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 LELA in 1983 with daughter Jeanetta and Igor the cat. The author snapped the photo during the Christmas holidays in much happier times. |
Was her life always headed
for a sad conclusion?
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Patricia Geister wrote this column last week during a time of immense grief in her life. Her colleagues at TheColumnists.com share her sadness and hope the publication of her memories of her daughter help bring her a sense of closure at a very difficult time. |
of TheColumnists.com
During the summer of 1964 I took a vacation to do some fishing. Instead, I got a phone call telling me I was about to enter the most exciting, exasperating, wonderful time of my life.
I became a mother to Lela, age 4, and Larry, age 6. They were my then-husband's children from a former marriage. Technically, I was their stepmother, although I never used that word. I never heard them call me anything less than their mother. I felt the same joy, the same thrill that all new mothers do. They became the light of my life.
Last month a part of that light went out.
Another phone call told me Lela had died. There was an additional
set of shocks to that news: She had died approximately two years
ago, but the caller didn't have any details.
The first time I met Lela was shortly after her third birthday.
I could see and feel that this little girl had some type of an
emotional problem that needed to be diagnosed and treated. As
the years would show more and more signs of an emotional disturbance,
I was the only one who could see them. Of course she had all
the normal quirks: Her invisible friend (a purple horse); those
days when she insisted she wasn't hungry and refused to eat;
those times she decided that summer heat meant not wearing clothes.
There were a lot more quirks, the kind that most parents might
think were meant to drive them insane in a hurry. She also had
some unusual talents. This little girl was a human tape recorder.
While she took her nightly bath she would repeat many conversations
heard throughout her day, parts of the evening news, and most
of the TV commercials for whatever attracted her.
Still, the most unsettling aspect of her personality was that for whole days or parts of days she might behave as though she were a totally different person.
In the morning she might be the Lela I knew and recognized. By the afternoon I had no idea who she was, nor did she seem to recognize any of us. She would be confused, disoriented, and would demand to know why did we call her “Lela.” I would ask what was her right name and her response would be that she didn't know or couldn't remember. At first I thought maybe it was a kids' game. No, she was serious. An hour later she was Lela again and couldn't or wouldn't believe this other person had been there.
Worst of all were her violent times when
none of us were safe.
When we moved to Seattle, I found a child psychiatrist who diagnosed
her as schizophrenic paranoid. This was at age 7. I wanted to
follow the doctor's prescribed weekly sessions, but no way would
her father hear of it. I was reminded that as a step parent I
had no legal right to even take her to that doctor. In fact,
"If anybody in this house is crazy it's you, not my daughter!"
I was told in a very loud tone of voice.
The years didn't hold any real improvement, nor did I see any long times of joy for my daughter. She was the best child actor since Margaret O'Brien and Elizabeth Taylor combined. I was never really sure when Lela was lying or when she was living some wild time in her mind. Neither were her teachers, our family members or total strangers.
At one point I was almost charged with abuse of a child and serious endangerment of a child's welfare. She convinced her teacher that her home life was devoid of love and comfort. She told the poor, innocent, young teacher that she was afraid to go home. That brought on a tirade of questions which were answered by the Joan Crawford replica in short stature. I was portrayed as someone far more evil than Sweet Charlotte ever was. I beat her unmercifully, withheld food and TV for days at a time.
Lela was born to work with animals of all
sizes and kinds. I saw to it we always had at least one pet cat
or dog for the kids to love and be loved in return. My mother
had an Appaloosa horse, Maggie, that adored Lela. The first time
we saw Maggie, Lela climbed on the corral fence to mount up bareback
and rode off into the wind. That was the first time she had ever
ridden a real, live horse. I was terrified that either she would
fall or be thrown, causing serious injuries. Oh, no, she rode
like a champion for a good 20 minutes before they returned.
Then there were the dogs she took into the show ring, following
standard obedience classses. At age 10 she took our Siberian
Husky, Loki Tahoe Khan (call name Snoopy) into the world of show
dogs. He took first prize and she won the heart of everyone in
the crowd. Snoopy weighed in at 85 lbs., Lela weighed 75 lbs.
For all the 5 years they went into the ring they nearly always
took a prize. Mother raised German Shepherds with Lela as their
obedience trainer. She only had to be near animals, lay hands
on them, then with a few words to them, they knew what to do.
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on Mother's Day 1970 when she showed him in his first dog show. The spunky little girl and her dog almost always came home with a ribbon. |
Her teen years some time showed a brief promise of a happy future. Still, there were those other times when there was evidence of real danger.
She discovered marijuana, alcohol, and I'm not really sure what other drugs. I’ve always felt she was searching for a magic cure-all that would give her happiness and a direction in life. By age 28 she had been married, was a single parent to Jeanetta, her beautiful daughter. She met a drug dealer who used more of his product than he sold. Before she was 30 she chose booze, pot and pills over family, home and any hope of a decent future. She and the dealer left town under cover of darkness to avoid bill collectors and the police. I had taken Jeanetta to live with her father so that she would be safe.
Now it’s 20 years later. During this time I had to face the reality that she was gone to me forever. I suspected she wouldn’t live to old age, or that she wouldn’t die of natural causes. I had to bury her in my mind, fearing the day would come when I’d have to bury her in the real sense. My fears came true. We are not meant to outlive our children. Still, if we think we will, and it happens, we are not prepared.
Whenever I look back at those years I feel that if my troubled daughter had been given the medication, counseling and encouragement she needed so badly, she could have been happy. I should have refused to let her father take away her chance to live normally. It wasn’t up to the law to help her, it was up to us. Now I know that many of our children all over the world are being recognized as bipolar. There is medical help, counseling, special programs in our schools. That was then, this is now. If you have a child that needs special help, I urge you to go to whatever lengths it takes to get that help. Don’t let anyone--no matter who they are--keep you and your child away from a happy life.
In time, when I think I can handle hearing the facts, I’ll ask where, when and how Lela died, and where she’s buried. Perhaps now, at last, Lela is at peace. I pray that peace will come to me.
©2009 by Patricia J. Geister. The photos are the property of the author. All rights reserved. This column first posted June 15, 2009.
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