Everything from beatings to verbal abuse to just down right treating me like a piece of garbage. My older sister got it as well but she was a rebel from an early age and tended to antagonize rather than sit quietly by and take it (a whole other story). I was the quiet introverted one...the book worm and A student that absorbed all this abuse with little or no reaction on the outside...on the inside I was living a mental hell.

My little sister was The Princess...spoiled and made to feel like our superior all our young lives. A role she played with a relish. I dont blame her for what she was in those days...a horrible little sister that added to our miseries with her infantile power to harm us with just a word to Father....everything she was he made her. Im happy to say she grew up about as normal as one can be given her upbringing...thank God...I didnt want to hate my sister merely because my Father preferred she hate us...as he did....but when we were young...I came about as close to hating her as two sisters can get and still maintain a relationship. We were enemies living in the same room...sleeping in the same bed...and we were pawns in the hands of that piece of shit.

I mentioned earlier my wondering at his coming back to marry my Mother and not just hightailing it for the hills upon release. Well I actually asked him one day...about 5 minutes before I believe he was going to actually kill me.(no lie). Picture this.

My Mother had been called away to my Aunts house in another state (my cousin had been raped and murdered...another story worth telling)...and my little sister and I were left with my Dad for about a week. Now among the many things I was not allowed to do...talking on the phone without permission was one of them. I was 17 years old and had a boyfriend (of sorts) and took the opportunity to make a quick call to him while my Father was gone (or so I thought). He walked in and caught me and preceded to give me the last beating I would receive at his hands.

He threw me across the room and I landed on a table and shattered it...and the next half hour was a blur...but in the end he got a gun and explained to me that since my Mom was gone...sister was at school...and we lived 17 miles from our nearest neighbors...he could kill me...bury my body somewhere...and tell everyone I ran away cause I was ungrateful for our home life. Who would know?

I believed him...I had no other choice at the time....but I was fed up at this point. I decided that if I was going to die..then at least answer me this one thing. I looked him straight in the eyes (something I had avoided doing for my entire life) and asked him this...

"Why did you come back to my Mother and marry her? Why did you marry someone that put you in jail and could have sent you to prison for life? You didnt love her and you certainly didnt love us. So why? I know why you did. You married her so you could make her pay and us as well for what she did to you. We have suffered 16 years of hell just so you could get some fucked up revenge."

That is the only time in my entire life I ever spoke to him in such a way...and so directly and with anger. I felt like if I was going to die...dont go quietly...let him know finally what I felt about him...and that I thought he was a piece of shit for what he had done to all of us.

Well...for the next 5 minutes (could have been a year...not sure) my Father knelt over with his hands on his knees and got within inches of my face. He stared at me with eyes snake black and without emotion. My heartbeat was pounding so loud Im sure he could hear it. He said nothing...just stared into my eyes and could have been planning my murder for all I know...but I didnt look away...I stared back. Dont ask me how or where the nerve came from...but when I think about that incident now I get goosebumps from the raw emotion and tense atmosphere that I can still feel today. Im sure my very life was hanging in the balance in those 5 minutes...but I didnt care. I wanted an answer...

But I didnt get one...after about 5 minutes he stood up...went to his room and put the gun away and left. For the next 2 months until I went into the military we did not speak a single word to each other. He completely ignored me which was fine by me. My Mother kept asking me what had happened when she was gone but it would be years before I told her.

My Father died from diabetes complications some years back. I find it hard to this day to believe that he is dead. He was 6'4"...a mountain of a man and ornery as all hell. He was mean and abusive and didnt give a shit about anyone or anything.

When he died...nobody cared. My sister had him cremated and he sits in a vase in the garage.

Now I sometimes wonder..if my sister had not died (I will never know if he really had anything to do with it) would he have stuck around...would he have tired of this woman with 4 kids that werent his...one a "mongoloid" that required lots of medical care etc. Would he have bothered himself over a family that wasnt his and he obviously didnt care about? But when he went to jail...I have a feeling his personality was what made him come back...for his abusive and vindictive revenge...he came back to make her pay...and us...for having the nerve to believe she had the power to hurt him.

He had all the power...and he never let us forget it.

Now That Your Gone...Pt 1

Many people who know me do not know that I have/had a sister that passed away when she was 5...I was 4...this is a picture of us with my mother (headless...sorry Mom). It was taken in a place that we spent an awful lot of time in her short 5 years of life...a hospital. Loma Linda Medical Center in California actually because my sister had brain cancer....and at that time, 1972, they didnt have the technology available that they do now that would have enabled them (possibly) to just go in there and take it out....and allow me grow up with my sister in my life.

