“So let this heart be still.
Mama, now I’m coming home.
I’m not all you wished of me.
A mother’s love for her son.
Unspoken, help me be.
Yeah, I took your love for granted.
And all the things you said to me.”
~ “Mama Said” Metallica
After my appeal was denied, as even financial hardship wasn’t a good enough reason, having my voice heard made me more determined than ever—vowing to expose this twisted plot against me—against love. Although most would have me believe Anya acted alone, knowing this relationship was far from normal, it felt Jackson was behind this more than anyone. She could also very well be feeding Jackson and conspiring with him to destroy me, but my gut told me she had no choice in the matter. That Jackson Caiaphas was a much darker soul than she led me to believe. Knowing how much she knew I loved her, if she told me the truth about him, it would thrust me into full protection mode—to let him know we weren’t just a roll in the hay but his greatest fear. Anya was also in this position because of my reactions, and not focusing on his role would belie all I still felt. His taunting outside the courtroom to provoke me into a prison cell told me who had to be behind it all. Even though darkness prevailed that day, by keeping the pressure on, Anya could turn if she still felt angry enough to never resolve her anger after years of him chipping her heart away. After Claudine Courtney’s distressed call, it seemed my chances were decent.
My first order of business was to get my hands on the "break-in" incident report denied to me. In order to build a political corruption case against Jackson, learning the identity of the police officer who took the report was imperative. Learning the police department that took the complaint was not the Dana Point police department but rather the Naples Estates police department, I wrote a letter to the Naples Estates Citizen Police Complaint Commission informing them of my dilemma.
July 1, 2012
Naples Estates Citizen Police Complaint Commission
City Hall
7th Floor
999 W. Pacific Blvd.
Dana Point, CA 92629
To whom it may concern:
On or around the dates of September 17th – September 19th 2011, Mr. Jackson Caiaphas reported a vehicle break-in report at his home address at 1404 La Puerta Ln, Dana Point to the Naples Estates Police Department. His wife, Mrs. Anya Caiaphas stated that the vehicle break-in report number was DR112-61586 (Please see attached A) which listed me as a suspect. On September 21st, 2011, I visited the police department office on Excelsior Dr. and an officer verbally corrected and confirmed the vehicle break-in report was DR112-61587 (even telling me my name was on the report) and that DR112-61586 was the harassment report.
On October 13, 2011, Anya Caiaphas was able to obtain a restraining order against me protecting 4 individuals, 2 of which were children, on generally false pretenses. In an attempt to appeal the court’s decision, I requested a copy of the vehicle break-in report (Please see B attached). I also requested a copy of the harassment report (DR112-61586) so I could work on getting both expunged from my record. I received written notification from the Department that my request for DR112-61586 was denied (Please see C attached). I then contacted and spoke with a Detective Andrea Jakitra (who has been nothing but helpful throughout this process), and she informed me the reason the reports were denied was because it was still considered an open investigation. I understood, however, I asked her if I could also receive written notification denying me the vehicle break-in report DR112-61587 as well. Detective Jakitra verbally confirmed that the report exists however my name is not attached to it nor is it a vehicle break-in report. On May 21, 2012, I attempted to appeal the restraining order however I filed my appeal after the 180 day limit and therefore the appeal was dismissed due to its untimely filing (Please see D attached).
I have provided a picture of the supposed vehicle break-in so you could see how they attempted to obtain the restraining order (Please see E attached). This order was simply obtained on false pretenses and has greatly affected my life causing me deep emotional pain and suffering. In my entire 41 years of life, I have no prior criminal history, and I’m not happy my name is listed on any report with the Naples Estates Police Department whether the investigation is opened or closed. I am willing to go through whatever process is necessary in order to get the investigation closed. All my communication and contact with the protected party at the time served a legitimate purpose and I’m even more than willing, along with both Anya and Jackson Caiaphas, to be administered an independent lie detector test to prove I’m telling the truth. The incident reports on record with the department were unfair, unsupported and vicious attacks of my character. I am asking for the NECPCC to please conduct an independent investigation (without the knowledge of Jackson Caiaphas or any other city council members who may be his constituents) into the existence of DR112-61587. I strongly believe the system back up data will show this report as a being a vehicle break-in report with my name on it, on or around the dates of September 17th – October 13th, 2011. I have good reason to suspect the vehicle break-in report was modified after the restraining order was obtained on October 13, 2011 to cover up the false report. I kindly request the name and badge number of the officer who took this report, only if my query is correct. Additionally, I would like to be provided with further details such as how the report was taken and what procedures were performed at the scene to ascertain it as a vehicle break-in.
I can’t thank you enough for your time and attention to this matter.
Sincerely,
Landyn Lastman
Four days later, a response was received from the Commission.
July 5, 2012
Landyn Lastman
1300 South Coast Drive, Unit B-102
Newport Beach, CA 92626
Dear Sir:
Regarding your request for a copy of the Incident/Arrest Report number DR112-61587: We are enclosing the report you requested.
Sincerely,
Jon Stapp (Records Administrator)
To my surprise, they gave me everything I asked for, including the badge number, the name of the officer and his full report.
I (Officer J. Walker #5755) was finishing my investigation into an annoying phone calls report, when the victim advised me about her car being gone through. She left her vehicle parked, locked, and secure in the driveway of her residence at the above date and time. When she returned to her vehicle she found it had been ransacked. She also noticed a cover on the rear bumper had been tampered with. The victim stated she did not notice anything missing. She did not give anyone permission to enter her vehicle. She told me she believed she left the vehicle locked but it may have been unlocked. She is willing to prosecute and was given a report receipt. Suspect (Landyn Lastman) who has been harassing her was the one who went through her car. She stated she could not prove it, but he has been seen driving past her residence lately.
Through my investigation, I found unknown suspect(s) entered the vehicle via the unlocked doors. Once inside, they ransacked the car. The suspect also tampered with a cover on the rear bumper.
After reading the officer’s narrative, it didn’t make sense in a report he titled "petty theft" that nothing was taken yet a report was—confirmed by the “victim”. There must not be a charge for “ransacking” a car but weren't robbing and ransacking similar terms? Seeing how the officer attached my name to a nothing break-in report left me seething—a total inside job. This led me to suspect Officer Walker was a friend of Jackson and Anya. After performing a quick internet search, it appeared Officer J. Walker was a retired police officer. Taking it a step further, a simple call made to the Naples Estates police department confirmed he’s been retired for two years. Although I couldn’t confirm where the retired officer lived, regardless, simple deductive reasoning skills pointed to this being yet another successfully fulfilled political favor. He could've also been the same officer Carolyn was dating, or an acquaintance through her law enforcement paramour, after she vanished in thin air when everything went south.
After receiving the reports, my next move was to write a letter to the California Commission on Judicial Performance--clandestinely keeping the pressure on those who conspired in the dark. Letting them all know, a real psychopath wouldn’t go through proper legal channels to get their point across by going straight into Jackson Caiaphas’s congressional district.
August 5, 2012
Commission on Judicial Performance
465 Golden Gate Avenue, Suite 14400
San Francisco, CA 94102
Dear Commission on Judicial Performance:
I file my complaint with the commission as it relates to Judicial Officer Teri Shamm who presides over domestic violence cases at the Superior Court of California, Lamoreaux Justice Center in the City of Orange, California. This complaint is in regards to Case Number 11V002183: Anya Caiaphas v. Landyn Lastman. I tried to appeal the court’s decision however my case was dismissed due to the untimely filing of my appeal. I filed the appeal on May 21, 2012 which was 23 days past the 180-day limit.
