CHAPTER TWO Grandma’s Pearls of Wisdom

CHAPTER TWO

Grandma’s Pearls of Wisdom

May 18, 2011

It seems that this day there is no skirting this one. My mother, Rikki’s grandmother. Last night I attended the Kansas Blue Ribbon Commission for judiciary overhaul. I so hate doing these things. The most of the crowd there were CPS people. Daddy’s who wanted to strip and punish mommy more—a very religious ‘grandmother perhaps even great grandmother’. I offered only a few suggestions—get rid of therapeutic jurisprudence, and consequences from the derelict judges—who are criminal themselves. E.g. passing a law in 2008 HB XXXX that states Judges must follow the law, law.--- Only to have that same judge again break that law—law. Then, instead of consequence, he retires to Washburn University, to teach law. Yeah, can you say insanity? That’s called our Justice System. “just-us”

My heart, feeling low this day, perhaps the rain, perhaps just the time. I began thinking about my mom and in 2007 the motion I filed for Rikki to see her granny one last time alive, as her health and terminal illness had advanced, granny was seeing her grandchildren one last time before she became bed ridden and died.

This is a painful subject for me, as I have a lot of guilt about my mother. I should have been there for her, I was not. She told me to stay here and fight for her granddaughter. I did. But no victory. And mom died alone, and in pain. I was not even notified of her death until 5 hours after she died. Time enough for the so called care takers to prop her dead body in her chair and literally rob her of everything. There was nothing left in her house except a few mice. They even stole her oxygen bottles her electric wheelchair.

So, I come out here, to my special place, one without phone, without internet (except my mobile) to be free, to do what I usually do out here—normal stuff, and no think, healing time. But apparently I am to write about granny as the following poem was open and looking at me from a Bradford exchange book- ( mom used to always order stuff from Bradford exchange—it was her trademark—one that she passed onto myself—and one that Rikki and I both always loved about granny.)

As I sit watching Iron Jawed Angels, I type in the poem that met me at the door. (fresh water pearl necklace accompanies poem—or other way around)

Grandma’s Pearls of Wisdom

I’ve travelled paths you’ve yet to walk

Learned lessons old and new

And now this wisdom of my life

I am blessed to share with you

Let kindness spread like sunshine

Embrace those who are sad

Respect their dignity, give them joy

And leave them feeling glad

Forgive those who might hurt you

And though you have your pride

Listen closely to their viewpoint

Try to see the other side

Walk softly when you are angry

Try not to take offense

Invoke your since of humor

Laughter’s power is immense!

Express what you are feeling

Your beliefs you should uphold

Don’t shy away from what is right

Be courageous be bold

Keep hope right in your pocket

It will guide you day by day

Take it out when it is needed

When it’s near, you’ll find a way

Remember friends and family

Of which you are a precious part

Love deeply and love truly

Give freely from your heart

The world is far from perfect

There’s conflict and there’s strife

But you still can make a difference

By how you live your life

And so I’m very blessed to know

The wonders you will do

Because you are my granddaughter

And I believe in you

Wow. That is my mom to the letter. In fact I feel her coursing through my veins now. I know that my mother has told Rikki this very same thing. She always believed in her granddaughter. There’s was a special bond. I have to in my heart believe that it still is.

Grandmother never was able to see Rikki that late fall in 2007. The Courts totally ignored the motion for granny to see her—as they:

1. Knew it would hurt all three generations beyond words and it did.

2. Rikki and granny’s love for each other was dangerous to the ‘abusers’ and would invoke a strength and hope in Rikki that must at all and any cost be stopped as Rikki’s silence and her misinformation – is and was their complete power to maintain control—and they did- they do.

Not even in my supervised visitation with armed guards—with granny in wheelchair and with oxygen. They refused to let Rikki and granny have that one last time—but they did allow the dog. Granny was taking care of Rikki’s dog- since the custody switch. They allowed the dog to go to supervised visitation, but not granny.

When, my mother died October 28^th, 2008, I had just finished with another rally/march to end Domestic Violence here in Topeka, Kansas. Jana Mackey the KS-NOW lobbyist had just been murdered by her boyfriend, the community was still reeling from her murder then his suicide, that it was an exhausting march for me. Jana’s mother and father the following year began to actively campaign to end violence. But this year was as I feel I always am, alone in the struggle. Something I know to be true of all survivors-- all true advocates to stop the violence.

