Stormie: A Story of Forgiveness and Healing (23 page)

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Authors: Stormie Omartian

BOOK: Stormie: A Story of Forgiveness and Healing
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I heard from other relatives that Dad was a very handsome man and that many women were after him. But he was shy and paid no attention to any of them until he met Mother when he was in his early thirties. She was only 24 and he was dazzled by her beauty and charming party personality. He fell in love with her and always remained in love with his first impression of her even after no trace of it remained in reality. Apparently the hope of her “someday snapping out of it” and returning to normal kept him going.
After I forgave Dad, I could see how much he really did love me. He never showed it openly because he was not comfortable doing that, but his love was there just the same. I discovered that even though a parent may love a child deeply, unless the child perceives that love he won’t
feel
loved. Realizing this made me become more openly affectionate with my own children. Many times each day I kissed and hugged each one of them, and looked them in the eyes, and said, “I love you.” Then, just to make sure there were no misunderstandings, every week I quizzed them.
“Does your mommy love you?” I’d ask.
“Yes, you do,” they chortled and laughed.
“How much do I love you?” I questioned.
“A lot!” they replied without hesitation.
“Why do I love you so much?”
“Because I’m me!” they replied in perfect unison.
“That’s right!” I cheered. “I love you because you’re you.”
In time I noticed that the pain in my gut was gone. The memories didn’t bother me the way they used to. I came to a new level of rest like I had never before imagined.
Six months after that Good Friday counseling session, I spoke before a large group of people and told my story of God’s total restoration. When I finished, there was a question-and-answer time in which a lady stood up and asked, “Do you ever get rid of the pain?”
With joy I smiled and answered, “Yes! For the first time in my life I can say that you really do get rid of the pain. It doesn’t happen overnight, but it does happen.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
TOTAL RESTORATION
Mother had not left the house in five years, so spending another Christmas without her was not unusual. Dad came to our home, along with my sister and her family, and we celebrated together. Part of the gift that Michael and I gave Dad was a trip east to visit his relatives. We presented it to him early so he could leave and be back in time for Christmas Day with us. The day after Christmas, he returned to his own home.
During this time no one worried about Mother because she always loved being alone. It was her opportunity to talk to her voices and carry on unrestricted. A giant freezer in the garage was stocked full of food, so she was not wanting for anything to eat. When Dad returned after Christmas he found that she had not done any dishes for the two weeks he was gone and had not eaten much of anything during the last few days. Our first thought was that her characteristic refusal to do housework had caused her to stop eating when she ran out of dishes. When it appeared that she wanted to eat but couldn‘t, Dad concluded she must have the flu. Her mental condition had gone down at an accelerated rate during the past two years, so communicating was difficult. It was impossible to get an answer from her that made any sense. As she progressively lost touch with reality, she barely seemed like a human being anymore.
Just a few months earlier, Mother and Dad’s little dog became sick and died. Mother refused to believe the dog was dead. She placed the body in the middle of her own bed and every day put food in its mouth, poured water down its throat, and talked to the dead body as if it were a living dog. Whenever Dad came near the dog, or mentioned burying it, Mother got hysterical. This finally convinced Dad that it was time to see about having Mother committed. He went for help but found that new laws made commitment much more difficult. He had to prove that she might physically harm herself or someone else. Since he could not prove that, his hands were tied.
After the dog had been dead on her bed for over a week, the smell of death was pungent enough to keep Dad awake at night in his bedroom down the hall. He knew he had to take action. Since Mother slept all day and prowled the house talking to voices all night, Dad waited until she was sound asleep about midmorning. He crept in, took the little corpse off the bed, and buried it in the field in back of the house. Anticipating what would happen when she awoke, he dug the hole very deep.
When Mother woke up and found the dog missing she was angry and hysterical.
“Where’s the dog?” she demanded of my father.
“I’ve buried her. She’s dead,” he said with finality.
