Quiet Mountain Essays
Copyright©, 2005
Life Partner:
The Life and Death of My Parents
by
Amanda Stern
If there is life after death - and I am not so sure that there isn't - then my parents were probably still
fighting in the back of the coroner's truck, when they were carried away to the medical investigator's
office. There in Albuquerque, the doctors and bureaucrats did their cursory investigations, filled in
the numerous forms with the appropriate codes that matched the nature of their deaths and released
the death certificates to me and my sister, Dr. and Mrs. Stern's only children.
The coroner's report seemed ridiculously clinical, and contained odd sentences and medical terms
that didn't seem right for the eyes of bereaved children. Did I care, for example, that Dad's heart
weighed 8 oz or that Mom's kidneys were "patent"? It made more sense to me to skip to the end of
the form report, in which it stated: "cause of death, self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head" (for
Dad) and "cause of death, multiple gun shot wounds by assailant" (in the case of my mom).
Stunning and horrific causes, which smallish Albuquerque probably hadn't seen too much of,
especially among a prominent physician and his wife. Truthfully, though, the tragedy was not
entirely unbelievable given my parents' history of domestic fighting and conflict.
Just ten days before they died, Mom and Dad had flown to Los Angeles to visit me at my newly
purchased home. Anticipating their visit and all of the usual fighting that went along with that, I
called Dad and pleaded with him to be nice to Mom, reminding him that I hate to see them fight. Of
course, I had said this many times before, usually in vain, and this time my father said, with a trace
of impatience, "Mandy, don't be so puritanical with your Old Dad. Besides, she starts it." The way
he said "your old Dad" stoked my love for him and left me feeling guilty for even asking.
The visit with them was wonderful. Much to my surprise, both parties were conscientiously kind
and affectionate with one another. I saw Mom reach out to grab Dad's hand at least once during
their visit; and, one morning I awoke surprised to find a note stating they had gone out for a walk in
the neighborhood. Later, on Thanksgiving, we went to dinner at a restaurant and shared
declarations of love and appreciation for one another, as well as for all the blessings we each had in
our own lives. Upon returning home, we laughed and shook our heads at our bad luck when we
realized I had inadvertently locked us out. Not yet entirely familiar with the house, I didn't know
that the door inside the garage would lock behind us. With uncustomary cheer, my parents set out
together to find some tools in the garage that might disable the locked door. My father then went to
work, picking at the doorjamb, while my mother volunteered to scale the wall of the small patio, in
order to try the sliding door.
Finally, Dad's surgeon hands broke the fussy lock and we all cheered as we burst inside. We each
found our beds and I fell asleep, happy to have my parents (especially with their civil behavior) in
my very own home.
After they returned to my childhood home in New Mexico, I felt obliged to call and offer words of
positive reinforcement for their improved behavior. As a sixth grade teacher, I am familiar with the
power of commending behavior that has improved. So, I called these two favorite 'students', and
excitedly praised, "It was great to see you get along so well. You guys seem happier than I've seen
you in 15 years."
I didn't have to remind them of all the wretched fights I had suffered through, ones they had called
on me to 'judge' during the marriage. Like the time Dad phoned, to tell me that Mom was throwing
canned goods at him. Or, when Mom called, to report that Dad had vandalized her desk area.
Around the time I started college, during their more acute fights, I had tried to send statements and
advice to them by any means possible: faxing, leaving messages on the answering machine, and
emailing. Yet, even after all of the correspondence I had sent them demanding that they behave with
one another, I still wondered if they ever took it seriously.
During the call after their visit, my mother's response was less enthusiastic than I had hoped, and I
wondered sadly if maybe, back in the old house, they were fighting again. "I know Mandy", she
acknowledged with a sigh. "I know, but it isn't easy," she had said. Before we hung up, I added that
we would all be together in just a few weeks, at Christmas time.
The truth was that they wanted to get along. They wanted peace, and I know they truly felt happier
when all was well between them. And yet, not the comfort of Dad's solid retirement funds earned
from years of performing surgery, nor the peaceful 5 acre property they shared, nor their good
physical health, or even professional counseling improved their troubled relationship.