I had gotten home from the march the day before my mother died. It was wet and rainy and so very cold. I am unable to walk well, my bones and joints with osteoarthritis and from the many breaks rheumatoid arthrisitis as well.

I was so very tired, I recall I was not allowed at this time (as many times throughout Rikki’s child hood) to have absolutely any contact with her. The following morning I was informed of my mother’s death.

Both were gone. Rikki and granny, my rock, my mother- dead.

Then began the motions, to allow Rikki to at least go to her grandma’s funeral. Daddy’s Motions to disallow and to further gain a stronghold in the ultimate power and control of Rikki and I. We had an emergency hearing on November 4th, 2008. It was as to be expected, an abuser will always kick you hardest when you are down, I knew this going in. It was like the flood gates of hell opened up in that court room. I felt my mom more that time than I have ever since. Of course, it was not allowed. Rikki and I were not allowed to attend granny’s funeral. I had to go alone.

I had to identify my mother’s body over the internet. My mom planned for everything, except she forgot to sign her own cremation papers. I had to do that as well and send via electronically—I was unable to get to Texas to do this. In the electronic age, it was all done via the internet, and facsimile.

Once, this was taken care of had to arrange for the transport of not just her ashes- but those of her husband as well—he had died just a few months before, mom had him cremated sitting on her fireplace mantle. She wanted to bring him back to Kansas for his funeral. We brought them both back to Kansas and their funeral was held together. Finally the day of her funeral, November 9^th, 2008. It was my mother’s birthday she would have been age 61. I never could remember her birthday. Now I will never forget it. I did not even know who was president until after the funeral, a week or more later— as my devastation was complete. Obama had won, so I had found out. Not that I cared one way or the other.

Memory remains fuzzy as to time, the following year after the death of my mother is more than blurry. It is my hope that I can began to heal from this as well as everything else. Another good friend of mine had told me when mom died to—take time out to grieve her passing—I didn’t. Not that denial was intentional, I was set to fast forward – seemed like time was running out. I guess that now looking back it had already ran out. I was just in too much shock and grief to acknowledge. I was set to auto pilot.

Trying to stay alive from the abuser Hal Richardson and his cronies—I have long since made several enemies in the judiciary that wish silently and not so silently of my death and or more pain. Rene M Netherton and M. Jill Dykes the current GAL aka Guardian ad litem or better known as Court Appointed Child Abusers”, to name but two.

I was at this time also being harassed by my so called friends—and neighbor—just more non humans- who see a situation and take advantage of it. In fact had it not been for a complete stranger—one neighbor a Vietnam veteran—crazier than I—I would not have been able to go to my mom’s funeral. You see my trusted friends/ neighbor had been a shade tree mechanic, they destroyed my car, stole from me,-- anyhow, this Vietnam vet who I had never met—or even talked to before—was pushing his trash out at some time I must have been outside, he said something to me, I burst into tears--- telling the whole story of my mom’s death… no way to get to Texas let alone her funeral in western Kansas.

The day before the funeral, he pulls up in a dark blue Saturn—don’t recall the model but the color and make. He had rented the car for me under his name, I had no identity, I a ghost to avoid being tracked down.. even on the state address confidentiality program. Any ways, this stranger, a person who later became my end world and humanity—talks bud, provided a rental car for me to go to my mom’s funeral.

I drove down the night before her funeral. I stayed in a motel of the not so pleasing—but it was hard to find a room, not because my mom had sold out the small town with her death – something else was going on. I recall twitter had recently made its debut, in fact I was ‘AngelFury’ on twitter, I bêta tested all new tech stuff--- I remember tweeting this:

“It’s not what is engraved upon a marble stone of how you led your life—but instead what is engraved on the human heart’ (pernicious?) it would have been November 8^th, 2008—I buried mom the next day.