“She’s not dead. You’ve buried her alive!” she screamed repeatedly as she ran for the shovel. She dug everywhere searching for the dog. She even dug right in the place where Dad had buried her, but the grave was deep enough that Mother never found her. She finally gave up looking.
After that, Mother’s complaints about people shooting her increased. “They’re shooting me with laser beams in my stomach and my breast. They’re beaming rays into my brain. They want information, but I won’t give it to them.”
I pitied her, but not enough to visit. I no longer hated her and I did feel sorry for her, but her verbal attacks on me were unceasing. She acted as if she despised me, and even though I understood that it was self-hatred turned outward, I couldn’t bear to be with her.
My sister always got along decently with Mother and visited her periodically. After Christmas she reported that Mother looked very bad; she had lost a lot of weight, her face was puffy, and her skin was yellow. My dad remained firm in his belief that she had the flu.
Just before Michael and I were to take the children on a family vacation in Hawaii, I called Dad to ask about Mother.
“She’s better,” he said. “She’s staying in bed and I’m bringing meals to her. She’s eating well now—not throwing up.”
“Do you want me to come and help you with her?” I asked. “I’d be glad to do it.”
“No, no. She’s doing fine now,” he assured me.
Our second morning in Hawaii, I got up before everyone else, as I always did, and went for a run on the beach. This was my time to talk to God. It seemed I could always hear Him more clearly away from telephones, obligations, and deadlines, and close to the beauty of His creation. The question of writing my life story about how God restored me to wholeness had been gnawing at me for months, and I needed to hear an answer from Him.
“What about it, God?” I asked. “I know I’m supposed to write this book, and I feel You’re saying to begin now. Am I hearing You right? I need to know I’m hearing
You.”
I had been hesitant to begin the book because there was always the possibility that Mother could be healed from her mental illness and a published story of her past would be a painful reminder. Yet I felt a leading to begin right away. I prayed and worshiped as I walked on the rocks and sand, and then, as clearly as I have ever heard anything from God, He spoke to my heart, “The time is now to begin the book.”
“It’s okay to write it even though she’s still alive?” I questioned.
“The time is now to begin the book,” I heard again. I felt that familiar warm rush through my body and the immediate peace and joy that comes from hearing God’s voice. I was certain I had His go-ahead.
When I returned to our room at the hotel, everyone was just getting up. We dressed and went out for breakfast, and I shared with Michael about God’s release to start the book. He fully supported the idea.
As we returned to our room, I saw the red light blinking on the wall, signaling that someone had telephoned and left a message. Immediately I sensed that it was something serious. I called the front desk and received a message to contact my sister at my parent’s home. I quickly dialed, anticipating bad news, for neither my sister or Dad had ever called me on vacation before. My dad answered.
“Dad, I got the message that you called.”
“Your mother’s very ill. We’re trying to get her to a doctor, but she won’t go. There’s an ambulance here now, but she’s locked herself in the bathroom and won’t come out for anybody.” His voice was distressed.
“Where’s Suzy?”
“She’s talking to her through the bathroom door.”
“How sick can she be,” I wondered, “if she’s strong enough to lock herself in the bathroom?”
I heard Dad yell, “Suzy, Stormie’s on the phone!”
Suzy’s voice betrayed the seriousness of the situation as she spoke, “Stormie, Mom’s really sick. You wouldn’t recognize her. She must have lost 60 pounds. She’s skin and bones and she looks awful. I think she’s dying.” Her voice sounded suddenly mature and I recognized that the weight of Mother’s illness had been on her shoulders.
“Are you sure?” I asked in disbelief. How could it be that just a few days ago Dad said she was getting better and now she was dying?
“You should see her. It’s frightening. She won’t go to the doctor. She refuses to come out of the bathroom and go with the ambulance attendants who are here waiting. What should I do? She’s in pain. She needs help.” Her voice broke.
“Suzy, she’s probably afraid of the men. Maybe she thinks they’re going to kill her. If you can’t get her to go with them, then let them go. After they’re gone and she comes out of the bathroom and rests for a while, ask her if she will let you and Dad take her to the hospital. You’re the only one she’ll listen to. Ask her to do it for
you,
Suzy. Tell her you can’t stand to see her in pain and that they’ll give her something to help her. Tell her you won’t leave her, that you’ll stay with her.”