I cant remember how many times I have just sat and thought about her...wondering how life might have been different for us if she had lived past childhood...her death by itself was devasting...but the ramifications of her death could possibly be what lead to my (and siblings) childhood full of abuse and pain.

You see, my father(I call my step father father simply because he is the only father I have ever known) spent a year following her death in prison for her murder. My mother accused him of murdering her cancer ridden 5 year old daughter while lying in a hospital bed in a coma and he was sent away for that...but he didnt stay gone...and the rest, as they say, is history. Picture this...

My mother fled from my "real" father after I was born. Merely a baby and with 3 other toddlers in tow she decided facing a life full of unknowns with 4 kids and no means of supporting them was a hell of a lot better than staying with an alcoholic who couldnt be bothered to remember he had children, a family (to this day Im sure my "real" father doesnt actually know my name as he frequently gets it wrong on the odd occasion I speak to him). She packed our things and got behind the wheel of a car she didnt have a license to drive...a manual at that (something she had never driven...think about that for a minute...exactly)...and set out for a future unknown. Little did she know that she had just jumped from the pan into the fire as far as men are concerned.

Shes always been rather scant with details about what happened between leaving my alcoholic father and setting herself up in a livable situation with 4 young kids and no diploma etc. Ive always assumed she may have been forced to do some things she wasnt proud or happy about, who knows, but I understand and so I dont push for answers. We all deserve to keep our secrets if we choose to.

She picks up the story at a time when she was working in a bar and making good tips and having a life she was looking for (of sorts)....independence and money...no man to depend on that constantly let you down. Unfortunately, fate, as they say, had other plans for this young naive woman that was only looking for a better life for her children and herself...trying to outrun the mistakes she had already made in her life and determined not to repeat them...but sometimes you just cant outrun destiny. One night, while working in the bar, in walked a 6' 4" handsome man who scanned the room and only stopped when his dark eyes landed on her. Did I mention my mother was a stunner when young (still is but its harder to convince her now that youth has fled)...she was and has always been a beautiful woman. I might mention that my "real" father was a very handsome man as well. Kind of makes me wonder why I turned out looking as I do (another story perhaps...and there is one). Anyhow, I digress...

He looked at my mother for a full minute...she was captured by his gaze...felt herself go all warm and felt extremely devoured by his intense stare. She tells us that she almost believed everyone in the room simply ceased to exist and her and this man were the only two left. He walked straight to her and introduced himself....and thus began a life spanning nearly 20 years of abuse and terror.

In the beginning his constant need to know every detail about where she was and what she was doing etc made her feel cherished and protected. She believed that he only wanted to take care of her and that his concern for her every movement was merely his way of showing it. A far cry from her exhusband that never even asked her how she was that day. She fell for it, hook line and sinker, but by the time she realized his concern was really a need to control her...well...by that time it was far too late. The first time she suggested to him that maybe they needed to take some time apart to see where they stood...she spent the night at her friends house nursing a black eye and busted lip...her frightened children getting their first taste of physical violence....it would be an oft repeated scene that weaved through the tapestry of our lives.

Because abused women feel they have no voice, no say in their lives (been there done that) she married this man simply because he gave her no choice to refuse him. She felt powerless to stop the wheels set in motion that had brought him to her. She might as well have had prison bars surrounding her she felt so trapped, caged. She might well have been the unhappiest bride on her wedding day that ever existed...who knows.

When my sister first started showing signs of illness my mother suspected that it was something worse then just a common childhood ailment. She took her directly to a well known doctor and her worst fears were realized...her daughter...her baby...had cancer. It seems cruel of God to inflict such pain on the lives of little children and my mother was angry in ways Ive only come to understand myself this past few years. The next few years would be spent in and out of the hospital as my sister went through various rounds of illness and treatment.

Let me digress just a moment here and explain the sort of relationship I had with my sister then. We were barely a year apart in age and couldnt have looked more different if we tried (just look at the picture up there). She looked much like my mother...dark skinned with brown eyes and hair. I had snow white skin with blazing red hair and sparkling blue eyes (I might add Im the only one of my siblings that has this particular genetic make up...the rest are all brown skinned etc...must be that Native American in my grandmothers family). We were inseperable...every picture that my mother has of us together we are either holding hands or have our arms around each other. Many of them are taken in the hospital...my sister with her head in bandages and me next to her...wanting my head bandaged as well cause Nay had hers done. (my sisters name was Dawn Renee...I called her Nay...and my gmail account uses her name) It was very rare indeed for my mother to be with her in the hospital without me there as well.

