Memory Monday: Divine Intervention

* this was an article I wrote for a magazine several years ago:

It was the year 1981 and my brother Doug was at the end of his rope. His life had become a viscous circle of work, drink, work, drink, work and more drink. One weekend  while visiting him, I realized he looked like a prisoner in a concentration camp. I knew he needed help, but I was just a university student, barely twenty years old; what could I do? Even though I didn't know exactly what I was supposed to do, I packed my bags and moved into his house. He was my elder brother, but I figured he needed my help.

Have you lived with an alcoholic? It’s not pleasant. He wasn’t a happy drunk, that’s for sure. There were too many nights that I came home from University, driving over an hour on a crowded freeway, to find him passed out on the floor with vomit framing his face. I thought I was there to help. I wanted to be a hero; but there was nothing heroic about walking in on a half naked, elder brother passed out on the floor. I became weary fast.

One day I was asked to take a friend to the airport. On my way back from LAX, I decided that I didn’t want to go ‘home’ that night. I had enough. I would keep driving straight down to Costa Mesa and stay with one of my many friends. Just the thought of being able to escape to a friend’s house made me smile.

The radio was blaring Christopher Cross’ song “Ride like the Wind,” and I was planning to drive as fast as I could and be free again. When I drove past the exit for Lomita, I felt something inside me urge me to go ‘home.’ I refused to listen to the urging; instead, I leaned forward turning up the volume on the radio and continued driving. 

An audible voice instructing me to return home reverberated through the car. I almost lost control of the car as it swerved irratically across the freeway.  My heart pounded furiously and my mouth went dry. The voice only came once, but it scared me so badly that I turned off at the next exit and circled back around on the freeway. I still didn’t feel like going home, but I knew I had no choice.

When I pulled into the driveway, I noticed the house sat in darkness. It seemed odd to see the front door slightly ajar. I figured that my brother was up to his old tricks again. He probably had gotten drunk before it got dark and forgot to turn on the lights. Once inside the house, an eerie feeling wrapped around my heart. The light switch was across the room and as I walked towards it, I was wondering if someone had possibly broken into the house and that is why the door was ajar.

I quickly glanced in Doug’s room, but no one was there. I walked towards my room and as I passed the bathroom I caught sight of someone crouching inside. My body flipped around the wall that separated the bedroom from the bathroom. My back flew smack up against the wall. 

My pounding heart made it difficult for me to think. I tried to swallow but my mouth was too dry. The more I breathed, the drier my mouth got. I stood glued to that wall for what felt like an eternity, but it was only a few seconds. I mustered up a little courage and yelled, “Alright, I see you! You better come out whoever you are!!”

Silence.

“Come out!”

Silence.

I whipped around the corner and pushed the bathroom door open. It jammed up against the person slouched on the floor. It was only then that I realized it was my brother, Doug. Reaching forward, I touched his shoulder and he fell backwards. He almost crushed me as his deadweight fell on me. I put my hands under his arms and dragged him out of the toilet area and into the hallway. I had seen him passed out before, but somehow I knew this was different. I pushed him, I yelled at him, I even hit his chest, but no matter what I did he did not respond.

Reaching for the phone, my fingers dialed 911. Before I knew it, paramedics and policemen swarmed the house. They shoved me aside and began working on my brother. Everything swirled around me. It felt like a nightmare, and yet when I pinched myself I knew I was very much awake. One of the officers asked me what kind of drugs he had taken. I was not helpful at all, not because I didn’t want to help but because I didn’t know the first thing about drugs.

The paramedics attempted to bring him out of his unconscious state but they were unable to do so.  They communicated with the hospital and before I knew what was happening, they were out the door. I have always thought that paramedics are supposed to assure you that everything is going to be okay. This group of paramedics didn’t get that memo. They let me know that things were not going well. 

I remained at the house to call my parents, who were traveling back from Singapore. I went into auto pilot. I called my sisters and my other brother. It was 2 a.m., I called the pastor of the church I had just started attending. He prayed a quick prayer over the phone and then hung up. I put down the phone and stared at it wondering what I was going to do next. I knew I had to go to the hospital to see how Doug was, but I really wanted someone to go with me. That is when I decided to call Karen Fick, she was the young adult's pastor’s wife of the church I attended before moving to Lomita. She lived all the way down in Westminster that was around a 40 minute drive.

When she heard what had happened she said, “Don’t move, I’m coming right now!”

Somehow she made that 40 minute drive in 30 minutes.  Right before she arrived, the hospital called to tell me that my brother had gone into distress. When we got to the hospital I was told that he had stopped breathing and they had to resuscitate him. They were able to revive him, but he was still unconscious.

After a couple days, he finally regained consciousness. I was allowed to go in and see him. I walked into the I.C.U. room and tears sprang up in my eyes. He looked like an alien with his body hooked up to tubes and machines. I could see he wanted to say something, so I leaned towards him. His voice was weak. He whispered, “They tell me …you…saved my life.”

