my writers workshop teacher is making us write a story from another person's point of view on an event in history. an important event, at least to the writer. so i chose the death of my mother. if you do not like sad stories, do not read any further. this story is from my grandmother's point of view.
At one point in everyone’s life, you realize that reality is not all fun and games. Your dad is not the strongest man in the world, nor is he the bravest, nor is he invincible. Your mother does not make the best food in the world, and she’s not superwoman. Your grandparents are not immortal. Actually, nothing really is. Usually you find this out at an age where it doesn’t come as quite a shock. When its much easier to understand what’s going on around you, and when you can cope with the reality. Unfortunately, I did not have the luxury. I am here to tell you a story. Not just any story, but one that is very dear and important to me. I will say here and now I will not tolerate anyone making fun of me for writing this because I refused to become part of the ‘norm’. The story I am here to tell you is that of my mother’s. And about the day she died. This is my story, but from a different point of view. My mother’s mother, my grandmother, has allowed me to tell you the story from her standpoint. My name is Regina Rogalski, and I have just turned 80 years old. I have raised four generations of children, including the grandchildren that are now living with me. My husband, Chester, just passed away not three years ago, and his death is still a blow to my heart. But I shall never forget the day that my baby girl died. Sandra. She was my youngest, you know. Born five years after my son. We didn’t think she was going to make it, but miraculously she pulled through despite the odds. Oh how I loved to watch my children run and play and work, always doing something. They would help their father, my husband, with anything that he asked them to.
We lived out on a farm, about three miles out of town here. Chet built everything on that place with his own two hands, including the house, the sheds, and the barn. The children helped him along the way, of course, when they were not going to school.
The years past, and I watched as my little babies grew into fine adults. My two oldest married off at a young age, and I thought Sandi would follow suit. But instead, always the different, she went and got pregnant. Mind you that I love Patrick with all my heart, but she was very young. Very, very young. And the young boy who got her pregnant wanted her to have an abortion. Certainly not! Not on my watch. Boy I tell you, that boy was run out of town by my husband and his brothers faster than you could say Dupa.
So she had her first child. A boy, Patrick Rogalski. A fine young man with an amazing personality, and always got himself into trouble, not unlike his youngest sibling now. Eventually, Sandi went and got married to a man named Howard, though I did not approve.
“Watch yourself, Sandi,” I said, “That man will turn on you someday. I don’t have a very good feeling about him. You know that I’m right.”
“Oh, don’t worry mom. Howie’s a very nice man. And he’ll be a big help out on the farm, bringing in big money from the trucking business.”
Well, even with my disapproval, we had a quiet wedding out at the farm in springtime. Nothing fancy, just the close family and a few friends. Low and behold, not a year later, my Sandi was pregnant again. This time with a girl, whom also gave us quite a scare. Nicole Regina Anderson, born on Valentines Day, 1991. Sandi was about twenty nine by then, and her boy was about 13. Later, two years after Nikki’s birth, Sandi had another boy, Michael.
Right according to my words, that Howard did nothing good. Yes he was trucking, but his money was going up in smoke, if you know what I mean. And poor Sandi was supporting three kids all by herself. Naturally Chet and I stepped in. We took in the kids and had them live in the house, and they knew that as home. Sandi and Howie lived in a trailer not five feet away, and the kids would go over and play with the cats or something, just to spend some time with their momma.
Those were the happy days. The kids were going to the catholic school, and Patrick had just graduated from high school. Sandi was having some problems with her heart around that time. But it was nothing unusual for this family. I mean, the kids got a double whammy from Chet and I because on my side we have cancer, lung disease, heart disease, and cholesterol. Chets family had that and more, so it was expected that the kids would have problems. Our oldest daughter, Marie, was diagnosed with Diabetes at a very young age. Our son, Ronny, had stomach and problems due to alcohol poisoning at a young age. And Sandi. Well, Sandi was hypoglycemic, meaning she had to have sugar on a regular basis or else she’d pass out. So, yes, she had problems, but nothing we couldn’t handle.
But that day was…different. My Sandi had called in the middle of the night to tell me not to put the kids on the bus. She wanted to take them to school. Which was fine with me, it was always a fight to get the kids up so early. But it was unusual for her to call to tell me. Usually, I’d see her in the morning, before the bus came for the kids. But that day was different. She was later than usual, the bus had been long gone by the time she came home. She came into the house, and she looked tired. Exhausted, really. She came in and she went to stand by the sink, like she normally did. The kids were eating, and my granddaughter Nikki went to stand by her mother. Sandi and I stared talking about the news, the weather, and the kids’ health. I noticed she kept stroking Nikki’s hair, as if she was trying to comfort her. Nikki obviously didn’t mind nor notice, so I decided not to say anything. Then she said something that I wish I would have acted on:
“Mom, I’m having chest pains again. Nothing happened today at work, but when I went out to the car I almost passed out. I was so scared, mom. I think that my shunts are closing up again.”