That is how I felt; I had a whole page of these inspiring quotes. I held them close to my heart throughout the funeral and weeks if not months following in a book bound in brown leather called ‘the secret’. Yeah, I like that philosophy. I even gave one to my dear daughter.- will have to dig it out I am sure that all these quotes are still in that book. Along with the following battered mothers custody conference January 2009 where my dead mom—what little insurance there was donated 5 rooms for mothers for the conference. As did her obituary as to donations were to be sent.

<PUT OBIT HERE>

I had 3 sets of suits—I could not decide which to wear at her funeral—mom had bought them for me the Christmas before—for court, for public speaking, for media, for conferences. They were and still are high dollar ass kicking—class act suits with flare, color and style—I was the best dressed in Shawnee shit fucking county—every time I went to hell court—I would never win in court by their rules—but I always shined bright, better and with class, self respect and dignity. Thank you mom, (she, even against her own very rebellious mind advised me to not wear red) but red is my color—the color of the blood spilled, the color of absolute disrespect for the mortal gods who wear black robes—the man gods called judges.

My red suit remains my favorite suit.

For mom’s funeral, I wore the same conservative pinstripe black and white suit/skirt, low black heels I wore in court that fateful day November 4, 2008. In my mother’s honor, I did in court all the right things without selling my soul, Rikki’s or my mothers. I really do not even remember the funeral. I only remember driving back with a carload of her stuff that was not stolen, some blankets etc, in a rental car that a Vietnam veteran had rented for me. Back to Topeka to unleash in mind was my only goal—Complete exposure of this case, for my mother. I would never stop, ever until justice prevailed. I burned on this, I lived on the adrenaline of this, I could barely spell my name—but hung onto this single simple fact that they had done pissed me off and my mom was now dead and in her after life—there would be hell to pay—momma was strong and in her death—mountains would indeed move for the incredible insane injustice—the spitting upon her grave – if you will, yes this was the time, and justice would fall upon all those rightly so.

In that December 2008, mom had been in her grave less than a month--- as my mom always did – she would pre order shit to be delivered at Christmas – birth days—etc… She said because she was a senile old bat-- When came a knock at my door. It was UPS or something, delivering to me a package…. I signed for it walked back into the abandoned house I had lived in for several years – for my safety- I opened the box and BAM…!! There was a note from my dead mom.

“For your work, change the world, save my granddaughter’’

I opened the box... a very high dollar top of the line lap top entertainment center—32 and 64 bit system—I am writing on it now.

I crumbled, I had to scan it and send it out to other via the internet—moms note (not hand written) but typed as she had instructed.—as who in the fuck would believe this? I didn’t… I had to scan that note and send it out—I knew I had suffered a great loss—the greatest. And as a psych nurse, I knew all the trademarks of collapse. I had to show this to others—just to know that I was not insane—imagining or even hallucinating. Momma was powerful in her life, who the fuck knew all she could do—free from her mortal body, and free of pain, free to be the wind.

Chapter One A Little Girl

Chapter One

A Little Girl

When I was young, I literally had the world by a string. Obviously I had youth, was smart, funny and pretty. I was athletic, cocky and a tom boy that not even boys could hold a candle too. I was a perfect pain in the ass for any parent. Defiant, strong willed, opinionated, questioned everything, especially authority and determined to conquer any and all challenges that came my way. I was a Dombrowski. Everything I did, I did well, and life was a challenge of prizes all mine for the taking. Now this is not to say that life as a young girl was not difficult as it was, a country girl, it did however make the victories in my life so much grander. I would venture to say, that I was also a nightmare child for any ‘normal’ parent, thank God my parents were not ‘normal’.

I was the oldest of four children born to my mother, Betty Sales-Stumpf-Dombrowski. She was eighteen years old when she gave birth to me. My father was from Belgium, a legal immigrant with a visa who had just travelled to the United States to join the American military. In the 1960’s the world admired the U.S. and my father being born in the concentration camps of Dachau when liberated by the US in 1942, well—he as a young man of age 18 like all who come to America have dreams and held the US in the highest of regards. He was sponsored by a family from Beloit, Kansas to learn the English language and work at a co-op as a feed sacker- his goal to join the American military. He met my mom instead.