My complaint is in regards to what I felt was a blatant disregard by Judicial Officer Teri Shamm to the California Code of Judicial Ethics and her adjudicative duties in regards to my case. The plaintiff in the case, Anya Caiaphas, unknown to me at the time we met, was married to a prominent political figure, who is running for the 47th District in this year’s upcoming election for a seat on the House of Representatives, Jackson Caiaphas. Both Jackson and Anya are friends, and even neighbors in some cases, of many distinguished political figures in California. The Plaintiff, Anya Caiaphas, had threatened me with the people she knows, therefore I have a legitimate reason to believe, Judicial Officer Teri Shamm did a small favor in court that day for Jackson's friends and was therefore biased in her ruling.
On October 13, 2011, the day of my hearing, I was assigned to and for “all purposes” to a courtroom presided over by Judicial Officer Beatrice Cordon, that was completely full of parties who waited to have their cases heard. I paid special attention to two cases in particular in which violent physical acts and injuries were presented to Judicial Officer Cordon, and observed her consider evidence from both sides, never giving me the perception of partiality in her questionings and rulings, specifically in those two cases. In fact, the restraining order terms these parties received were either on par or less harsh than the restraining order I received. At approximately 10:30 a.m., all litigants were granted a recess by Judicial Officer Cordon so I decided to use the restroom however one of the protected parties, Jackson Caiaphas, stood just outside the courtroom's doors and began taunting me in an effort to provoke me into assaulting him which is not my nature. Upon returning to the courtroom after receiving permission to use the restroom, I was suddenly removed from Judicial Officer Cordon’s courtroom at approximately 11:00 a.m. to have my case heard in Judicial Officer Shamm’s courtroom without any explanation as to why. At the time, I believed they were just moving some of us to another courtroom due to the high number of cases being heard that day so I never questioned the move. However, my case was moved to be heard in a completely private setting. I further noticed before entering the newly assigned courtroom that Jackson Caiaphas no longer felt the need to provoke me, too consumed by his conversation with a gentleman right outside the newly assigned courtroom doors. This courtroom change was clearly made to accommodate the protected party. Anya Caiaphas, so she could admit “in private” to an extra-marital relationship. The change in venue further lending evidence to my argument that the restraining order sought by the protected parties was not about a fear of safety but rather a fear of exposure because of those people they know in government. To have my case heard in a private setting alone was not only discriminatory to me in both fact and appearance, but also discriminatory to the other litigants in Judicial Officer Cordon’s courtroom. Shouldn't they also have had the opportunity for their case to be heard in a private manner if that option was available to them? I’m sure it was just as embarrassing for them to be there as it was for us.
It felt like the protected parties had two lawyers working for them that day; their attorney and Judicial Officer Teri Shamm. I wrote a very detailed lengthy response to the restraining order because it was important to establish my legitimate purpose for claiming self-defense and the petitioner’s entire response was full of numerous untruths that required detailed responses. Judicial Officer Teri Shamm claimed to have read my response to the restraining order during my hearing, but I believe she did not due to its length and likely being pressed for time. One of those untruths told by the petitioner, which caused emotional distress, was her filing of a vehicle “break-in” report with the Naples Estates Police Department claiming I was responsible. In my 41 years on this earth, I have no prior history that would remotely suggest I’d ever do such a thing. Her intention was to prove a fear of safety by deceiving the court. Please see attached picture that she provided as evidence of the vehicle “break-in”. This was specifically pointed out to Judicial Officer Teri Shamm in my response to the restraining order--the one she claimed to have read. By her refusing to acknowledge this in my response, something very critical to my defense, gave me the impression she did not read the response to the restraining order due to its length, and was therefore negligent, perhaps grossly in her ruling against me.
Judicial Officer Teri Shamm’s line of questioning also led me to conclude I did not receive a fair hearing. I explained in court, and also provided texts from the petitioner to support this claim in my response to the restraining order, that her husband, Jackson Caiaphas, was in my Facebook account and that’s why I sent the gifts to him. Judicial Officer Shamm then asked me “Did you file a police report?” I told her I did not because I had no idea I could file a police report for something like that. She quickly discarded my claim, even though I provided her with proof through the text messages, included with my response she claimed to have read, of the petitioner informing me her husband was in my Facebook account. When the petitioner, Anya Caiaphas, committed perjury by telling Judicial Officer Shamm that I threatened to kidnap her kids and I was outside her home prompting her to pick up her dog and run inside the house, Judicial Officer Shamm never asked if she had filed police reports for those claims. My argument is this; why would Judicial Officer Teri Shamm not ask Anya Caiaphas for any corroborating evidence yet request it from me? It's also important to note, Judicial Officer Teri Shamm knew from the very onset of the hearing that Anya Caiaphas was involved in a two-year extramarital relationship. Knowing that fact, what led her to assume that Anya Caiaphas, who demonstrated the ability to lie to everyone around her for two years, was actually a credible enough witness to not request any corroborating evidence from? I cannot believe a Judicial Officer, a member of a well respected esteemed and honorable group, could lack such basic judicial skills. I felt since Judicial Officer Teri Shamm took the petitioner’s word at face value and only took mine with further corroboration, that she was judging in a discriminatory manner towards me, and was therefore partial in her ruling. By not doing so, Judicial Officer Teri Shamm intentionally and unfairly stripped me of my 1st and 5th amendment rights.
A judge’s adjudicative duties states the following:
“A judge shall perform the duties of judicial office impartially and diligently. A judge shall be patient, dignified, and courteous, to litigants, jurors, witnesses, lawyers and others with whom the judge deals in an official capacity, and shall require similar conduct of lawyers, and of staff, court officials, and others subject to the judge’s direction and control. A judge must perform judicial duties impartially and fairly. A judge who manifests bias on any basis in a proceeding impairs the fairness of the proceeding and brings the judiciary in disrepute. Facial expressions and body language, in addition to oral communication, can give to parties or lawyers in the proceeding, jurors, the media, and others in appearance of judicial bias. A judge must be alert to avoid behavior that may be perceived as prejudicial. In disposing of matters promptly, efficiently, and fairly, a judge must demonstrate due regard for the rights of the parties to be heard and to have issues resolved without unnecessary cost or delay. A judge must consider only the evidence presented.”
Later in the hearing, Judicial Officer Teri Shamm found it appropriate to call me “Psychotic” then went on a diatribe attacking my character. Her personal attacks put me in fear of being held in contempt of court if I tried appropriately defending myself. I would even go as far to say the entire proceeding was a set-up to provoke me enough to put me behind bars--to justify her complete disregard for the due process of law—treating me as guilty before proven innocent. She then went on to grant Anya Caiaphas a 5-year restraining order protecting 4 individuals, 2 of which were children, based merely on sending Anya text messages in response to a text message she sent to me—even after sending the protected party messages stating I would not contact her again. When I asked Judicial Officer Teri Shamm to consider the entire content of my texts so they were not taken out of context, which would easily show no reason for anyone to fear for their safety, Judicial Officer Teri Shamm replied “the content doesn’t matter”. How could the content not matter in a restraining order hearing? In other words, I could've threatened the lives of all those protected on the order and it wouldn't have mattered? That the mere act of contacting the protected party after she told me not to was enough for a 5-year restraining order protecting four people? In every sense of the statement I've provided above about a judge’s adjudicative duties, Judicial Officer Teri Shamm was in complete violation of during my hearing and within her ruling.