I smiled, and patted his arm, very pleased with myself, “Well, yes, I guess so.”

“Why? Why did you do it?”

My head jerked back as if he had slapped me. I frowned and leaned forward again, maybe I hadn’t heard him correctly the first time. He continued, “Why didn’t you just let me die!?”

Poor guy, his life was so miserable at that point, he just wanted to die. Tears welled up in my eyes. I had nothing to say. I patted his arm and said, “I love you.”

Today, more than 30 years later, his life has totally turned around. He is a missionary. He has a lovely wife and a handsome son. He lives his life for others. Doug is one of the most giving people I know. He never gives up on anyone. He always goes the extra mile when he is helping someone. When I see his life today, I’m so thankful for the divine intervention on the freeway in California in 1981.  Even though Doug thought he wanted to die... he had so much more to give by living.

Hearst Castle, California

Next time you are in California- don't forget to visit the Hearst Castle...."The Ranch"....This is such a magnificent place, I decided less words and more pictures would be the way to go with this post.

USA- June 1996-June 1997- Part 2

Another part of our new life in the US of A was getting connected to the internet. It was all very fascinating. I immediately found a forum which advertised penpals. Being an avid letter writer, I decided I wanted to add some more penpals to my already existing ones. There was an advert for anyone who would be interested in writing to a prisoner. I responded to the young man who posted the advert and he said the prisoner would be very happy if I could start writing him...."Give me his address!"

I never asked, "what did he do?" ...."why is he in prison?"...."How long is he there for?"....I just started writing San Quentin. The first few letters were filled with pleasantries. I wrote things I thought someone in prison would want to know about: simple facts about life outside those four walls. I can't remember exactly when in the correspondence I started wondering, "why exactly is he in prison?"...but the question peaked and I asked it...he responded with a huge packet of magazine articles and papers explaining his plight.

He was a convicted serial killer, but he was innocent. He sent me tapes, court documents, and police interviews showing me facts about the case. He was guilty of other crimes, he said, but not of the serial killings. It was proven he had alibis for a couple of the women killed. He pointed out it was a female friend who had done the crimes with a man who she later murdered- stabbed to death and cut off his head. She tried to pin that murder on him, but he had an airtight alibi. He admitted he was not pure and innocent, but he maintained he had not done the murders and was framed by this female.

I continued writing him and even started a website not saying he was innocent but just showing the factual evidence he had sent me. It was quickly shut down by the authorities. He appeared to have some valid claims and although, as he himself admitted, he had done some horrible things- murder was not one of them. I was amazed by his continued determination to prove his innocence. His upbeat attitude always shone through in the letters and that intrigued me. How does one stay so positive when locked away for years.

I will not divulge his name here. It doesn't seem appropriate. I do still write to him now 12 years later. He has seen my family through years in Africa, he has congratulated each of the children on their respective high school graduations. He continues to believe he will be one day vindicated of the crimes he was accused of. The woman who is said to have framed him, is now dead. She died in prison. Maybe now with her death, he will be able to use some of the testimonies which had been closed before to reopen his case. His appeals are keeping him alive: he is actually on death row and has been there for about 28 years. He remains optimistic.

USA- June 1996-June 1997- Part 1

Goodbyes all said, now hellos were in order.

New beginnings...new experiences...new friends....new places....all the ingredients of great hellos. My children had never lived in the US of A, so this was a great new experience for them. They arrived in Southern California and immediately made it their own. Whether it was being home, going to play with friends or attending school, they made their mark on it.

School became their favorite place to go- which amused their friends and the other neighbors. When Katrina would do something naughty I would say, "Nana (in those days we called her "nana"), if you continue doing that I won't let you go to school tomorrow!!"

"Mom!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Please, I promise to stop!! Please don't keep me home from school."

She was in third grade and absolutely loved her teacher and her fellow classmates. Sean was in fifth grade and Cassandra in first grade. They walked each day to the Glenmeade Elementary school. They walked home with stories to tell of their days at school. We sat down with milk and cookies listening to each tale told. Why have milk and cookies? Every book we read seemed to indicate when an 'american' comes home from school they are greeted with milk and cookies! :) We were 'trying' to be 'Americans'.....we soon found out very few kids came home to milk and cookies- more often than not they came home to empty houses where they had to let themselves in. As a result, many kids found their way to our house after school and on the weekends.

I asked my children, "Why don't you go over to their houses??" My kids turned to ask their friends, "Why don't we go to your house to play?"

"Oh my mom would never let me mess up her house like your mom does!"

Hmmmm...so no milk and cookies and no getting to mess up houses. All in all,it was a great time!! Lots of wonderful memories, friends made for a life time, and energy stored up for the future we would have in Africa.