The apple does not fall far from the tree, like my mother, it was easy to see how my father fell so in love with my mother. I imagine the purest love between the two. And it was. Two 18 year old kids in the 60’s the decade of peace and love, camping at the Kansas lakes (my mother a native Kansan) my father just learning English-French was/is his primary language. I even found the lake that they both so often frequented. They fished and camped at every chance they could get at Lake Kannapolis in western Kansas.

I was born 9 months later after one of their camping trips, in 1965. I was a wanted child—imagine that, they actually tried to get pregnant; they loved each other that much. Then they had me….life B.C. – my mom lovingly used to say BC stood for life “Before Claudine”- she said I could take any way I wanted- good or indifferent, but that life would never be the same after you met me.

My father wanted a girl; he even had my named picked before I was born. I asked him one day why he had named me Claudine- he replied “I wanted you to have a totally French name’- well so here I am. Claudine—the last name Dombrowski really a derivative from the Ukraine in fact Romania where my grandmother was before her imprisonment in the concentration camps during WWII. A Gypsy of Roma, and in my imagination Vlad the impaler aka Dracula, maybe this is where I inherited my love for horror movies and books? Likely not, my mom was a avid fan of horror as I am and as is my daughter, so it’s a maternal thing. Interesting though none the less.

Dombrowski original spelling is Dombrovsky – Yes, Russian.

A note here: my mother’s father—was in the 2^nd wave of Normandy invasion, He was in the US Army. I find it quite ironic in that my grandfather helped to liberate my own father when he was a child. Had it not been for that, my father may not have survived; hence, I would not be either. When my father came here from Europe and when he and my mother were married, my grandfather gave his daughter away at the wedding to a man who was born in a concentration camp that he helped to liberate. No wonder my father had such a high regard for the US. As did my WWII grandfather CLARK C. Sheldon, God rest his soul, January 18^th, 1998.

My mother was also very athletic; she was a swimmer and a tennis player. My father, well he swam the English Channel. I later learned as an adult that – that is pretty cool thing. So, I guess you could say I was destined to be as such, athletic, swimming is my love, and of course a pain in the ass as I was treated as a princess “PACHA” French for ‘ruler of the heart’, my nick name my father had given me as a baby and the same attitude I carried throughout my youth. See their union was not a farmer John and Betsy the milkmaid simplicity so I guess international and time through history and back around is a better description.

By the time I was age 16, my grandfather-the WWII one had taught me to ride my own motor cycle. I went to my 1^st Sturgis riding with WWII vets on my own bike, with honor. I was not a typical biker girl—I was a driver in control of my own destiny, grandpa taught me how to not be, but how to be—never get drunk, but secrets to drinking asshole under the table, and I dressed accordingly to the rules of the road.

In fact my mother also rode a bike—it was her bike that I learned on, later changed that poor Honda 360 into a dirt bike, had been stopped as a kid in Hayes Kansas, by a cop in VW rabbit –(I kid you not—I could have out run that dude but I was young and well his sirens were not rabbit style) for underage driving and no Motor cycle Drivers License, mom did not know any of this, she worked nights at the hospital and my brother little Joe and I, well we were more than ornery kids on a hot summer in a small town, she was sleeping and I wanted to keep it that way shhhhh. J

At the age of 15, my whole world changed. I was an emancipated minor. See, I told you I was hell on wheels- not that I was really hell--- I just was bored to easily with peer group age oriented stuff. I was never a ‘bad’ person, always extremely compassionate, I found I had no patience for the non human ignorant and now a days would be called political bullshit. I used to think I was an alien, sent to earth for some punishment from my home planet against humanity. lol

So, I got all my Drivers Licenses’ still have my Motor Cycle license, It was ‘strongly recommended’ that I no longer attend high school- ( apparently I was not appropriate for the sheep following classes) I then started college –( which later in family court would be used against me as failure to complete HS) where I began to pursue a degree in Nursing. Ok, so I was a bit immature for college so I partied for two years, waited tables at a truck stop night shift, had a blast had my own house, paid my own bills, had my own car, motor cycle—then I took a bunch of phys Ed classes for a year, 60 credit hours—you had to have 30 if you were a HS drop out-- and at age 18 joined the army.