Restraining orders were put in place to protect battered women who fear for their safety, not those who are afraid of being honest with the people around them. This was clearly, and Judicial Officer Shamm knew from the very beginning, about a fear of exposure or a fear of a loss of reputation. Anya Caiaphas was granted a 5 year restraining order protecting 4 individuals (2 of which were children I never contacted nor threatened to contact) without any evidence of injuries or threats made (because there were none).
I would also like the commission to know I would never suggest such impropriety about a judge unless I felt very strongly about it. It’s not really about the restraining order itself but rather the principle of the circumstances surrounding its existence and its magnitude. I have recognized my faults with the protected party and did what I believed was necessary to defend myself, but I know this was accomplished within the context of the law. I’m not out to destroy someone’s career here, I wouldn't appreciate it if someone did the same to me, but my life has been unfairly affected by this order. I’m not perfect here however I can assure the commission I’ve done nothing deserving of a restraining order of this magnitude.
In closing, I would like to ask the Commission on Judicial Performance to please review Judicial Officer Teri Shamm’s conduct during my hearing. The fact that a private courtroom was provided to Anya Caiaphas and a 5-year restraining order was granted with zero evidence of any acts of physical violence nor any threat of, should clearly show there was something wrong and unfair about the ruling I received from her.
I cannot thank you enough for your attention to this matter.
Sincerely,
Landyn Lastman
Just three days after mailing the letter, the Commission confirmed its receipt and would be reviewing the information before advising at a later date about their ruling in the matter. This intentional act to destroy my life put me in defense mode by keeping the pressure on the corrupt forces who did favors for Jackson; likely trying to get the most out of their political contributions to his campaign. Let's see if they were willing to put their reputations on the line protecting people they knew of but didn't really know.
Like living in a middle eastern war torn city, making sense of a life turned completely unrecognizable became imperative. Without devoting time to this lingering mental anguish would only leave me in a more unsustainable condition of life. My pill dependence took precedence over any affordable medical insurance option for me as the continued recession left my business in peril--a sole proprietorship offering flexible payment terms for bookkeeping services to two struggling restaurants clients and a public company that manufactured a durable medical product. Clients who were cheated by their past accountants in dire need of competent financial reporting and recordkeeping from a certified public accountant. With my mission statement blossoming into an envisioned niche of helping struggling businesses become successful ones, brought back some of the passion missing in my life—an attempt to cash in on an extremely altruistic approach to business. It didn’t take long to realize, it only led to being taken advantage of, just like the other women in my life did.
One of my clients, who was being evicted from their office space of twenty-five years, asked if I wanted to purchase an office desk set for a thousand dollars—four pieces made of beautifully polished oak worth five thousand. These purchase terms were quickly agreed to, deducting it from the three thousand owed to me and turning my living room into a legitimate home office space. One desk had a large flat glass top--enough room for three computer monitors and for spreading papers out. The more legitimate my business began to feel, the more fraudulent I became knowing my mind wasn’t where it should be. Continuing to work for clients who paid when they felt like it because the addiction left me too euphoric to care.
Spending so much time focused on building a business, while nursing a drug addiction, stole time away from me. My last visit with my mother nearly a month ago; the rest of days being swept away by my disposition to how the restraining order hearing went down. The very day the order was filed, I knew my addiction issues would only get worse. It's when it became necessary to locate the outside source for pills, not wanting to burden or worry my mother. There was no way to get by on her stash alone and by getting something stronger, she wouldn't worry about me needing them from her as much anymore.
Super excited about the new office furniture, I made a surprise visit. Upon arriving, nothing seemed out of the ordinary—as usual my father wasn't home, and my mother was in her room watching the “Golden Girls” seated at the edge of her bed covered in a pink fleece throw blanket. Although I made fun of the show, it gave a sense of comfort now seeing it on her modest fifteen-inch flat screen television—knowing something in my life didn’t change so drastically. The show started rubbing off in a good way—more relatable now as a middle-aged adult. Pleasantly surprised to see me, it seemed, I gave her a quick hug and kiss before placing my hand on her bald head to rub it like a crystal ball before playfully moving it from side to side.
She hummed while moving her neck in tandem with my movements. “Ommmmmm…do you see your future?”
“Very cloudy.” I replied before pulling away and sitting down on the dull pink recliner at the end of her bed. “It told me to try again later.”
“Are you here for drugs?” she blurted.
“Here for drugs? I always come to see you.”
“Sure.”
“But since you mentioned it…” I joked.
She then rose up from her bed, reaching into her top dresser drawer. “Just got a refill yesterday. Please don’t take them all—I need them now.”
“It’s okay. I don’t wanna take any if you need them.” I told her refusing to take the bottle she tried to hand off. “I only took em’ because you told me you didn’t.”
Giving me a side way glance, she spoke. “You’re not getting them from somewhere else, are you?”
“Of course not.”
“I don’t trust you.” Saying as she shook her head, seemingly knowing something about the pills I've yet to realize. “Take this, please. I’d rather you have them from me...a trusted source.”
“I’m trying to get off them." I told her, still refusing to take the bottle while desperately fighting back the urge to snatch it from her grasp. "I came here to see you."
“What’s going on?” she asked, skepticism etched on her face. “Have you been gettin' paid?”
“One of my clients promised me something next week. One of my other clients though, sold me an office furniture set last week. I have it set up in my apartment.”
“How much did they ask for?”
“A thousand.”
“A thousand dollars?”
“It’s not an office supply store desk you take home and assemble, but a gorgeous oak office furniture set with two file cabinets and two desks, one with a flat glass top and one with a lighted credenza.”
“I’d love to come by to see it.”
“Why not next week?”
“I’ll ask your father if he wants to go. I’m sure he’d like to see it too.”
“Maybe we can go to lunch?" I suggested. "There are some nice places to eat nearby.”
“That would be fun, Honey!” She exclaimed, slightly shivering underneath the blanket.
My mother rarely got out of the house anymore—my father driving her anywhere they went together. I couldn’t remember the last time I saw her behind the wheel. It seemed ever since that lady at the store made fun of her wig, she hardly ventured anywhere but to a doctor’s office. She would never admit that, but I knew better after putting myself on lock down when Anya left me—my depression immobilizing me enough to despise being out in public—losing trust in the goodness of people.
“How you holdin’ up?” she asked, catching me off guard.
“Holdin’ up? What do you mean?”
“What happened to your appeal?”
Shaking my head at her. “They denied it.”
Her eyes widened. “How come?”
“I filed it twenty-three days past the deadline.” I replied, grabbing her wooden back scratcher from off the edge of her bed.
“Did you explain your financial hardship to them?”
I nodded, tapping the long wooden itch reliever in the palm of my left hand. “Sure did.”
Covering herself up with the blanket a little more. “And they still denied it?”
“I’m afraid that’s the way the system works, Mom.” I told her, smacking the pink cocoon she wrapped herself in with the scratcher.
Pretending to be hurt by my action she lunged towards me sideways. “Stop it, Landy! Are you going to get your money back?”
“Nope.” I said, lightly hitting the top of her head with it, a light slap being heard. “They won’t refund the money...it’s all on me.”
She gasped. “How much did it cost you?”
“A little over a grand.” I told her, tossing the wooden convenience tool back on top of her bed. “I had to pay for the court transcript too...that cost me three hundred twenty-five dollars and I haven’t even received that yet from the court reporter. The clerk at the courthouse should’ve checked the filing dates to make sure I was still eligible to file the appeal before they took my check. After they accepted payment, it seemed they also gave me the go ahead to file.”