My sister spent much of her life in the hospital as I said...but there were times when she was well enough to come home. The last time she came home she seemed to be doing better than my mother remembers for some time. The events that occurred that night, the last night my sister lived among us, are engraven in my mothers mind...but she finds it hard to talk about still. Oh she will tell us about it, give us the details etc...but she gets a far away look in her eye...leaves us all together sometimes...rushing back to a life when her daughter was still a warm living being in her arms...so that we have to call out to her... drag her back to the present...to life without Nay. She tells us that Nay was doing well...had spent the evening playing with me...enjoying being home for a change. The atmosphere was rather partyish...Nay wasnt home often these days.

At some point my father came home...he wasnt expecting Nay to be home apparently...thinking she was in the hospital for good this time (but she had taken a turn for the better...surprising the doctors all around)...but my mother always brought her home whenever she was capable of making the trip.

I might point out here that my father...being the abusive tyrant that he was felt no sympathy for the pain and suffering this little 5 year old was going through. He quite often told my mother that she must have done something in her life to bring on this illness to her daughter...Gods punishment and all. He routinely referred to my sister as a mongoloid (when young I never knew what a mongoloid was but thought it was something to do with her illness...I discovered the truth of it the night she died)...as if she were some misshappen oddity destined for a pathetic pitiful existence. I realize years later that my father had no depths of cruelty he wouldnt sink to if he could heap such recriminations on the head of a mother that was losing her child...blaming her for her childs illness..and labeling her beautiful innocent baby with such a horrific title. We like to pretend human beings are better than animals...but its been proved to me at least twice in my life...that...no...we are not. (at least some of us are not)

So after my father came home and seen Nay there he argued with my mother...asked her why she had brought her "mongoloid" home again when she should be in the hospital. My mother told him that Nay was doing better...surprising the doctors even....so maybe things were looking up and they should think positive about this new turn of events. He stalked down the hallway...and about 10 minutes later Nay came back down the hallway acting strange...its hard for my mother to describe my sister at that point...she sort of blanks out that night...only remembering images and moments. She remembers Nay collapsing at her feet...she remembers calling the ambulance...she remembers calling her sister to come take the rest of us...she remembers trying to hold my sister all the way to the hospital even though the paramedics were trying to give her aid. She doesnt remember my father being there at any point.

Later that night when my sister was laying in her hospital bed...hooked up to machines and deep in the black world of coma...my father entered the hospital...my mother seen him go in Nays room without bothering to even let my mother know he was there. (she had gone down the hall to call and check on us). She noticed him come out of the room a few moments later and leave...still without seeking her out first. She remembers feeling intense anxiety about him coming and going in such a sneaky manner...like a thief.

Moments later all the machines in my sisters room started going off...my sister was dying.

*to be continued

Dont Look Down When the Sun Comes Up

My youngest daughter and middle son just celebrated bdays. Her 15th and his 17th. I was just sitting here wondering how it came to be that they are that old? Wasnt it just yesterday they were running through the house half naked with coloring markers all over themselves and nice artwork left on the walls for Mommy to admire...and clean off? God how I miss their childhoods.

Anyhow, it got me to thinking about the past and suddenly a memory came up that I hadnt thought of in quite awhile. I realize looking back that its rather a miracle that the 3 of us are here.

See, one night, around 13 years ago, with a full bright moon and crispy snow on the ground...we nearly went into the black. Picture this...

Has anyone driven through Wyoming up into Montana during the winter? Its got to be some of the more treacherous driving there is...especially considering Montana doesnt have a speed limit on the open highways(at least they didnt 13 years ago...not sure about now). Put the lead down to your hearts content...just remember once your into Wyoming...better slow down. The highway patrol in the big square state dont take kindly to scraping speeders off the highway just over the border from Montana....anyhow....

I had been staying with my older sister for a few weeks down in Wyo (grew up there you know) and had to return to Montana on the spur of the moment (was living there at the time). I didnt really have time to prepare for the trip adequately being in a hurry (thats another story...the reason for the haste) and couldnt make arrangements for the two younger ones to be looked after so was forced to take them with me. I threw two laundry baskets of clean clothes in the car...some snacks and necessities for the kids and off I went. It was to be one of the most heart stopping nights of my life...no lie.

