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For the families and friends of murdered victims, this day sends a powerful message. Our country cares and will remember those lives cut short. A national day of remembrance also reminds the nation that there are hundreds and hundreds of lives altered by murder each and every year.

In Indianapolis, where I live, the service is held at a different church every year. Every year, a table is placed at the front of the church with several votive candles on the table. Each year, the number of candles varies. Each candle represents a life lost to murder that occurred in the city between September 1st of the previous year through August 31st of the current year.

Last yea,r in my city, there were 110 candles on the table — 110 candles too many. The name of each victim is read and the family is invited to come forward and light the candle. If the family is not able to be in attendance, the staff of the victim assistants unit of the local police department lights the candle.

This year will be the third year I attend the service. The first year I attended with my other two sisters. We sat together, bracing for the moment they read our sister’s name. When the time came, the three of us walked to the table and together lit the candle for our sister.

It was a touching, tender, emotional time. None of us wanted to be there, yet we were there with many other people all for the same reason. I continue to attend the service each year to offer support and hope to the “new” families whose lives have been changed forever.

So today, I ask my Open to Hope family to find some time to take a moment of silence or to light a candle in support of all the people of our great nation that lost their lives to murder and for their family and friends who continue to struggle as they find their way along the journey of loss.

The post September 25: Day of Remembrance for Murder Victims appeared first on Open to Hope.

At noon, he called to tell me she was dilated to 7 and he was having lunch to get ready for the big push! He told me his wife, my niece, my sister’s daughter, was doing remarkable. He said not a whimper from her; she was staying so strong and positive.

At 5:21 pm, I received the call. Victoria was here. She was beautiful, he said. I heard the joy in his voice. I was at work throughout this day, receiving the updates. I was busy and didn’t have much time to ponder what was happening.

And then, I was driving home from work. I pondered the day. I thought about the birth of my great niece. I thought about my sister. I cried so hard I had to pull off the highway. I sat with my head on the steering wheel, tears falling into my lap.

My sister should have been calling me all day with updates. I should have heard the excitement and joy in her voice. I should have heard her describing the love, the pride, and the feeling of being a grandmother. Those of us that are grandmothers know that feeling. I often say I didn’t know I could fall in love again until I had a grandchild. I didn’t hear my sister’s voice over the phone. I imagined hearing it. With my head on the steering wheel, I imagined hearing the joy in her voice. I imagined hearing her childlike squeals of delight when she described her beautiful granddaughter to me. I imagined.

Eventually, I was able to compose myself and drive home. Once home, I sat in silence. I thought about my sister. I missed her so very much. I felt robbed once again. We so often talked about becoming grandmothers together. Our daughters were married just months apart. We had so much left to do together. It was a bittersweet day.

I am now planning my trip to North Carolina to meet Victoria. I will be taking the quilt I had made, using some of my sister’s clothes, to baby Victoria. I will wrap the baby in the quilt and begin telling her about her grandmother. I will do my best to tell Victoria all I can about my sister, so she will feel like she knows her grandmother. When I hold baby Victoria, I will be holding a part of my sister. One child born in this world to carry on. Life continues.

Shirley Wiles-Dickinson 2012

The post Newborn Niece Completes Circle of Life appeared first on Open to Hope.

If there is to be peace in the world,

There must be peace in the nations.

If there is to be peace in the nations,

There must be peace in the cities.

If there is to be peace in the cities,

There must be peace between neighbors.

If there is to be peace between neighbors,

There must be peace in the home.

If there is to be peace in the home,

There must be peace in the heart.

I recently came across this prayer and have spent hours thinking about it. In the world today, we so often hear the words “world peace.” I read this prayer and question whether world peace can ever be attained. I don’t mean to sound pessimistic, but really, can it?

When I look at the written words of the above prayer, I look at it like a ladder. The last line is the bottom rung of the ladder. To reach the top, we must climb every rung of the ladder.

Personally, I’ve been battling with finding peace in my heart. My sister was murdered just over two years ago. I struggle with finding peace. The murderer was caught, found guilty and sentenced.