“What courthouse was it?”
“The same one I had the restraining order hearing at.”
“Go figure.” she said, shaking her head. “Well, you probably don’t wanna hear this from me, but I’m sure…”
“God has a reason for everything…whatever.” I sighed, finishing her sentence. “It just couldn’t be the way they do things there? They didn’t single me out. I filed a complaint with the Naples Estates Police Complaint Commission and was able to get the incident report they initially denied me. I even wrote a letter to the Commission on Judicial Performance complaining about the judge’s behavior that day. So, we’ll see what happens.”
My mother’s concerned eyes fell to the floor. “What are you feeling for Anya?”
“Her husband is behind all of this.” I told her, my eyes unable to meet hers. “If she doesn’t go along with this, he’ll use the powerful and corrupt people he knows to help wrest custody of the kids away from her.”
She nodded, her eyes back on me. “You still love her.”
“There’ll always be this part of me that does. I thought sending her gifts back would allow me to purge her from my heart and move on.” I answered, then pausing to gather my thoughts, rubbing my eyes before they could reveal the pain not even the four Vicodin pills taken just before arriving could hide. “It didn’t work. Now, I’ll just have to figure out a way to live without someone I’ll always love.”
“Was her husband at the hearing?”
“Yep, don't you remember I called from the courthouse? Told you he was trying to provoke me?"
"Oh, that's right."
"They came walking in hand in hand. Even after all the horrible things she told me about him—it made me sick, but it was part of the game.”
“I see.” she remarked, pulling the blanket tighter upon herself. “If he has that much control over her, she shouldn’t have allowed you to feel anything for her.”
“I agree, but I guess she tried to warn me by giving me other reasons why she was afraid to disappoint me.” I explained. “Yet she never felt the same fear of disappointment I did.”
My mother propped herself up, moving her shoulders back then pausing for about fifteen seconds before responding without looking in my direction.
“She played you for a fool.”
She always criticized me for having, what she perceived to be, a lack of common sense but to imply I was stupid could spill over boiled blood. To be bold enough to tell me that living the last five years of my life was a complete denial to my own eyes, to my own heart, to my own mind, to my own soul. That everything around me was always black and white even in a multicolored situation. That the significance of the second day of June for the last five years should mean as much as a Monday. I expected to see Anya’s hand in the hoof of a pig at the courthouse. I expected them to try and rattle me so they could escape before noon, to further the carrying on of the façade of their marriage. What I never foresaw was the private courtroom set up for the steal by their political donors and the favors done in the dark. All to keep their spotless image alive while they murdered the good and genuine, or the people according to my mother, the fools.
Her words made a four-pill induced euphoria abruptly wear off, creating an irritability like a fly hovering over a delicious meal. An unsettling came over me, my mouth ready to spew forth what my tortured mind conjured from her thoughtless critique. Before ripping into her insensitivity, something stopped me like death itself—the sight of her staring deeply into a muted television screen. Halting my emotions, my eyes shifted upon her face and then her neck, noticing how her skin sagged more than normal, like it was melting away from her cheek bones. I then stared at her as deeply as she stared at the quiet screen, both of us submerged in stillness. Twenty seconds passed without a spoken word or a single movement from her, even as she knew a secret was about to be removed from her bag. And she also knew, without a doubt, it had nothing to do with what she just told me, but with everything she didn’t tell me or anyone. Refusing to take my eyes off her until she acknowledged the eyes she knew were on her, but she never caved, keeping her eyes on a silent screen--refusing a different kind of criticism than what she just dished out.
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“How are you, Mom?” I asked, breaking the silence without altering my stare.
“I’m good, honey.” she replied, remaining fixated on nothing.
There was nothing left for her to sell. Her bone protruding profile giving her away, like the blanket she hid under on a hot August day. I then nodded before posing the question.
“Do you think you’ll make it to Christmas?”
“Oh, I’ll make it to Christmas.” She nodded defiantly, moving her focus back to me.
“Good…because I’m holdin’ you to that.”
“I’m really tired…” she replied, before pausing. “But I’m not givin’ up.”
I may have been a fool in her eyes, but had no reason to believe she wouldn’t tell me if her doctors gave a specific timeframe. She didn’t appreciate it when her mother hid the severity of her illness—no way she would burden me with that kind of surprise. As our time together ended, for the first time in two years my thoughts shifted away from my anguish over Anya to my mother who got lost in the shuffle of my infected mind. It’s not like her battle was forgotten, but my visits did decrease after she dismissed the heart pendant on my birthday. As my sole confidant, her lack of support put me in defense mode, unwittingly penalizing her in an effort to avoid having uncomfortable conversations about our differences in opinion. My mother was just being herself though, a true honest person, but there were more layers involved and peeling each back may lead to more disconnect at the worst possible time. There was no animosity on my end, just a subconscious avoidance of disturbing her peace until learning differently. Admittingly though, I've been selfish and it needed to change. She needed me there because she was fighting this battle alone with my father working at the park so much, apparently avoiding reality as well.
The way she didn’t meet my gaze, the vision of her sitting there intentionally ignoring me, her eyes fixated on nothing in complete dread of having her secret blown to pieces haunted me on the ride home. The man with no common sense having some—the first witness to the toll her twenty plus years cancer battle took; the end of the road to a positive spirit she gained from an entity whose existence came into question by her only son. Now in my early forties, my share of problems were there but paled in comparison to hers on the surface because internally it sure didn’t feel like it—what happens when experiences cannot be felt. She didn’t see me on my hands and knees on a cold tiled kitchen floor spotting a dirt covered pill hiding just below the sink. She knew how clean I was—how if a fly even flew by my food, I would’ve gone without eating that day. And she didn’t see that same man throw the pill down without a second’s hesitation—needing the twenty-minute high like it was his first meal in months. Then again that same man didn’t know what it felt like to sit in a chair taking a chemical that ultimately wrecks every good cell you have—sitting next to new people each week because those from the previous week couldn't make it to their next round.
Most people saw what my mother did, but my purposeful dependence on a pill forbade me from accepting their blindness. Acknowledging their belief would be my life's end and with a mother who fought for hers daily, taking mine would betray all the reasons she found to continue. She would have an easier time beating back cancer than having her heart broken by a weak selfish son. Before this whole ordeal with restraining orders and appeals, courtrooms and judges, love was a dead dream but hope carried on. Without the pill, hope would perish as well. There was no shame in my love for Anya—it was pure, true and right from my perspective. It was never taken lightly and if knowing from the onset the happiness of her kids would be jeopardized, I would’ve never pursued the relationship. Anya not being honest in the beginning didn’t make her a bad mother—an argument I rejected; it only made her a bad girlfriend. If anything, it pointed to the damage inflicted by a self-absorbed husband who dishonored her heart and the everyday contributions she made. By simply going into that good night, like the others hurt before me, he remains unaccountable. Through the painkillers, it allowed Anya, and others, time to see the truth; she couldn’t have played me for a fool, it only seemed that way. Although it appeared to the naked heart she chose Jackson over me, I refused to believe it because seeing what everyone else saw would only lead me to a bridge.
The morning of my parents’ visit, I downed three Vicodin to deal with the anxiety--they've never visited me before in the fourteen years since I moved away. My father was extremely critical at times and the fear he would say something negative made me apprehensive. They estimated their arrival time at ten-thirty but requested them to call a minute before arriving so I could let them inside the complex. At about ten-forty, the door of my apartment slowly opened— a door I never left unlocked.