I can no longer remember the highway numbers and road names etc (40 year old brain full of sand) so dont ask me exactly where I was when I took the wrong turn. Considering I had driven that route before a few times Im not even sure how I managed to make the wrong turn...but there it is...fate, destiny, the Hand of God...or maybe just two noisy kids in the back seat distracting me....whatever.

By this time it was around 11 pm and the night was cold and crispy with a beautiful full moon lighting up the road...which was becoming increasingly more narrow and headed upwards. It was about here that I realized things didnt look right so suspected I needed to turn around and retrace my steps...see where things went wrong. Well things were about to get much worse.

Im well aware that driving on snow is a dangerous activity at the best of times...but throw in unfamiliar territory, shaken nerves (reason for the trip), and the late hour...and its all you need to make a mistake. My mistake was to hit the brakes just a little too hard in order to slow down and turn around....I immediately went into a slide. I actually wasnt going that fast to begin with because I knew I was headed the wrong way so probably wasnt doing more then 30 at the time...but it was fast enough to put the car into a slide...and we were headed straight for the side of the road....that was pitch black.

The car did a complete turn and I had just enough time to think, Oh God!!! before slamming up against a snowbank...and came to a stop with the car tilted just awkwardly downward...with snow piled up against my drivers door. I nearly screamed at the prospect of the snow giving way and the car continuing its slide over the side...which, as I mentioned was pitch black. I couldnt see anything out my window except blackness. I couldnt see where the snow bank ended...if there were trees...if there was a ditch running along the road...nothing. The not knowing what was out there is a terrifying feeling ...believe me. Imagination going full throttle and all.

My heart was literally pounding out of my chest...I didnt dare to breath believing any sort of movement would start the car sliding again. I actually held my breath (without realizing it of course) until I nearly passed out...and had to let it go in an explosive release...which literally scared the shit out of me (dont believe me...just wait)...and I waited with breath held again to see if the car would stay put or not.

I dont really know how long I sat there without moving a single muscle...I was breathing in shallow breaths...trying not to even let my diaphragm be the deciding factor that tipped the scales in favour of gravity. I couldnt even reach out to put the car in park...the fact that it was still in drive terrified me and I slowly....ever so slowly, slid my foot away from the pedal believing I would accidentally hit the accelerator and that would be that. And I just sat there...my mind utterly blank as to what to do...how to save myself and my two small children...who were incidentally asleep in the back seat. To say that I was thankful for that small miracle is no lie...can you imagine if those two toddlers had been awake...there is no way I could have kept them from bouncing around in the car...the result of that too horrifying to contemplate....I prayed they would stay asleep...and for the ingenuity of Mcgyver to get us out of this danger. I was blank...and on the verge of a mental melt down.

Im thinking at least an hour passed before I got up the nerve to reach across and put the car in park. I did it so slowly...like a expert bomb diffuser...sweat dripping and breath shallow. For some reason I felt safer with the car in park...dont ask my why..probably just because I felt like I had DID something. Action is always better than inaction you know. So then I sat there for another hour or so (I think...who knows).

It was then I noticed the gas gauge was nearly on empty. My God if the gas ran out it was going to be horribly cold in the car in no time...and I hadnt brought blankets etc thinking I wouldnt need them. Now I vacillated between plunging to our deaths (depending on the incline) or freezing to death in the car and nobody finding us till Spring. I hadnt seen a single car come by up to this point obviously.

Now, this is the somewhat funny part (its been a riot so far right)....I had to go to the bathroom...seriously. Remember earlier when I said I got the shit scared out of me...that was no lie folks...I very nearly shit my pants when faced with the prospect of going over the side of the road into the black...up till then I had ignored the fact that I seriously needed to defecate if I didnt want to add one more misery to my night by shitting in my pants. I know it sounds crazy now...but hey...it was a crazy night.

So I sat there for another good half hour wondering if there was anyway I could maneuver myself out of the car in order to relieve myself...and of course that could entail risking moving the car enough to jostle it loose from the snow bank. Not to mention Im not the most athletic person in the world...so getting my ass across the seat to the passengers side and getting the door open seemed akin to climbing Mount Everest. Making that first move was torture...