Still peace eludes me most days. It’s an unsettling time for me in this personal war of mine. That being said, I don’t, I won’t give up on making peace in my heart. I know, once I have peace in my heart, I will have peace in my home. I live alone, unless you count my dog, Chumlee, so peace at home should be attainable.

The next ladder rung, peace between neighbors will be a real struggle for me. My sister was murdered by a neighbor. Will I ever trust my neighbors? Will I ever feel real peace in my neighborhood? And if I do attain peace in my neighborhood, finding peace in the city will be next to impossible. I hear of crime, violence occurring on a daily basis. How can we attain peace, total peace, if each and every one of us isn’t willing to work towards the goal?

It would be easy to read this prayer and think it’s impossible to achieve. I decided not to read the entire prayer. Instead, I start at the bottom of the ladder. There must be peace in my heart. As Ghandi said, “Be the change you wish to see in the world.”

Where are you on the ladder? Please join me on the bottom rung. Let’s achieve peace together.

Shirley Wiles-Dickinson 2011

The post A New Year’s Hope: Prayer for Peace appeared first on Open to Hope.

There, in the box, was the beautiful hand knit blanket. As I looked at the blanket, Sandra exclaimed, “I made it!” I must have looked at her questioningly, because again she exclaimed, “I made it, really, I made it!”

Sandra, who was murdered two years ago, wasn’t known for her domestic abilities, especially knitting. She proceeded to tell me she had learned how to knit so she could make the blanket for me and my new baby.

A few months ago, while once again purging my closet, I came across the blanket. It was in a box, carefully wrapped in tissue paper. When I folded back the tissue paper and saw the blanket, the memories of the day I received it flooded my mind.

I held the blanket. I touched it to my face. I cried. The day I found the blanket, Sandra had been gone for just over two years. She was tragically murdered in her home. I remember thinking; did I tell her how honored I was that she made the blanket for me? Did I tell her how beautiful it was?

I sat in the closet on the floor and stared at the blanket. At that moment, I realized why I had saved the blanket all these years. Sandra’s only child, her daughter is expecting her first child in February. I had no way of knowing all these years, but I saved that blanket so I could pass it on to my niece to use for her baby. Now, Sandra’s grandchild could be wrapped in a blanket that she had made.

Just yesterday, I wrapped the blanket in fresh tissue paper, put it in a new box, taped it up, wrapped it up and sent it to my niece a few states away. I wrote her a note, explaining the story of the blanket. Now, I’m anxiously awaiting the birth of my new great niece in February.

Although my sister, her grandmother, won’t be physically present to celebrate this new life, she will be with us in spirit and I for one, can hardly wait to wrap the baby in the blanket and tell her how much her Grandma loves her.

Shirley Wiles-Dickinson 2011

The post The Gift of the Blanket appeared first on Open to Hope.

I did not witness the murder. I did, however, witness the murder trial, the conviction and the sentence. I know how she died. I know it was brutal. I know she suffered a great, great deal. I saw pictures, I heard testimony and I have a very clear picture in my mind of her final moments. With all that I know about her death, I have to work very hard at pushing that knowledge, along with the thoughts and images that come with it, to the back of my mind.

I work very hard at trying to focus on her life, not on how she died. And work it is; hard work, perhaps the hardest work I have ever done. I think about Sandra every day. For months and months, my thoughts were consumed with her death, the way she died.

I have recently made a conscious effort to try my best to focus on her life. I will never forget the way she died and now I vow to myself to never forget the way she lived. After all, how she lived is so much more important to her memory and my healing.

With the holiday season upon us, I have used that theme in my thinking. Every day I think of Sandra, I think of all I have to be thankful for. Not just what I’m thankful for today, in the present, but also what I’m thankful for in my past.

I am so thankful Sandra was my sister.

I am so thankful I had her in my life for 54 years.

I am so thankful for the lessons she taught me, the laughs we shared.

I am so thankful for the wonderful sister bond Sandra and I shared; a unique bond that I thought all sisters shared and have since learned differently.

I am so thankful for the unconditional love and acceptance Sandra and I had for each other. I am so thankful that I know and understand that the love and acceptance remains and always will.

I am thankful I have a sister named Sandra. I am so thankful for the time she was here, on earth with me. I am so thankful that having her as a sister ensured that our paths not only crossed, they intertwined for much of my life.