“Knock, knock.” cracked a feeble cautious voice.
Quickly turning around while seated at my desk, I jumped up acknowledging the voice with a smile—the euphoria from the painkillers taking effect. And even with a sun filled blue sky in the background, the euphoric episode suddenly died when several seconds feeling like minutes passed before recognizing my own mother. On my approach to hug her, my mind reconfigured itself by instinctively pretending my mother's stunning physical transformation was not real. But the sunlit outline of her body magnified ten-fold what I witnessed just a few days earlier. She had clearly lost no less than forty pounds, her arms nearly pure bone. When I saw my father appear from behind her, my acting continued, but hugging him too only threatened to blow my cover.
“Well, what do you think?” I asked, trying my best to hide my disbelief.
“Do you have a maid?” she inquired, looking around my living room while situating the light purple cloth covering her bare head.
I laughed. “A maid? This is all me!"
“Oh wow. I never knew you could be so clean.” She jabbed with a smirk.
“Mrs. Clean probably thought Mr. Clean never kept anything clean either.”
“Nice furniture, son.” Remarked my father, as he rubbed his hand along the glass top of my desk. “Really nice.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s gorgeous, honey. Looks like you got a good deal on it.”
“I think so.” I replied, still trying not to give myself away. “I don’t think I’ll be needing any office furniture anytime soon.”
My mother then took a deep breath. “Well, I guess I’ll just leave the cleaning supplies in the car.”
“Cleaning supplies? What?”
“Your mother wanted to come by to clean your place.” My father revealed.
“Are you kidding? I invited you over to see my place, not clean it.”
“Oh, you know how much I enjoy cleaning.” She resigned, a tone of disappointment in her voice.
“Oh, do I!” I joked, trying to keep things light.
I knew cleaning the house kept my mother's mind off her battle and was healthy for her. It made her feel somewhat whole again and needed, but I wouldn't have felt right about it. My mother had already given me far more in life than I ever deserved--she didn't need to clean my apartment to be needed. As my parents took a tour of my immaculate, at the moment, living quarters, both taking turns complimenting it, my mother’s weakened health ruled my thoughts. She wasn’t emaciated but appeared to be just a few missed meals away from anorexia. After ten minutes, we jumped in my car to try a small sandwich shop a couple of blocks away. As we sat there having lunch, my mother ordered a salad while my father and I each had a turkey sandwich.
“I can’t eat it.” she informed us, forcing a smile while using her hands to fan her mouth. “It burns too much.”
I just sat there observing my mother still trying to give me the impression nothing was different in her life. Either my father was in on it, or likely completely oblivious to it because his denial of my mother’s illness was reaching legendary status. Or maybe we were both just overwhelmed by her sudden metamorphosis.
“Have you not been able to eat much?” I inquired. “Are the sores worse now than when you showed me on my birthday?”
“Not only are they all over my mouth, but I can’t get anything down. It hurts too much to swallow. The cancer was being aggressive so they had to increase the chemo treatments” she told me, trying to catch her breath. “They’re going to lighten up the chemo treatments now.”
“Can they lighten up the chemo treatments?” I asked. “You know, without jeopardizing anything?”
“They have to, Landy.” she spoke lowly, shaking her head. “I can’t live like this.”
“Can you take something intravenously then? You need to eat.”
“I’d just throw it up, Hon.” she replied, shaking her head again. “I’m okay.”
My mother was just sick of everything. Sick of all the chemo. Sick of having no hair. Sick of having to wear a wig in public. Sick of all the bad news. Her spirit was dying, just like my spirit died when I lost Anya. For the first time, because I’ve felt this before in a different capacity, I saw my mother wanting to give up, her eternal positive outlook completely drained. Her twenty-year battle entering another stage beyond her control. A harsh truth intolerable to all of us, knowing how much our lives would change.
After our hour lunch and the most sobering day of my life, I walked my parents back to their car. I gave my father another hug before giving my mother a much longer one; afraid to put too much pressure against her bony frail frame. Before I could wave good-bye and thank them for visiting, my mother reached into her purse and put an orange plastic bottle in my hand before opening the car door to get inside.
“I won't be able to get anymore for another month.” she whispered, pointing a finger at me. "Be smart with them, please."
I nodded then stared at the bottle in my hand in disgust, knowing I was too weak to hand the full bottle of Vicodin back to her and knowing it was a promise I could no longer keep.
Before she got inside, I wanted to yell “Let’s do this again soon!”, but something told me that wouldn’t be happening, reluctantly waving good-bye instead.
After returning to the apartment, I placed the bottle on my new desk and stared at it angrily; my mother's trust soon to be betrayed. Leaving her with no choice but to feed my addiction because she worried my weakness was being nourished in dangerous places. For the first time, the real possibility of losing my mother, my biggest fan and last supporter, left me deeply unsettled. To know she would likely go to the grave with a heavy heart for a lousy son who simply couldn’t deal with what life threw at him. That instead of focusing on her terminal illness, she had to focus on my mental illness too. Yes, I’ve had my fair share of criticisms for women, especially when one lies to a judge after pouring your heart and soul into her, but women were truly incredible—why I could never be a misogynist. My mother was a hundred times stronger than I could ever be in her situation. It only goes to prove we only truly know what we actually experience--the only true witnesses to our own suffering. The greatest sense of guilt drowned me knowing my inability to cope with the trauma of heartbreak added exponentially to her fatigue with life. That if she had a stronger son, preferably one with a relationship with God, her spirit would not be dying. To bear witness to her feeling of dread and defeat, after years of seeing the exact opposite, would only accelerate my downward spiral.
Her visit brought me back to when I was twelve years old. It was around the first week of December and I was busy organizing my baseball cards when she approached me with a very important question.
“What do you want for Christmas?” she asked with widened hazel eyes, smiling.
“An electric football game.” I quickly replied.
“An electric football game? Where’d you see that at?”
“They have them at Newberry’s.”
“Where you get the one cent sundaes?”
“Yep! I just got these rack packs from there and saw it earlier.” I told her, showing her my baseball cards. "I got a Tony Gwynn rookie card."
“What are you gonna do with an electric football game?” she inquired, placing her hands on her hips.
“I wanted to start a league with Vance and Johnny.”
“Do you want something else?” She asked. “Maybe a few Choose Your Own Adventure books from B. Dalton?”
“I’ll take those instead.” I told her, realizing the electric football game may have been too much to ask for. I had been eyeballing the electric football game for months, but it was something my father wouldn't approve of--a game that ran on electricity instead of batteries. He complained about lights being left on in the house and paying the electric bill too many times for me to believe otherwise.
My mother asked me to put a list together and I quickly did so, adding a Member’s Only jacket and a new Easton aluminum baseball bat to it before handing it off to her.
Later that afternoon, I went to the kitchen sink to get a glass of water, and saw my mother pull into the driveway--having no idea she left the house. My eyes followed her exit from our old white and brown Mercury Bobcat Villager wagon and watched her open the hatchback removing a large thin white and green box—the electric football game. As she disappeared behind it, struggling to walk it from the driveway into the backyard, I didn’t know how to feel—elated or guilty? One thing was sure—the same day I asked for the electric football game for Christmas was the same day she went and picked it up. On Christmas day my acting skills were put to the ultimate test—never suspecting I witnessed her act of kindness even to this day. The schism between that Christmas morning and now though, could not have been any wider—to know I was too weak and selfish to do something equivalent for her.
