I thought long and hard about whether I would actually publish any of the pictures of Daddy's apartment and this morning I decided that it was the right thing to do. I promised not to sugarcoat anything and I am discovering that my audience is much more diverse than I originally thought it would be. If these pictures help someone who has an alcohol problem see that this is often how life ends for addicts, maybe it will help them realize that drunk and alone is a horrible way to die. After leaving the funeral home, we picked up my youngest son and went back to Daddy's apartment to continue cleaning up the mess where he had lived his last days. My mother and Poppa came from Oklahoma City to help us and it took many hours to see any progress. The pictures above are actually from the second day after my boys and I had worked for hours. It was a very cold January that year, and the day was overcast and gloomy. It seemed to make the already overwhelming task that much harder. My husband worked outside in the cold to get Daddy's Lincoln to start because we hoped to rent a trailer and take it to my parent's farm until I could sell it. Unfortunately, the car was so long that we were unable to rent a trailer large enough for it. I reached out to a dear friend from Owasso, who graciously offered to let us keep the car at her house. It stayed there for almost two years until her husband was able to sell it for me. I will never forget their kindess and I appreciate them both so much. We cleaned and sorted for hours. I had to make quick decisions on what to keep, what to donate to the H.O.W. Foundation, and what to throw away. It is so difficult to think that a person's life can be catergorized into those three sections, but that is how it was. As we were cleaning, LaRoy, the old man who had found my daddy kept coming by, asking questions and looking around asking if he could have things from the apartment. He even told me that my daddy had promised him both cars if anything ever happened to him. I informed him, once again, that those cars were mine and my sister's and he would not be getting them. By this time, I felt certain that he had something to do with my daddy's death. He knew that my sister and I were not visiting Daddy and were barely talking to him because he was so very drunk. I am confident that LaRoy thought neither of us would even show up if Daddy died. But that is where LaRoy was very wrong. Just because we were protecting our families by not being involved with Daddy at the time, that never changed the fact that we loved him dearly. I didn't think that LaRoy actually killed our Daddy, but there were so many things that were not right. Different things that LaRoy said and did led me to believe that at the very least, he certainly didn't do anything to help Daddy. Daddy's face was so beaten and battered. I don't know if there were bruises on the rest of his body because he was wrapped in a white sheet up to his neck when I saw him. But the bruising on his face was everywhere, and was not consistent with a fall as LaRoy had indicated to me, a fact that the funeral director confirmed. LaRoy had told the detectives and me that Daddy had been unable to leave the apartment for at least two weeks, because he was injured and sick. Why didn't he call someone to help him then? He had access to Daddy's cell phone with all of the family phone numbers. He knew who Daddy's doctor was. He could've called 911. But he chose to do nothing. He was out driving Daddy's car the day after his death. He gave bogus keys to the police officers and all the while, he had keys to the apartment and the cars. I know, without a doubt, that Daddy had cash in the metal box, and yet there was nothing in there but papers by the time I got to Tulsa. LaRoy had plenty of time to go back and take whatever he wanted once Daddy's body had been removed and the police were gone. LaRoy told the police officers that he was taking care of my Daddy and was so sad about his death. He was apparently a good actor, although I was never fooled by him, and my mother and Poppa were absolutely convinced from the start that he was somehow involved. What saddens me the most is that the officers believed him, because when they looked at my Daddy's body lying on the couch, they didn't see a human being who was loved by his family. They saw an old drunk who had no value. They noticed the filthy apartment, the bottles of whiskey everywhere, and assumed that this was an open and shut case. They didn't stop to think that this was my Daddy and I loved him. They never considered that this man, with the beautiful white hair, had grown grandchildren who also loved him, and a baby grandson he had never even met. The night he died, two days before I saw his body, the police officer told me that there was no need to do an autopsy because they would get Daddy's physician to sign the death certificate. I trusted them, which is another decision I will forever regret. It wasn't until the day after Daddy was creamated that things started making sense in my mind and by then, it was too late. And then there was the whiskey. Empty bottles were everywhere in the apartment. They were in the trash, all over the floor, and there were a couple of half full bottles right beside the couch where my Daddy died. If he had not been able to leave the apartment for days, where did all the whiskey come from? I had so many questions that needed to be answered and yet, there were only two people who could answer them. One was dead and the other wasn't talking. To be continued...... We have been so blessed by the outpouring of support we have received. Emails are pouring in and each one is read and cherished. I do not have all the answers. I am not a counselor, nor a psychologist. I am just a daughter with a dream of demonstrating how something that was ugly and violent can still result in something beautiful in the end. No matter what your circumstances, you, and only you, ultimately determine the kind of person you will be. There are no excuses. Is life fair? No. But do hardships make you stronger? I believe with all my heart that they do. This weekend, my sister and I were talking about how many people have told us that they are sorry for how we grew up. While we truly appreciate their kindness and their words of support, we do wish to make one thing clear. We would not change it now. Of course, during the time the abuse was happening, we would have, but not now. First off all, we didn't know any differently. Our lives were normal to us. In later years, of course, we realized that our families were anything but normal, but at the time, we had no idea. And we both agreed that our experiences were instrumental in shaping us into the women we are today. We actually laughed a bit because our own children have come from homes with happy marriages, solid financial support, educational opportunities, and pretty much ideallic lives and we feel almost sorry for them! With that said though, I must add, that they are wonderful kids and we are extremely proud of each one of them. We are beyond thankful that our children will never know firsthand the pain that we lived through, although we feel that it is important for them to know their family history. We hope that they are as proud of us as we are of them. |