I will always know how Sandra died. I can share that story over and over again. I can help others that are going through a similar experience. More importantly, I will always know how Sandra lived. I can share that story over and over again, recounting all the ways she loved and gave to those around her. Sharing the story of how she lived, will hopefully help others become thankful for the time they had with their loved one too.

Shirley Wiles-Dickinson

2011

The post Turning a Corner? appeared first on Open to Hope.

When I heard those words, I immediately thought about my sister. Sandra was a school teacher. She taught school for well over 30 years. She was passionate about her work, her students. The last 10 years of her life, she taught special needs students.

Sandra was a kind, caring, a very compassionate woman. Just over two years ago, when she died, I remember hearing people talk about the things she did for others. The night of her visitation, I listened to so many people tell me what she had done for them and for their children. It made me smile.

One story remains in my memory, perhaps more vivid than other stories. On that visitation night, a man approached me. He asked me if Sandra was my sister. I smiled and said yes, she is. He told me he was a janitor at the school where Sandra taught. He said that she did something for me that will never be forgotten.

I listened intensely as he told me the story. The janitor said he had worked hard and saved enough money to become an American citizen. He took the required citizenship classes, studied hard and attended the ceremony where he was pronounced an American citizen. I could see the pride in him as he spoke.

He then went on to tell me that the day after he became a citizen, he went to work. Before classes started for the day he was in his janitor office doing some paperwork. He heard some commotion and looked up. There was Sandra, carrying a homemade apple pie with an American flag stuck in the top. She also carried a sash that said American Citizen across it. She was followed by several other teachers.

As she walked through the door way of his office, he stood up. She set the pie on his desk, put the sash over his head and shoulder and turned to the other teachers and nodded. She then led the teachers in singing, “God Bless America.” The janitor beamed, with tears in his eyes, as he told me the story. I beamed with tears in my eyes also. I hugged the janitor and thanked him for sharing that wonderful memory with me. He said, “My family and I will never forget your sister and her kindness.”

I think about that story. That story represents who my sister was. She celebrated life every day. She acknowledged other people’s accomplishments with kindness and celebration. She was known for baking her apple pies for random occasions.

When I heard that Albert Pine quote, I immediately thought of this story and realized my sister will remain immortal to so many people. Knowing that comforts me. Knowing she was loved and is truly missed by so many other people helps me feel so much less alone. Since her death, I try to be a kinder, more compassionate person. I want that part of her to live on through me. I reach out to those traveling the journey, similar to mine. I can only hope a part of me will, too, remain immortal.

Shirley Wiles-Dickinson 2011

The post Sister is Gone, Her Legacy is Immortal appeared first on Open to Hope.

It will soon be 26 months since my beautiful sister, Sandra, lost her life by the hands of a murderer. I think back on the last 26 months and all that happened, all I learned. I often described those months as a rollercoaster. Emotions and feelings were up and down, up and down. Lately, I’ve likened the experience to a personal earthquake.

The day I learned of my sister’s death it did feel like an earthquake. The epi center of that quake was my core, my being. I was thrown off center, suddenly. Month after month, I felt off kilter, not centered, unstable. Throughout the last 26 months, after that initial quake, I experienced aftershocks, smaller quakes that continued to keep me off center, out of alignment. We waited six months for an arrest to be made. When the arrest was finally made, I felt an aftershock. Jolted back to those first days after her murder, the emotions I felt then, again resurfaced.

The murderer pled not guilty, so we spent the next 18 months waiting for a jury trial. We had 7 continuances. Each continuance was again like an aftershock. Each continuance rattled me, kept me off center. Throughout those 18 months of waiting we were given some information about the case. Of course, full disclosure of all the evidence wasn’t permitted, anything told to us could jeopardize the case, so we remained ‘in the dark’ about some things.

When the jury trial did begin, just 10 days prior to the two-year anniversary of my sister’s death, I felt several aftershocks. It was an intense week. Throughout the trial we listened to testimony and we learned, perhaps more than we were prepared to learn. In the end, the murderer was found guilty. A few weeks later he was sentenced to 95 years, the maximum sentence possible.