I told her to go to the emergency room, but she refused, smiling like she always did and assured me it was probably nothing. I’ll never forget that conversation as long as I live.
Well, Nikki was bugging Sandi to do her hair, so Sandi took her into the living room to fix the pigtails that she insisted on doing herself. I helped Chet with his breakfast, wished the kids a good day at school, and watched my daughter leave with her children. That was the last time I saw her alive that day.
The rest of the day went by uneventfully. I did my cleaning, watched my game shows, talked to my kids on the phone. And then Sandi called me, after she had come home from dropping the kids off. That was unusual, because usually she just came over to talk to me. But we talked anyway, and she told me about things that usually a mother wouldn’t be worried about until her children were out of high school. She told me that if anything were to happen to her, she wanted Patrick to have legal custody of his brother and sister. I laughed it off and told her she wouldn’t have to worry. But she insisted on telling me, and said that she went to change her will last week. She was scaring me. My baby, talking about death? That was unheard of.
Eventually I calmed her down, and she told me to call her to wake her up an hour before she had to go pick up the kids. I told her I would, and we said good-bye.
“I love you, mom. Thanks for everything you’ve done for me.” She said before hanging up. I was worried about her, but I knew that she would only get mad at me if I tried to interfere. So I just shrugged it off, and went about my day. That was the last time I ever heard her voice.
Looking back on it now, I realize what she was doing. She was setting everything right, to the best of her capabilities. Howie wasn’t fit to take care of the kids, hence the reason for the whole Patrick having custody. And other tings such as the will and calling her old friends.
Well, the day went by, and soon it was two hours before the kids were to be picked up from school. I called, no answer. I called again. And again. And again. Still no answer. I began to worry. I kept calling, for a half hour. No answer. Finally I sent Chet over, to see if she was all right. And when he walked into the house again, I knew.
Oh, my poor baby. My poor poor baby. She was so young. Too young. Chet came into the house, white faced, shaking. I helped him sit down, and he put his head in his hands. He told me,
“Reggie, she’s cold. She’s so cold. I couldn’t wake her up. And the cats were going crazy…” I remember gasping, and running over to see for myself. Sure enough. There was my daughter, my youngest daughter in her bed. She looked like she was sleeping. Just sleeping. The cats around her, protective. I touched her. And I knew. My daughter was gone.
The rest happened in a blur. I called 911. They came, and I told them that my daughter was cold. I held hope that maybe she’s not dead. Maybe she’s just really sick. But as I watched them bring her out of that trailer, her head covered, it hit me like a ton of bricks. I started sobbing, I could barely hear what the medical examiner had to say. Three hours, he said. Three hours she’d been gone. They went back in, and tried to go through her things. Chet went nuts on them, grabbing her purses and her things. They were thinking a suicide. Suicide! My Sandi? Don’t be ridiculous! She had three children, two of which were still in grade school! Then I thought of it. Oh, my god! The children!
Almost robotically, I called my daughter in law at Industrial Fab. I told her to get Ronny, and to come home. She kept asking me what’s wrong, what’s wrong? I couldn’t tell her over the phone. I just told her to come home, quick. She did. And I had to tell them. After that, I barely remember much. I must have told Jill to go and get the kids from school as Ronny took control of the situation. He called Patrick, who also came running. Then the coroner was there. He asked if I wanted an autopsy. I said I did, but then Howie was there. He didn’t want an autopsy, and he was her spouse. He had final say over my baby’s remains. He wanted her cremated, immediately. Then he left.
And then my grandchildren were in my arms. I was holding them close. My two youngest grandchildren, my babies. All I had left of my Sandi. Nikki, oh she took it hard. She cried and cried. Mikey really didn’t get what was going on until later, when he asked where his mommy was. Nikki slapped him and ran outside, and I stared crying again. I don’t think I’ll ever cry that hard again. My Sandi. My baby.
After my interview was over with her, she was crying. I decided that it was enough, that I had enough for my essay. I hope that you understand the seriousness of this essay, and what It means to me. Thank you for listening. Bless.
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