When you teach 6th grade you're always exhausted, and when a break comes along during the day,
you are relieved. So when my boss, a cheerful friend from South America, abruptly interrupted
math class to request that we have an impromptu meeting, I was most agreeable. Her house is near
the school and it was not unusual for her to hold meetings there. This time, however, there was one
thing that struck me as odd when we pulled into her driveway. "Margarita," I asked, noting blue
vehicles, shiny and wet from the pouring rain. "Why are there police cars here?"
Margarita told me they had probably come because of her barking dogs, and I had no trouble
believing that, as we ran to the house to get out of the rain. Inside, though, I was again confused
when I spotted the policemen seated in a room.
Marg motioned for me to join them in the living room. There the police sat, stiffly uniformed. I
looked at their sullen faces. They looked guilty and uncomfortable, like schoolboys waiting to tell
their side of a story to the principal. I forced my mind to accept that this indicated bad news.
Whatever it was that I was about to hear, I determined that it would be bad, and permanent. I sat
down.
The policeman began with, "We got a call from the Arizona sheriff's department..."
"You mean New Mexico, don't you?" I corrected, annoyed that yet another person confused these
two entirely different states.
"Uh, yeah. I mean, New Mexico. Sorry..." The officer corrected himself.
Sitting next to Margarita, allowing the cold drops of rain to settle on my neck, I grabbed her arm.
For some reason, I wasn't embarrassed about my clammy, wet hands.
"It turns out, Amanda," the dark gentleman continued with his burden, his hat shoved onto his chest,
"that your father shot your mother, and then shot himself." He explained that the police had found a
letter written by my mother, in which she revealed her anger at my father and her demand for a
divorce.
Formerly surprisingly stoic and still, I now slowly gave way to a teary mess. After asking the
officers, "Are you sure?" several times, I pressed on with: "They are dead?" I said, over and over
again, the way a child practices the sounds of strange new words.
I stood up and studied the falling rain. My assembled entourage sat stark still in the gray living
room, watching me respectfully to see what I would do next. As I sobbed, I cried out, "My poor
mom. I am so sorry mom. I didn't know. I didn't know."
I was sure these concerned people watching me had many questions, and also judgments, and I
wanted to instantly release them; beam them away from there with no hard feelings. I wanted an
easy, neat way to be left alone with my own questions. I wished I could somehow make them
understand with my eyes that the final battle between my parents only marked the end of a long,
bitter war; and that it wasn't accurate to simply label my Dad 'evil' or 'crazy' (if that was indeed
what they were thinking).
For example, these people hadn't heard my Dad's laundry list of complaints about my mother.
Although they in no way could have precipitated such violent remedy, her actions, nonetheless,
contributed to the miserable union. Dad had often complained that she was distant, cold and
withholding; she spent too much money on frivolous things and clothing for herself; she couldn't be
bothered to do any chores, such as write Thank You letters, pick up the dry cleaning or get the mail;
that she was an "out to lunch" mother with her daughters...
In the letter found written by my mom, she had stated (along with other angry insults) that she was
going to divorce Dad, that half of the money was hers and therefore she would gladly take it. Later,
I learned that sale of some acreage was pending, and that Mom and Dad were fighting over where
the money would go.
At 65, my Dad was crumbling physically and emotionally. He had retired 5 years before, and the
only hobby that excited him was collecting and shooting guns. Often he was home, sleeping or
watching T.V. My mother was afraid and for good reason. At times, when my father was
emotionally well, he could see the rationale behind our concerns, and he would temporarily remove
the guns. He agreed that he suffered from bouts of rage, notably directed towards my mother, and
that having a loaded gun easily accessible was indeed a recipe for disaster. If I questioned him
further, he would placate me by repeating my own stern words to him: "If you hurt my mother, I
will never forgive you." Followed by, "Don't you think I know that, Mandy?"
I believe that neither my mom nor dad expected this last fight to escalate so profoundly. My mom
would not have been so direct and insulting in the letter if she had been afraid of what my father
would do with his guns. In fact, Dad seemed to make a logical point when once he noted, "I've had
these guns around for over five years. Don't you think something would have happened by now?"
After their deaths, I lay awake at night, reflecting upon the tragedy through different perspectives
and events of the recent past. It seemed that different positions in my slumber triggered a new
emotion; from sadness to anger on my back, to disbelief and disgust when I lay on my side.
I felt like yelling at my parents, "You frickin' idiots!" But I couldn't figure out how to break out of my
suffocatingly air-tight world and grab them from their new place. I wanted them to hear my wrath,
my grave disappointment at such an absurd ending to my two beautiful parents.