In the last two months, since the trial ended, I’ve struggle with what to do with all that information. I try to put it away in my mind. I try to push it deep down in my brain, hoping it remains there and doesn’t resurface. I’ve worked so hard at moving forward, making good, positive changes in my life. Just when I thought I was I was on level ground again, just when I thought I was becoming aligned once again, I experienced yet another aftershock.

I was driving the 90 miles to go see my Mother. Perhaps it was the solitude of the drive, I don’t know, but there, front and center in my mind was the testimony of the doctor that performed the autopsy on my sister’s body. His words echoed in my mind, “almost torturous”. “The murderer kept her on the defensive.” “When she put her hand out to try to scratch him, he stabbed her palm.” “When she crossed her arms in front of her face and chest to protect herself, he slashed at her forearms over and over again.” “When she turned away from him, he cut the back of her head and neck.”

The words rang out in my mind. I wanted to wail, to scream, to cry out. I always thought of the fear and the terror my sister must have felt in her final moments, but on this day, the word suffering was glaring. She suffered. She suffered a terrible death that no one should ever have to suffer. Knowing how she suffered, knowing she didn’t stand a chance against the animal, reliving that testimony was and is a tough aftershock. He wore her down, almost like he toyed with her, wearing her down until he could deliver the fatal stab wound. The stab that went through her lung, into her heart, then into her liver.

As hard as I try to bury that information, it resurfaces. Perhaps in time, it will resurface less and less. That remains to be seen. In the meantime, I have no choice but to live through the aftershocks. As I pulled into the parking lot of the assisted living facility where my Mother lives, it would have been easy for me to turn around and just go home. I could not, I would not do that. Had I done that, the animal would in a sense, win again.

I composed myself, took several deep breaths and walked into my Mom’s apartment. I smiled, I kissed her forehead and not once did my 82 year old Mother know that her baby girl was having a rough day. I survived the aftershock. I will survive all of the aftershocks yet to come. I may never be completely aligned again, I may always feel a little off kilter, but in the end, I will continue to win each and every battle.

Shirley Wiles-Dickinson 2011

The post Aftershock of a Murder appeared first on Open to Hope.

Finally, about 4 hours later, we were told the jury had reached a verdict. At that moment, I remember thinking, I hope they get it right. I hope they listened, I hope they reviewed their notes and the evidence. As the jury filed in, not one of them looked to our family. They all seemed to be looking down.

For an instant, I panicked. Would they say “not guilty”. I held my breath. I clutched the hands of the people on each side of me. I waited. The judge read the verdict.

“We the jury, find the defendant, GUILTY of murder.” I breathed. A few tears slid down my cheeks. I thought I would feel a huge sense of relief when the trial ended. I thought I would be happy with a guilty verdict. I felt a bit of relief. No happiness came my way. No joy. I felt like a blank slate. Nothing had changed.

We left the court room, knowing the media was waiting outside. I had been asked to be the family spokesperson if I wanted to speak to the media. They approached me. I spoke calmly and quietly. I did not cry. I did not smile. I just spoke.

As we left the building, the jurors weren’t far behind us. Several of them stopped and told us how sorry they were for our loss. They hugged us, they cried with us. They told us how they saw things, how they were thinking throughout the week. We were blessed with a kind, caring, compassionate jury. Much like my sister was.

It was well after 11 pm when I arrived home. I took my shoes off and sat on the couch. I looked around my home. I sat in silence. Exhausted and feeling blank inside. What had I expected? Did I think the guilty verdict would change anything? I don’t know. I do know nothing has changed. At the end of the day, my beautiful sister is still gone. At the end of every day, she is gone.

Justice was served yesterday with that guilty verdict. Justice was served, not for my sister’s murder. Can you ever have justice for a murder? I don’t think so. Justice was served for our community, our state. Knowing that no other innocent person, no other family will have to go through what my sister went through, what my family went through by the hands of this murderer.

I truly believe a life will be blessed because of this verdict. A life will be spared. That’s what we received yesterday. And that has to be enough.

Shirley Wiles-Dickinson 2011

The post Guilty! Sister Comforted That Murderer is Confined Forever appeared first on Open to Hope.