Two weeks after her visit, my mother did a rare thing—she called me. I usually initiated our phone calls but after starting the business, fatigue claimed me by the end of the day. My addiction surely fueled an unwillingness to phone her; the pills making me both irritable and ultra-sensitive. Before getting swallowed alive by client needs, I called every other day to check in, but with so many things weighing me down, I worried about checking in with baggage. If I called more frequently after witnessing her frailty, the sudden special attention might scare her when she was trying to feel normal. My personal life began bleeding profusely within my professional life and I honestly didn't know how to handle it all--the drugs turning me into a moody person. Walking out during work to deal with this toll became several time occurrences a day. With my thoughts on my mother, the drama of the restraining order, and clients who depended on me nearly ten hours a day was more than enough ammunition to consider giving up. Without the pills and the euphoria they provided, giving me a false sense of the passion in life I've lost, my business would’ve failed. I feared talking to my mother might spur these issues of mine to be dumped on her in the unfairest of ways. I could no longer afford to be selfish and, for the most part, the reason I called her less.
“How are you, Honey?”
“Things are startin' to look up.” I told her, on a four pill Vicodin high. “Had a client pay me five thousand dollars the other day so they’re current. It’s the other client I have to worry about now.”
“How much does the other client owe you?”
“About twenty-five thousand.”
“Twenty-five thousand?” she yelled. “Do you think they’ll pay you?”
“I wouldn’t have continued slaving for them if I thought they wouldn’t.” I replied, irritated by her question.
“That’s good.” she said, a near whisper. “I worry about you, Landy.”
“Please don’t. Things will turn around and I’ll be back on my feet.” I told her, the Vicodin high kicking into top gear.
“Honey, I’m sorry if I've said anything about Anya that offended you.” she broke. “I’m your mother and I just want you to be well. I know how much you love her still and it’s not easy to hear what I say.”
“I know why you said it.” I replied, a little shaken up by her unexpected acknowledgement. “And who’s to say she didn’t play me for a fool? It’s on me if I choose to ignore what everyone else sees, but in my defense, I’m not that blind—I knew her more than anyone. If I don’t have love to believe in, there’s not much left for me to believe.”
She coughed then cleared her throat before telling me. “Don’t ever change, Landy. Don’t let anyone who’s ever wronged you change you. You’re a good man with a good heart. Most women are looking for a man like you.”
“Maybe in the fifties, or even the sixties, but It’s a different world now.” I replied, trying not to disagree with her. “Considerate and romantic men are only appreciated when they have something to offer, and that’s okay. I’ve accepted the world the way it is. I just have to be smarter about it and no longer wear my heart on my sleeve. I should've learned that before Anya, but I trusted her too much.”
“My only wish is for you to find God.” She gambled. “That you one day believe in Him and trust Him. I wouldn’t have made it this far without God. I’m living proof He exists.”
“Thanks.” I told her, trying not to steal her hope while knowing its impossibility. “We’ll see.”
“You’d be surprised how much your life could change for the better—He’s a game changer.” She stated. “Okay, honey I’m going to bed. I had a long day of treatment and I’m tired.”
“Okay, I’ll come by on Friday to watch a movie and whack you with your back scratcher.”
“No smackin' me with my back scratcher!” she quipped. “And I already gave you a whole bottle of pills so there’s nothing left to give you.”
“Please, I’m not coming not by for any drugs. Just comin' by to hang out.”
“Okay, Honey." She replied, coughing. "Goodnight. Love you.”
“Goodnight. Love you too.”
After our conversation, her wish for me to find God was hard to hear. It was like telling a paraplegic her dying wish was for them to walk again—needing a miracle to happen. After all my disappointments on earth, I’ve lost too much faith in humanity to believe those made in His image defined goodness. Not all people were bad, there were a lot of good people on earth, but they were far and few between—too distant to believe in. It broke my heart being unable to make that promise to her—a simple request within her simple mind. To say my mother was simple minded wasn’t a put down, it was an admirable quality in today's twisted world, but ignorance was truly bliss. The less you know, the better off you are. I knew a different part of the world through Anya—I’ve seen evil manifest through her. Not that Anya was “evil” but her influences were. I couldn’t believe in someone who left me convinced they were never there for me—only using Him to make others feel guilty about their actions, the way my mother instilled Him in me to make me feel guilty about mine. If He was looking out for me, He’d have given me Anya, not the apparition. Not the woman who lied to a judge that I threatened to kidnap her kids and ransacked her car. He would’ve protected me from the demons who influenced her—those who conspired against me. Anya would’ve found the strength to do the right thing if He loved me. Instead, He left me believing there was no manager of good in my life, only giving my mother, a devout lover of Him, a death sentence—punishing someone who trusted Him. God had a ton to atone for if He wanted my trust. And even with God, it had to be earned, not just given. The only thing He gave me was a wonderful mother—my only blessing in life. At this point, if He loved me, He would be merciful and end me.
The next day, an uneventful Tuesday on the twenty-fifth day of September in twenty-twelve, I found myself being visited by an angry investor in the restaurant demanding to know why my client was struggling. He was an older gentleman, grey-haired and balding, likely in his early seventies.
“You manage the books, right?” He asked, his sun tattered face flushed red. “You must know what’s going on.”
“I understand your concerns, but I think you need to talk with Neil.” I told him, trying to calm him down.
Shaking his head, he fumed. “He won't return my calls!”
“He has pancreatic cancer and has been in and out of treatment every day.” I informed him. “He’s in everyday though so he must not be feeling well enough to call. I will let him know you came by. What’s your name, Sir?”
“Jerry Limer.” He tersely replied, reluctantly meeting my handshake, his small belly protruding from underneath his untucked sea blue Tommy Bahama shirt. “Where’s he at now?”
“Landyn Lastman, nice to meet you Mr. Limer. He’s at his treatment. Maybe we can arrange another board meeting to address your concerns?” I offered. “I don’t want to go over his head. He’s the boss.”
“He really has pancreatic cancer?” he asked with skepticism etched across his face.
I nodded, looking him in the eye in disbelief he questioned its truth.
“A lot of the other investors don’t believe it.”
“It’s hard to believe too because he hasn’t missed a day of work here.” I elaborated, smiling. “Unfortunately, it's true and he’s in a lot of discomfort. Sometimes it takes him five minutes to get comfortable before he can even talk to with me about the daily numbers.”
At that moment, I felt my cell phone vibrating on silent mode in my pocket.
“Alright, well tell him I stopped by. Another board meeting would be a good idea. He needs to keep us informed. We’re hearing rumors that he’s giving the restaurant to his manager, Ray.”
“If I may ask, who’d you hear that from?” I asked, unnerved by all these false rumors.
“Ray.” He deadpanned.
“Interesting.” I responded, agitation swelling within. “That might explain all the comps he’s been giving away each night. I’ll discuss it with Neil.”
“Ray also told us it's Neil’s accountants that are rippin' us off.”
“With all due respect Mr. Limer, if there was a shred of truth to that I’d be running in the opposite direction right now.” I laughed, annoyed by Ray’s misrepresentations. “I can assure you that’s not happening—maybe with the accountants before me, but definitely not now.”
Mr. Limer nodded his head, appearing to see the logic behind my response. “Please let Neil know I was here.”
“Absolutely.” I nodded, extending my hand out and shaking his one more time before he left the office.