I decided I would first condemn my father. I wrote him a letter in crisp black ink, penned in large
capital letters on nine pieces of paper, to be sufficiently sure that from wherever he was, he would be
able to make out my angry words:
"HOW SELFISH AND DISGUSTING OF YOU! "
"I NO LONGER LOVE YOU!"
"HOW COULD YOU TAKE MY MOTHER FROM ME?!"
"I TOLD YOU NEVER TO HARM HER!"
Writing each insult, I imagined how my father, whom I had seen only 10 days before, would react in
sadness to my "puritanical" words. And that night, I had a dream. In it, my father was sitting on a
familiar green stool in their kitchen, his hand covering his brow as he sobbed. With this dream, I felt
his suffering. My father was deeply remorseful, ashamed, and sorry for what he had done.
It was hard for me to stay angry. This man had been a phenomenal father. He was: A man who
built his daughters a tree house on his days off, hammering and chiseling at the sturdy, wooden
platform in the sky; a cautious man who checked the coach's tires before allowing his daughter on
road trips with the volleyball team; a man who had just recently bought me all sorts of overly
complicated tools from Home Depot, despite my insisting that it wasn't necessary. And, he had been
a surgeon with a faithful operating room staff who worked for, and admired him, for 35 years.
So, what caused a man with many lovable, admirable traits to do such a heinous thing? I am
reminded of the movie, "A Perfect Storm", in which three very strong factors came together at the
"perfect" time, resulting in the rare and catastrophic snow and hurricane storm on the East coast
about 10 years ago. In my dad's case, the three very strong factors were: A rage disorder. An
obsession with guns. A very bad fight with Mom.
Of course, the tragedy can't be reduced to just three factors. Local folks and friends theorize that
since he suffered from depression (a diagnosis he accepted nearly 15 years ago), he simply wanted to
end his life, but being so angry with Mom, he didn't want her left to "run off" with his money. "The
sun rose and set over you two girls," his secretary recalled to us. Others close to him agreed and
believed that he felt he could die in peace only if his money went to his two daughters - my sister and
me.
I felt a deep self-loathing and guilt, when I pondered the possibility that my father would kill my
beloved, dear mother in the name of money for our 'benefit'. Days after their deaths, we found
unusually legible notes and papers concerning assets and accounts. Dad had written both his and
my mother's full name and social security numbers prominently on the top of these pages. He knew
that without revealing these 'secret codes', his daughters couldn't unlock the vault of their inheritance.
I wanted answers about my Dad's behavior and I was angry. I went after the psychiatrist who was
treating my father. Was his diagnosis and treatment accurate? Did this doctor warn my mother?
However, it came to my attention that bringing legal action against Dad's doctor would ultimately
bring up very unfavorable things about my mother. Questions such as: Did she hang in there for
the money, knowing that he would die soon? How many affairs had she had? Was it true that she
would go out of town, leaving him for days on end?
No. In the end, I will not go down this path. I know that both my parents made poor choices and
did not cope well with a troubled marriage. Ultimately, I am left with flair ups of rage against my
father, for his violence and destruction, and, only on occasion do I silently fault my mother for not
leaving sooner.
There were fights in which Mom and Dad would make up and then laugh about how out of control
they had gotten. It seemed healthy that they both had a sense of humor about their perilous
marriage. They had thought it funny when recently an acquaintance said to me, while fixing a
friendly glance at my parents, "Mandy, how did you survive these two?"
It is at least a forty-five minute drive from my parent's house to the medical investigator's office in
Albuquerque. In a fantasy, I keep hoping that during that ride, my parents both realized that this
fight went too far; that they could see how they'd had dozens of years to repair the tangles and holes
in their marriage, but that now it was too late. That there would be no more chances. No more life
with each other and no more life with their daughters.
Both had contributed to an unplanned demise. And, if en route they apologized, and saw any
humor in it, I hope they also shared an honest good-bye to the only life partner each had ever known.
Contributor's Notes...
Amanda Stern is an academic editor in chief, web-master and graphic designer, who graduated from Harvard
University in 1996. Once a 6th grade teacher, Mandy now enjoys preparing individual students for middle school
success. She lives in Beverly Hills with partner, Katherine, 2 rabbits and a cat.