Nursing or medical has always been a part of my life. My mother as a young mother herself worked two jobs and paid her way through nursing, she was a PA, CCRN, coronary care specialist who worked experimental medicine in Anaheim, CA before her death. I had no choice really than to go into medicine. Mom would say that I if I wanted to be anything I had to be a nurse 1^st, so I could afford to pay for whatever else I wanted to be. Mom was very wise.

So at age 18, I was an army combat medic. And still having the time of my life. Not old enough to drink legally, but on the base at Ft. Sam Houston in San Antonio, TX. my barracks was atop the hill of the PX.. I legally could drink on base. We had so much fun. Then we would run 10 miles the next morning—AIT.. (known as Advanced Individual Training) and if you fell out of a run – bye, bye party time with your buds. You could stop and puke—that was cool but don’t fall out ever. I never did.

My battalion was a mix of air born rangers, green berets and was ran by a female CO-(who hated her own sex) there were about 500 men and 60 women. This was a combat slot, combat medic. And like the tom boy I am…. was thinking ok, medical but helicopters oh yeah!! I was in heaven. A huey chopper sounds and felt like a Harley on a ride to Sturgis with gramps and his WWII gang. I even learned to repel out of those choppers. About 6 years later they came out with the black hawk, I recall them saying how they would make it for en re ambulance style, I don’t think they ever really did use black hawk for this, I was pretty much out of the military by this time.

I was in and out of the military for what my DD-214 says: 10 years and some months—long ago lost it.

During a time I was not in—I was age 23 at this time I had gone to beauty school—and owned my first business. The hair port—which I later sold for profit after 5 years, bought a fancy fifth wheel hitch hiker with hydraulic sliding dining room and bedroom—designed by Fleetwood—plush carpet white oak cabinets. I then lived on the beach in Corpus Christie, till I went broke and came back to Kansas, I became a MHT- mental health tech at Topeka State hospital, found my passion where I could apply nursing.

I went active duty army again in 1993-1994—civilian contract. I stayed in Kansas did emporia state university for my nursing; the military paid for it all and paid me a salary. I signed 6 years to the army, and did one weekend a month while on active duty civilian contract. I was pregnant with Rikki during this time, CHAMPUS even paid for my literal million dollar baby. Rikki, she was over a million dollars in medical due to all the violence I endured while pregnant with her.. I was age 30 when Rikki was born.

Mothers Day Nightmare - Leaving The War Zone

Leaving The War Zone

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Mothers Day Nightmare

May 10^th, 2011

The night before last night, it was mother’s day no less.  I had a terrible dream. My daughter had died, and I was not informed, like everything else in her life –and in the dream-her death, I frantically was searching the computer –where, how and when and why—when would the funeral be --where? I found it, like I do on her school track stuff—I saw her from a distance at two meets this year—frantically searching.

Once I found where the funeral was via the internet, online obituaries, I went. I was met at the door by hostile forces—like I am now currently met whenever I try to attend something that my daughter—may or may not be in. In the dream, nothing changed. I was denied to see my daughter. To be a part of her life at all—and now her death.

In the dream, I went to her dad’s to get some pictures of her life—I have none for you see it has been 11 years since I was allowed any photographs of my dear daughter. Including school photos. As well as a denial to all school and medical records. In the dream for some dumb reason I thought I may at least obtain some photos of my daughter in her life of the past 11 years – I was wrong. Nothing had changed-just like my reality- I am denied.

Mothers day this year was especially hard on me. As they all have been this past 17 years. My own dear mom died, my daughter all but—except in the dream. I stayed home in bed watching end world stuff on FX—storms, tornadoes, meteors—all those low grade but non reality shows—to keep my mind off both my mom and my daughter. Secretly in my heart, I had hoped for a cyber foot print from at least my daughter. It never came.

Here we are two days after the nightmare.-the only dream I have ever had of my daughter. I do not know why, but I have never dreamed of her—perhaps the torment is too great and my mind denies me this too. I crave to have dreams about my daughter and about my mom. I miss them. My heart, all I ever loved dead and or gone.

That is why the nightmare above so unnerved me. Finally a dream about my daughter. Not what I had in mind. Easy to explain though, as it is what life is now. Some people with children could call it ‘empty nest’ I call it just gone. Hence I feel 17 years of hope and ‘it will all work out’ –has come and passed.