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Like many people this past week, I heard the verdict in the Casey Anthony trial.  I did not follow the trial closely so I really don’t know what evidence was presented.  I do know that I have read much of the evidence was circumstantial. 

With my sister’s murder trial postponed for the 7^th time recently, I’ve thought a lot about that “not guilty” verdict.  I shudder to think when the trial finally does happen, that those two words be spoken. I’ve been told by the prosecutor that he has no doubt in his mind that the right man is accused. However, he went on to say, “It’s not what you know, it’s what you can prove in court.” Basically, he is saying it’s what you can prove to a 12 member jury. 

I have also learned that the 12 people picked for the jury may not be like you and I.  Some people want to be picked for jury duty because to them, $12 a day is a lot of money.  Others want to be picked because they have nothing else to do. Still others are picked against their will; they really don’t want to be there at all.  I have been told by others who have been through a murder trial for their loved one what I can expect. It’s frightening to me. 

First, I have to trust that the prosecutor, whom I don’t know all that well, will present solid evidence. Then I have to trust that 12 people, whom I don’t know at all, will understand and process that information into a guilty verdict.  And we can’t forget the “beyond a reasonable doubt” doctrine.  There were no witnesses to my sister’s murder. That scares me, worries me.

Many of my close friends tell me not to worry about the trial. “They’ll nail that guy.”  Will they?  I know they all mean well. I know they are all trying to ease my mind. However, I don’t think anyone can truly understand the thoughts and fears I have unless they too have traveled this road.   And I hope no one ever has to travel this road.

I hold onto hope. I hope the prosecutor does beyond his best.  I hope the jury listens intently to all the facts. I hope for the ‘guilty’ verdict.  Hope, never give up hope.

Shirley Wiles-Dickinson 2011

The post Casey Anthony Verdict Stirs Fears in Sister of Murdered Woman appeared first on Open to Hope.

Less than two months after my sister’s murder, her 24-year-old daughter (my niece) called and asked for my help.   My sister owned her home and the insurance company would pay for a total restoration; however, everything had to be removed from the home before the restoration could begin.

When my niece was talking to me about this, I realized I was holding my breath.  My sister was murdered in her home and now, we had to walk into that home and clear it of all her possessions.  Of course, I told my niece we would help.

We chose a day and met at the house.  My niece, myself and my grown son and daughter, my other two sisters and one brother in law were as prepared as we could be to help my niece with what seemed like a monumental task.

I tried to prepare myself, mentally, for what I would see when I walked into the house.  I wanted to see her home as I remembered it. Bright, light colors, lots of pastels, a pretty home.  As I walked in the door, I realized immediately it was no longer bright and pretty.  The carbon left from the fingerprint dust stains every surface it touches.  The walls, every flat surface, door knobs, light switches, everything was dark. It was haunting.  I remember thinking, I used to watch those crimes shows on television, but not once did they ever show this part.

I cried and felt physically ill. My children helped me through those moments.  I then told myself, I am here to help my niece. This has to be done, we will get through this day, and we will get this finished.

My daughter took the lead that day. She delegated to me and my other two sisters, mainly to keep us focused on the task at hand.  We focused on the three bedrooms. My son and brother in law cleaned the kitchen…removed food from the refrigerator and cupboards.  The two of them also went and rented a U-Haul to load the furniture that we could salvage from the home.  They also moved everything in the living room to the outer edge of the wall.  My niece chose to stay in the kitchen most of the day. She would pack the kitchen.  I understood.  She couldn’t bring herself to go through her mom’s clothes. That was okay, we would do that for her.

I had spoken to my grief counselor a few days before going to the house. She suggested we make four piles. Keep. Toss. Donate. And the I don’t know pile.   I suggested that to the family and we all agreed. And that’s exactly how we did it.

Most of her clothes were donated to Goodwill.   We did keep some of her clothes.  We had teddy bears made out of some of her sweaters and sweatshirts.  I kept some of her softer clothes. I would have a quilt made out of those clothes for my niece’s first baby.  A quilt made from their grandmothers soft clothes.

Since my sister had several good friends, I kept them in mind also. I had a special pile of small perhaps insignificant things to some to give to her friends.  When I later sent those things to the different friends, they were all so grateful for having something of their dear friend.  We also made sure to keep a few things for Mom, since she was not physically able to help us that day.