“Okay,” she said with conviction and direction in her voice.
“We’ll take the first flight out. I’ll call and tell you what time we’re coming in,” I said, and hung up the phone.
There was a sudden urgency inside of me. I had to get home. “God, please help me to get there before she dies,” I prayed as I dialed the airline ticket office.
There were no flights with seating for four people until midnight, and I wasn’t going without my family. I was afraid to see Mother alone without Michael and my children.
We called the church and asked for prayer. “Pray that I get there before she dies,” I asked.
It took us the rest of the day to pack, return the rental car, check out of the hotel, and make call after call to see if we could take an earlier flight.
Before leaving for the airport I spoke again with Suzy. She had followed my suggestion and Mother had agreed to go to the hospital. Suzy and Dad carried her into the car and drove her to the emergency entrance. Suzy stayed with her until she was admitted, given something for pain, and fell asleep.
“What did the doctor say?” I asked.
“Cancer. She’s not going to make it. They’re just going to keep giving her something for pain.”
“Oh, no!” I said, filled with guilt over not being there, as well as sadness over Mother’s intense suffering.
“Stormie,” Suzy said after a brief pause, “don’t feel guilty if you don’t make it before she dies.... She’s so bad that you don’t want to see her like this.”
There was silence as I choked back tears and tried to swallow and speak. “Thanks, Suzy. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your saying that.” As much as I wanted to see my mother before she died, I also feared eternal anger from my sister and Dad for not being there.
We boarded the plane at midnight and arrived in Los Angeles at eight A.M. California time. We were in our house by nine A.M. and decided we had to sleep at least two hours in order to make the four-hour drive to the hospital safely. The alarm went off at eleven A.M. I hurriedly dumped the contents of the suitcases on the floor and repacked them with warm clothing while Michael fixed something quick to eat and made beds in the back of the car for the children to sleep.
I called my parent’s home and there was no answer. I then called the hospital and insisted that they put me through to my mother’s room.
“She’s in critical condition,” they protested.
“I’m her daughter!” I insisted.
Suzy’s husband, Louis, answered the phone.
“Louis, we’re leaving right now from our house. How is she doing?”
“I don’t know if you’ll make it,” he said, his voice noticeably shaken.
“Louis, you can’t be serious. You mean she won’t last four more hours?” I asked in horror. I couldn’t believe it. This was all happening so fast.
“You don’t know what she’s like.” His voice quivered. “She doesn’t look like your mother anymore. She’s not the same person.”
“We’ll be there as fast as we can, Louis. We’re coming straight to the hospital.” He gave me directions and I could hear my dad and my sister talking as Mother moaned in the background.
We piled in the car and nearly flew there, hitting every green light and no traffic. In the car I broke down and began to sob. “Please, God, let me get there before she dies. Please, God, don’t let her die before I see her.”
Michael put his hand on my shoulder and steered with the other. I looked in the backseat and met two pairs of very concerned little brown eyes staring back at me. Amanda and Christopher were worried, too.
“I’m okay,” I reassured them. “Mommy’s just afraid that Grandma will die before we get there.”
“That will be sad,” said Christopher.
“I’ll be sad, too,” said almost three-year-old Amanda, not fully understanding but wanting to be like her big brother.
I had always been honest with my children and had shared with them truthfully as much as I thought they could understand. Christopher knew that my mother had mistreated me as a child, but he understood that it was because she was sick. “Grandma has always loved
you,”
I reassured the two of them.
I prayed silently all the way there. Something inside of me hoped that Mother and I would see each other and that things would be different. Maybe she would be in her right mind and we could talk like normal people. Perhaps she would let go of her hatred of me for a few minutes and communicate as a mother to a daughter. I even had wild dreams of us telling each other we were sorry for the ways we hurt each other, and maybe I could even say, “I love you.”

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