After his exit, I got caught in the quagmire of Ray’s depiction of the restaurant’s accounting affairs. His modus operandi was clear--hand out comps on high-priced alcohol and food items then claim the restaurant was struggling financially in order to steal it from the investors and my client. I talked with Ray daily at the restaurant when pulling the receipts and report totals from the POS system each night before manually entering them into the accounting software. They were behind ten months of accounting for daily receipts before I came aboard and got them all caught up in about three months. He gave me a lot of info about what was going on at the restaurant and always provided me with all the invoices and other documentation needed each night. To find out he told an investor that the accountant was “stealing" from the restaurant disturbed me greatly--especially after not being paid in nearly three months and working with them so they could remain in business. Little did Mr. Limer or any of the other investors know, that if I were to quit the restaurant was doomed. It would fall into Ray’s greedy hands overnight.
While contemplating whether or not to confront Ray, I checked my phone to see who called, expecting it to be the usual spam, but it was a voicemail left by an unknown number--my parents landline.
“Son, it’s me, Dad. Just wanted to let you know Mom is in the hospital with a little pneumonia. Harbor City Hospital, room B-7. Okay? I’ll talk to you later.”
After hearing my father’s message, and since my client’s office was in Long Beach only twenty minutes away, I planned to visit her after leaving work for the day.
After negotiating a fifth installment payment program with the State Board of Equalization and fighting off the urge to talk with Ray, I headed for Harbor City. Since I hated hospitals, I first decided to stop at my parents’ house to see if maybe she was home already. Since my father described it as a “little” pneumonia and she’s stayed overnight at the hospital before with more aggressive bouts, she was likely already home. After seeing both cars in the driveway and the lights on in the living room, it appeared to be just a precautionary trip for her.
“Yoo Hoo! It’s me!” I loudly announced upon entering the house.
To my surprise, no one answered. Continuing towards my mother's room I came upon a rare sight--no sounds were blaring from her fifteen-inch flatscreen and her door was wide open. Thinking my parents likely grabbed dinner after returning home from the hospital, I walked about her room noting nothing out of the ordinary; other than the stillness of it all. I then walked past her room into the usually quiet den noticing the peaceful fireplace--bringing back decades long memories of when my mother would start a fire then bring me a cup of hot chocolate while I studied. After my trip back to when life was tolerable, I ventured back inside her bedroom. It was then I noticed a strange sight on top of a standing white plastic tray table leaning against her bed—two grape cough syrup-stained Vicodin pills in a small glass bowl. Did she leave them out for me? She knew I had enough Vicodin pills so why would she leave these out like this? She only had a slight case of pneumonia and would be back soon anyway. Taking a deeper look at the cough syrup smudged pills, there seemed to carry a franticness in their appearance. When I noticed an entirely empty large bottle of Nyquil on the floor beside her bed, appearing to have fallen off her dresser, it all seemed surreal. Was she trying to fight off a very serious cough with medicine designed for only the common cold and flu?
At this point, I didn’t know whether to go to the hospital or stay put until someone came home. The lights were left on with no one home--something my father was religiously against. There was just no way he had any plans of staying the night at the hospital if he left the lights on--they had to be out having dinner. As much as my father denied my mother’s illness, he’d never leave her side at the hospital, and knowing that, he’d never leave the lights on if he wasn't returning home soon. Attempting to kill some time, along with it being a rare occurrence to be alone in the house, I began snooping inside the top drawer of my mother's little white desk. Expecting to find nothing but pens and paperclips, there were several scattered folded pieces of paper inside. Plucking one of them out for inspection, a folded yellow piece of paper revealed a letter she wrote on July 22nd, 2006.
This is in response to Don Vanderway’s article in the Daily Gale about “The Fourth of July is not the same”. Of course, it’s not the same. Especially when you have to hose down your house, tranquilize your pets, close all your windows and doors just to get through the fourth!
Long gone are the days of sparklers and Piccolo Petes. The backyard fireworks of today are illegal and dangerous, and anyone who has them should not be allowed the “personal freedom” to use them.
They have the potential of burning down a house, causing brush fires and also causing bodily injuries. Cities and states are not telling you how to celebrate or to not celebrate the fourth. They are telling you those fireworks are illegal because they are dangerous.
If someone’s house were to catch on fire, would you, Mr. Vanderway, or anyone else who feels the way you do, take responsibility? I think not.
Mr. Vanderway to make this statement “if this freedom is taken away perhaps we should burn our flags and protest” is the most ridiculous and uneducated statement I have ever read. I bet the people who fought and died in WWI, WWII, and Vietnam to name a few, did so just so you could use illegal fireworks that are dangerous to others.
Fireworks should be used in a safe environment by professionals, not by people who think their “personal freedoms” are more important than a consideration for others.
After reading her strongly worded letter to Mr. Vanderway, an opinion section from a newspaper was stapled to its back—they had printed my mother’s letter. I couldn’t help but laugh that she not only gave her home address at the end of her "commentary" but her phone number as well--in case Mr. Vanderway dared to feel the inclination. No doubt my feisty spirit came from her—something I wouldn’t have traded for anything in the world, even if it got me in trouble with the world.
After going through the top drawer, I grabbed the small knob just below it and pulled down—another folded yellow piece of paper suddenly fell to the floor. Picking it up and unfolding it, it was another letter, this one handwritten.
Bless me Father for I have sinned. My last confession was ? years ago. I confess to the almighty God and to you, Father.
These are my sins.
1 - did not go to church
2 – lied/fibbed
3 – talked about other people
4 – went to a fortune teller
5 – dislike people
6 - took a glass, straws etc. etc.
7 – cussing
I’m sorry for these sins and for the sins of my entire life!
Amen
Bless you father.
After reading her personal confession, it made me sad to think she couldn’t fully embrace religion, but she loved God with her heart and soul. She went to mass at church, maybe talked to a priest or two, but never involved with a congregation. It was easy to see how the way people participated in religion, coming off as hypocrites, turned people off to God—maybe even being the reason I didn’t believe. More than anything, reading this letter suggested she was preparing for something she knew. A confession to knowing things she wouldn’t allow us to know.
Inside the front drawer of the desk, there was a small spiral notebook that caught my eye. Inside the first few pages were more notes of hers, also written in cursive.
Children have a unique ability to feel everything that goes wrong is the fault of Mom and Dad.
After several conversations I’ve had with her over the years, there was no doubt who this was meant for. In fact, she probably had to read this to remind herself each time after my visits.
As all parents know, it’s much harder to deal with adversities affecting our children than it is to face something that hurts us.
This was a hard passage to read—never wanting to share my problems with her while she struggled with the mother of all problems. But there was no one else to turn to—she was the only one in my corner not looking to destroy me in some way. My father was too old fashioned to understand any of my challenges—offering black and white obvious criticisms than the required ear. When my mother did offer criticism, she did so after listening to me for months. It may not have been what I’ve wanted to hear, but it always held weight.
Keep your chin up. And when it gets too heavy, God will send the angels to hold it up for you.
I’m certain my mother wanted to share these words with me, but knew I’d blow them off, so what did she do? She wrote them down for herself, hoping to use them some day. Of course, it also applied to her own struggle, those days when it was hard. Like the day someone poked fun at her wig when she was just trying to feel normal again.
3 parts to an apology.
I’m sorry.
It was all my fault.
Now how can I make it right.
After reading this entry into her journal, I couldn’t pinpoint why she wrote this other than the disagreements she got into with my father over the years. The third part hit me the hardest though—Anya just had no interest in making anything right.