Dont know how long it took me but I eventually got myself over there...with much pausing and holding of breath to see what the car was going to do about my recent clumsy move...it held. Once I got myself situated by the passenger door...I contemplated the act of opening it...and disturbing the balance of the car...and then thought about hefting myself out of the car...and disturbing the balance some more. I know this all sounds bizarre now...but I was burning up some braincells thinking about all the "what ifs" (theres that damn game again). Heres a truly strange thought....what the hell would I do even if the car started going over? Both the kids were in the back seat asleep...the sheer speed and dexterity I would need to throw myself out...open their door and drag them both out was something Im sure only Tom Cruise or Van Disel could manage with any hope of succeeding. In a bizarre way I felt as if I was protecting them by being in the car with them...but as soon as I got out of it they would be vulnerable to...it didnt bear thinking about....but I seriously needed to GO. I eased myself out....

The car stayed put....I stood there for a few moments looking at them sleeping in the back seat...seriously considering taking them out to remove them from the danger of going over with the car....but it was freezing outside. Already my teeth were chattering and the cold was seeping into my feet through my shoes. At least in the car they were warm...as long as the gas held out. I left them and went to the back of the car...to do my business and to try and determine just how deep in the shit we were...no pun intended. Pulling your pants down in the middle of the night on a moon shined snowy road thats so quiet all you hear is the crunch of your shoes in the snow is truly awesome...no lie. You still have the feeling someone is going to come along and catch you with your pants down...even though you feel like your completely alone in the world...and likely to stay that way. Eerily enough...I felt like hundreds of eyes were watching me...well it was the "wild" so who knows.

I checked the side of the car but it was completely black on that side...all I could see was the wonky angle of the car...and snow up to the door...nothing at all down the side of the road. I walked back to the passenger door and thought about getting back into a car that might likely plummet me to my death...but the fact that my two children were in there cast my hesitation away...I had no choice...it was too cold...and if they woke up I needed to keep them as still as possible. I eased back in...and sat there...for around 2 hours I believe...dont ask me what was going through my mind...I have no idea. Then the car turned off...the gas had run out.

In barely half an hour I was shaking with chattering teeth...shock no doubt contributing to my rapid decline...but amazingly the kids were still asleep and seemed to be warm enough...all cuddled up to each other.

I was seriously starting to wonder if anyone used this road other than ignorant white woman who headed out on the road with two toddlers without adequately preparing for the trip or paying attention to where she was going? By 6 am the sun was just starting to distinguish the day from the night. We had made it through the night...but how long until someone came down this road...and my God I was cold!!

It was about this time that I heard a truck coming and before long I could see its lights. We were saved!!! Yay us!!! Thank God. I carefully eased out of the car again and waited for my would be saviors to crest the hill...turns out that two early morning hunters had decided to take this road to a good hunting location...yes folks...somehow or another I had managed to get myself onto a little used hunting road...dont ask me how cause I dont know either. The men were peering at me out the window of their truck as if they had came across some new species of deer...I was momentarily warmed by the flush of embarrassment that shot through me....but was willing to look the fool just to get the children and myself the hell off that mountain. It was then the sun came up enough to get a good look at where we had spent the night...Turns out the snowbank was the only thing keeping my car from plunging off into a gorge that went straight down a good few hundred feet. Now I was really feeling warm...I guess thats what impending heart attacks do...warm ya up all nice and toasty...ya think?

I quickly got over my embarrassment and got the kids out with as much grace and composure as I could...they were just waking up...and were excited to find themselves in such a pretty place...and boy it was beautiful...any other day and I might actually enjoy taking in the view...not today!!!

The hunters actually asked very few questions all though Im sure they were a hell of a lot more curious then they let on...maybe they were use to finding lost mothers on the side of mountains precariously balanced over the edges of cliffs...I dont know...sounds like a regular hunting trip to me. They bundled us up in the truck...took us back down the mountain (yes I had manged to drive up a mountain...still...dont ask me how)...and located a tow truck to sort my car out.

So looking back...I realize what a lucky night that was...so many things could have gone wrong (other than the obvious of getting lost) but it worked out...Im thinking that if I had been aware of just what was waiting for us in that dark abyss...I might not have stayed in the car...I would have freaked out and dragged the kids out no doubt...and who knows what would have happened then....but the dark hid the danger....and I stayed put in the warmth of the car...and Im still here...and the kids are still here...they dont even remember it of course...they were too young...but I certainly do.

So happy bday (belatedly) my son...my daughter...Im so glad and thankful your both still here with me...and that Im still here for you. Love you.

Side note....thats one good reason to be happy there is no snow in Bahrain...could you imagine the driving here then?