A Nightmare Plays Out In Real Time – Part 4 – “The Day That Our Lives Changed Forever”

Monday morning was kind of a blur for me.  I was drained emotionally from all that had happened that weekend.  I’m not even sure the order of events that day.  I know that after we checked out of the hotel, at some point we went to the courthouse to get a restraining order against Harold.

I spent most of the day filling out papers for the order of protection.  There was so much information to give.  I was terrified that it wouldn’t go through in time.  But, then… would he even follow it?

I then bought a packet for filing for divorce on my own.  I went home to complete the packet.  I was feeling sad that it had come to that.  I fully believed in marriage and my vows.  I had wanted so badly for it to be different.  I believed that marriage was meant to be forever.  But, then… I also knew that marriage was not supposed to make you miserable and broken.  And, it certainly wasn’t supposed to endanger your life or the lives of your children.

I was feeling relieved that nothing else bad had happened while we were at the hotel.  I was feeling thankful that my children and family were safe.  I was feeling hopeful that after having the weekend to come down off of whatever drugs he had taken, that maybe Harold had come to his senses and wouldn’t cause more trouble.

As soon as we got home, I found the phone number for Harold’s doctor and called to let him know what happened and ask him to find a way to get him help before it was too late.  His response to me was puzzling.  He said, “Sheri, I guess you haven’t heard.”  Heard what?  Was he not listening to me?  His reply took my breath away.

He told me that Harold was dead.

Dead.

My knees buckled and I felt sick.

He was still talking.  He was telling me that he got the call from a detective earlier in the day that Harold had killed himself.  How could that be?  He was staying with his sister.  Surely knowing the state he was in, she wouldn’t have left him alone.  And, how?  How would he do such a thing?  Did he take the gun with him?  My head was spinning.

I’m not sure if anything I said to the doctor after that was even coherent.  I think I was gasping.  I think I almost dropped the phone.  I was so confused.  This couldn’t be real.

What would I tell my children?  How would they ever understand?  Why would he leave them like that?  I certainly couldn’t tell them that he was threatening to kill them just days before this.  What would I say?

I remember sobbing to my dad that I never wanted this to happen.  I only wanted him to leave me alone.  What he said sent chills down my spine and I think it finally all sank in.  Everything.  All of it at once.  He said, “Better him alone than him taking you and the kids with him.”  He also said that he now knew me and the kids would be safe.

But, it isn’t what I wanted to happen.

Until that weekend, he had been a good father.  He really had.  As messed up as he could get sometimes, he was good with them.  He took good care of them.  There was no doubt he loved them as he should.  What happened to this man?  How could he do this to our kids???

I was angry.  I was hurt.  I was confused.  I felt so much pain for my kids.  At that point, I was able to forgive him for everything he’d done to me over the years.  I was able to let it go knowing that he couldn’t even deal with his own pain, much less what he created for me.  All those years of hell were forgiven.

The one thing I could not bring myself to forgive was that he left my children to grow up with this.  They were so young.  How would they cope with knowing their father committed suicide?  What would they feel knowing that he took his own life?  I hated him for that.  I hated him for many things before that… but, now… I only hated him for that.

I went through the motions of making calls to the sheriff’s office for information.  At first, they would tell me nothing.  Evidently, Harold’s sister told him we were divorced and that I had no right to know anything about the case and that I was not to have any of his belongings.  I had to convince them that we were NOT divorced.  I had picked up the papers to file… but, had not done so yet.  It was just that day even.  They finally started telling me everything and wanted me to come pick up his personal items that he had on him when he died.

His sister had taken him to her house in Zephyrhills.  She had spent the weekend with him sleeping the days away.  She had told the detectives that she knew he was severely depressed.  That morning, she went to work and her daughter went to school.  Her daughter came home to find him dead laying back on the bed with a gunshot to his chest.  I was told he used a rifle to shoot himself in the chest.

What rifle?  His sister’s rifle.  Why would he be left alone with a gun in the house knowing his state of mind?  That’s something only his sister can answer… and, live with.

I didn’t know what to think anymore.  I was tired of thinking.  I was exhausted from trying to make sense out of nonsense.  Was this really my life?  Widowed at 27 with a 6-year-old little girl and a 3-year-old little boy.  Was this who I was now?  It had to be a nightmare.  The whole weekend.  One big drawn out nightmare.

When I finally went to pick up his things from the sheriff’s office, there was only his wallet and watch.  The wallet didn’t have much more than his driver license in it.  There were pictures of our kids missing.  I’m not even sure that his bank card was in there.  No money was in the wallet, I’m certain of that.  Not one single dollar.  Not even change from his pocket.  Where had all the money gone that he took from our bank account?  Where were the pictures of our kids?  The detective told me that’s how it was given to her.

The next couple weeks were difficult enough without his family blaming me for what he did.  They didn’t even ask about the kids.  They wanted his wallet and watch.  In fact, they wanted all of his stuff.  Did they forget that I had his children to raise… now, alone?  I was asked to send his body to North Carolina so that he could be buried next to his father who had died May 8th, 1985.  I had no problem with their request except that I had no money to pay for the transportation of his body.  They somehow thought that I had taken all Harold’s money.  What money?  Did they not realize that I was left with all these debts to pay by myself?  They said they would cover the expenses of transporting the body if I would sign the release forms.  I did.  I was told to not show up at the funeral.  My kids didn’t even get to attend their own father’s funeral.  Over the years, not one member of his family ever called, wrote, or sent a card to the kids.

When I told my children about their dad, I only said that he had died.  I couldn’t bear telling them that he killed himself.  My little girl understood more than I thought she would.  She was a “Daddy’s girl” through and through.  It broke my heart into a million pieces having to see her so devastated.  I remember sitting my little boy across my lap facing me.  I reminded him of what it meant to be dead.  I then had to tell this sweet baby boy that his father was dead.  He asked me if he died in the truck.  The truck?  My mind flashed to the crash Harold had when he was trying to run us off the road.  I couldn’t dare let my son think that the truck he would be riding in is where his dad died.  I explained to him that he died from a gunshot.  I reminded him of the talks we’d had about guns and I knew he understood.  They didn’t know until years later that he committed suicide.  And, even longer before they found out that he had threatened to take us with him.

They both had trouble from time to time dealing with what he did.  But, they’ve both grown to be beautiful individuals.

Our lives could have been very different had Harold lived.  But, in what way?

For better?

Or, for worse?