If we learn to think before we speak and put the feelings and interests of others ahead of our own, let’s search for “delightful words” then your words will not hurt and tear down, but heal and build up those you love.
A well thought out approach is likely to be far more effective than an emotional outburst! Search for the right words before you say something you’ll be sorry for.
My father and mother argued quite a bit when I was younger—these words of inspiration likely meant for herself and him. If I ever argued with my mother, I’d never leave the house without an understanding. Apologies came easy from me when deserved, but from my father, his pride would never allow it to happen.
After reading through her spiraled notebook journal, I began rummaging through the vertical shelving inside the desk, coming across the face of a greeting card.
My Son, I Am So Proud to Be Your Mother, and I Love You.
Upon opening the card, it was dated December 14th, 1992—penned to me nearly twenty years ago after turning twenty-one. During a time in my life of much promise. She wrote my name at the top of the card’s preprinted words.
Landyn Joseph,
To see you smiling
To see you happy
To see you peaceful
Is what makes me proud
As a mother watches
Her son grow up
To be a young man
She can advise him and guide him
She can offer her support
And unconditional love
But she must give him
Freedom to develop on his own.
As I reflect on
Your development over the years ~
Your strength of convictions
And your delight and excitement with life
I realize that
My wishes for you
Have come true
And as you try out new things
And take new paths
While creating a life you want to lead
Please remember that
I am always behind you
In everything you do
Proud and happy
And full of love for you
~ Susan Polis Schutz
My mom then wrote the following below the quote.
Always remember the times we had together. If you ever want to talk, I’m listening.
Love,
Mom…
She probably couldn’t have imagined all the turmoil I’ve opened up to her about when she penned this card to me—one of several things I still kept at her house. I'm sure to a certain extent, her pride died. The trauma from my relationship with Anya would never yield her a grandchild. No doubt she believed she’d be a grandmother by now instead of being a witness to my decline. There was no one more underserving of this card from their mother than I was—a cocky, ungrateful, and selfish college student who thought he knew the way of the world without any real life experience. No doubt, this card’s receipt went unappreciated, looked upon as another smothering attempt from the only one who gave a damn. Expected words at the time, that now bit so deeply, twin Nyquil stained Vicodin pills were needed to deal with the disappointment in myself. As a source of her pride, I fell woefully short. Sure, I was there for her physically but not mentally. in 1992, my mother was battling breast cancer, bringing with it a lot of uncertainty and a sense of urgency to let me know how she viewed me in her eyes. Yet she never allowed me to sense the gravity of her circumstances and all she was about to go through. She left me ignorant to it all, my self-centeredness providing her with the stage for a masterful performance.
Just when I thought she couldn’t hit me harder, I came across another letter she never gave me, dated July 24th, 2008.
My Only Child,
As you know, my cancer is back. ☹ I have cancer, but cancer does not have me! I will not go down without a fight! Pow!
I really need to stay out of stress, so here goes! Stress causes my cancer cells to take over my good ones, hense comes the cancer! So dear Landyn, I need to take every precaution there is! We have had some good times together i.e., Lakers games, hitting me with the back scratcher, watching movies and tv shows you hate. We have had a lot of fun together! Ha! Ha! Oh yea, all the times you would call me “Two Tacos” and of course telling me it must be “fun time” whenever I would eat, as you would put it!
Landyn, I worry about you. You have kept me up at night, and whenever your car pulled into the driveway at night safely, I thanked God for another night He brought you home safe. 😊
As a mother, we worry. I worry more than anyone! As the sun is going to rise in the east and settle in the west! As they say from the womb to the tomb! But heck, that’s just me. I wish the best for you. If anyone deserves the best, it is you my dear son.
Please, for me, try to find God. He’s there, believe me! I’m the perfect example. This cancer would have taken anyone else, but my God hears my prayers and until my dying breath, I will believe that with all my heart and soul!!
Don’t let anyone change you, Landyn! Remember I’ll always love you. You are my only child and will always have a special place in my heart. 😊
Please keep close to your father.
Love,
Mom
Just behind that letter, was a much smaller note dated August 8th, 2008, over four years ago.
Dear Landyn,
If I have one wish before I die, that wish is for you, my son, to believe there is a God and for you to ask for forgiveness for not trusting that he is real. I’ve been alive with Cancer for twenty years now! That alone is a gift from God! He has been so good to me. Please give him a chance and I promise your prayers will be answered. He says seek and you will find, knock and the door will be open.
I’m sending this in the mail, because you would probably never take it home if I gave it to you. Every home should have a Bible and a cross in it! To protect you and guide you in His way. I will be in heaven one day, my only wish is that I will see my only child there one day too, and that’s what I will do. I will wait for you.
Love, Mom
I don’t know what drew me to her desk—I’ve never been drawn to search for anything in her room before. It was hard to accept all the hard work I’ve done to unburden my mother’s worry. That after putting myself through school, passing the CPA exam, and obtaining a promotion to partner could all be suddenly lost by simply believing in love. Yet God was love and I did not believe in Him--my greatest contradiction. If I could do that for my mother, if it eased her stress, I would have. But she raised a man who was honest to a fault, who couldn’t believe in something he could never see or touch. My love for Anya though, checked those boxes. The Universe was too miraculous to deny a spiritual connection, but never a religious one for me—I’d never be able to give her such a wish. My mother was sweetly simple minded, and I rebelled against that after college and beyond. I’m just happy her own faith in God gave her so much strength because after all she has gone through on top of dealing with a lost son, would have been an impossibility without a belief in Him.
Before closing her desk, I stumbled upon one last handwritten note on flower bordered white stationary. One last parting shot after she told me Anya had played me for a fool.
Love never gives up, never loses faith, is always hopeful and endures through any circumstance.
After reading her letters, I put them all back in the same place so no evidence of my snooping could be traced. Since nothing seemed out of the ordinary and it seemed my father and mother were spending time together since both cars were in the driveway, I left the scene. On the ride home, on a darkened 405 freeway, the vision of those two purple stained pills never escaped my mind. How the possibility while she struggled for air in fear of an unknown trip to the hospital, that under a time of great distress, she thought of me being without Vicodin pills and resorting to another source. My only solution to dealing with the trauma of losing Anya to give me the strength to keep hope alive of rebuilding my life. That even well over two years later, there still was no other way. Although the pills fell short, I needed to recreate the euphoria her love gave me, to not only continue moving forward but to exude a positive mindset to the people around me. The last thing I ever intended was for my mother to feel that without her pills, his hardship would be too burdensome for her son to meet her in heaven one day. She had a far more important thing to worry about—herself. The last image I wanted in my head haunting me forever would be two cough syrup-stained pills my mother struggled to leave out for me in her most desperate hour.
After arriving home, I made a truffle rice dinner then sat down to watch television. After dinner, I grabbed my phone to notice I had a missed call. There was no message but it was certainly my mother who wanted to know why her desk was rearranged. I contemplated calling back the next day but decided to see what she had to say.
The phone rang four times before my father answered.
“Hey Dad.” I spoke. “Did mom just call me?”
“No, it was me, Son.”
“How’s mom? Is she home now?”
“Son…” he replied, struggling to talk.
“What’s wrong?”
“They don’t think…” he answered before pausing. “They don’t think your mother is going to make it through the night.”
“What!” I yelled into the phone in absolute disbelief. “I thought all she had was a “little" pneumonia!”
“Son…”
“I’ll be right there.”