Nothing worked out. Hope does not float—except perhaps to keep me going through all the years of rikkis child hood. But now that too is gone. Just like my mom.

I am tired of the movement- drained in fact. There is nothing left of me, to even give to myself. So many moms new in the battle—messages of ‘you inspire me’, messages of ‘help me.’ Messages of ‘this the 1^st mothers day without my child’—birthday, holiday, sun rise and sunset, weeks into months, then years, and I have no words left in me to say they only get worst. The tears that so many cry will never go away. The pain like a knife in my soul so real so jagged that surely like the ‘1^st mothers day’ and the 17^th one later, I knew I would just die. I haven’t. the tears have turned to tears of blood and become even more heavy.

So, I have thought about all this the past few days. To take care of me, whatever me is left. To finally let go and go forward with life. I have a pool set up, a gazebo- well in Kansas the winds are as high as the temps- gazebo idea has yet to work out quite like I thought it would.

I am here now, painting a room, mowing the grass- it is peaceful here. No one around except the trees, the wind, the birds, the sun and my thoughts. Sometimes like last year I can even feel my mom. Today though, I feel noting but emptiness. Thinking, about my cat Gus the closest family I have, then thinking god, what life? Why look forward to the next 20 years-? I’m old now, my health has followed suit. What do I do? How do I heal myself?

That is it. The real issues. What is left of me needs to heal from the trauma—no one could ever heal but to allow at least the scar tissue to form.

I am trying, but again I feel only emptiness. Why do I have 24 ft pool? My daughter will never swim in it—my mom wont. That part of my life, Rikki and I both grew up in the pool- is gone. Oh sure I love the pool, it does offer peace even by myself, but this year no hope for Rikki. No connection with my mom yet. But definitely feel the body pains of age and my own physical issues and hydrotherapy was long ago ordered for all the broken bones, and arthritis- of late – even more, so swimming is the only thing that is not painful, in fact it feels like heaven.

I have heard that some parents have to literally divorce the child from their own hearts and mind to survive. Let it go- act as though there never was. Maybe that is what I need to try to do. The memory is tearing me apart—as it did in the beginning of abuser litigation—17 years ago—it continues now to the end.

Oh sure, in some small place in my heart she may come back—but only if her jailer is gone—and I do mean as in dead. As so many other child survivors have told me—the abuser literally had to A. die or B. go to jail—either way they were not ever free of the torment as long as the presence of complete evil was anywhere near, and they don’t just of free will decide to do that. Its all about control, to them there is no life without it.

Thing is-- we all know only the good die young- he will outlive me. As fast as my health is going—he will be around years after I am gone. And Rikki still knowing nothing about her mother—her maternal family. So I have decided to try to write to her about things that I would want to know about my mom—especially if I had never seen her. As is the case with rikki.

Well, so much for divorcing her out of mind and soul… maybe I could write it as letter or something, 3^rd party perhaps. But I do at least need to write it, as I need to—I love her too much to not. A very dear friend of mine Susan Murphy Milano once said to me—‘you can’t miss what you never had’- but I do. I know I gave birth to a beautiful little girl who about died before she was even born due to all the beatings inflicted by her loving father- and captor.

I know we had 7 years of life of freedom—although they were court hell. Monthly hearings sometimes even weekly in the family court,  to include two KS State Appeals, two petitions for review at KS supreme court and even an international law suit. But we were together, minus his long visits’. We saw each other, we laughed, we played, we cried, we talked. It was perfect in an imperfect world. She, wise beyond her years and for good reason. The only child hood she did know—I was at least able to give her that and be a part of that for her, she so deserved to just be a kid. And she was-- until she was taken from me and given to the abuser at the tender age of 7 never to see her mom again, in any meaningful way.

I am still seeking freedom, in this land of the non free- held special for a sadistic criminal to continue his reign of terror. Specially advocated through the family court mafia- the profit- of blood.

Before you think that I am all gloom and doom-although the past 17 years has been like a torturous death day in and day out- I am learning me again. A person who loved to read, loved life-more so now after so much darkness, I embrace every living thing, every tree that blows in the wind. As I know how very precious and how so very beautiful the world is.