I had a hard time letting go of her things. I wanted to keep it all. I knew that wasn’t possible but it was still hard to let her things go.  I did keep several items to take home with me.  The one thing I kept, my favorite thing, was a soft, pink, fuzzy, jacket I had found in her closet.  I put that jacket on and immediately feel her with me.  Even today, I find comfort in that jacket.

At the end of that day, nine hours after arriving at the house, we had accomplished our goal.   The furniture had been loaded and tagged as to where it would be stored.  Our cars were loaded with what we were taking for ourselves.  I did one final walk through of the house.  I suppose it was my way of saying goodbye to a part of my life that would never be again.

I paused at the closed bathroom door in the hallway. This small tiny room was where my sister’s body was found. This tiny room was where she took her last breath.  I didn’t open the door, none of us had, we didn’t need to see what was behind that door. I put my hand on that door, bowed my head and cried.

My sister’s house has now been completely restored.  The walls were painted, new carpet laid, the bathroom where she died was completely redone, new fixtures, walls, floor, everything.   I drive by the house on occasion. I still remember the fun times my sister and I had in that house.   I still remember the horror that happened in that house too.

When it comes to having to take care of our loved ones’ possessions, my first advice is to ask for help.   We didn’t have the luxury of taking our time, but I would have if I could have.  I would also advise to keep in mind friends that also loved your loved one.  If there’s anything you can part with, to give to those friends and other family members, I think it should be done.

The idea of making the four piles worked well for us. The I don’t know pile went to storage and was mostly furniture.  Since then, all the furniture is now in use by someone in the family.  My niece wanted it that way. She has a few pieces, I have a few pieces, my children have a few pieces and we all cherish what we have.

When I think back on that day, I know my sister was there with us, watching over us, proud of all of us for not only helping her daughter, but for conquering that daunting task.  For all of us there that day, it was a huge step forward in this process.

Shirley Wiles-Dickinson 2011

The post What To Do With a Loved One’s Possessions? appeared first on Open to Hope.

Choosing to seek the help of psychologist was one of the most important decisions I made.  I discussed so many emotions and feelings with her.  Emotions and feelings I would have most likely kept bottled up inside had I not made that first appointment with her.

Of all the issues I discussed with her,  trust seemed to be the most difficult.  I remember my first appointment.  She was soft spoken, gentle, she put me at ease. She was gaining my trust. I suppose, given the circumstances, she of all people knew it was probably difficult for me to trust.

Shortly after my sister’s death, I became withdrawn. I was once again afraid of the dark, something that hadn’t bothered me since I was a child.  I realized my fear of the dark represented my fear of the unknown.  I still sleep with lights on.

I also actively fought agoraphobia.  I didn’t want to leave my home. If someone could enter my sister’s home and brutally stab her to death, what was to stop some one from hurting me? I had made my home as safe as I could.  The doors remained locked, windows closed. I didn’t answer the door if someone knocked.

Years before, I had been trained to use a weapon. I felt safe handling a weapon and kept one close by at all times.  I felt safe in my home.

My psychologist helped me understand that someone walking up to me in the middle of Walmart and trying to hurt me was very unlikely.  I had exaggerated the thought in my mind.  Slowly, ever so slowly, I began to go out.  A trip to the post office, a trip to the grocery store, a walk around the block all seem like such simple things, but for me, at that time, they were huge steps.

Three days after my sister’s death, I spoke to detectives. I remember the interview. I remember the end of the interview. The detective took my hand to shake it, held onto my hand and looked me in the eye and told me my sister’s case would not go cold. He would find the murderer.  I trusted him.  Looking me in the eye and telling me what he did earned my trust.  Six months later, the same detective called me to tell me an arrest had been made.

Trusting doesn’t come easy for me.  I moved back to my home state seven months after my sister’s death. I wanted and needed to be closer to my family.  I moved into my home, alone. Well, not totally alone. I had rescued a little dog, a little barky dog, my built-in alarm system.

I made my new home safe too.  I kept to myself though. I didn’t talk to my neighbors, other than a nod of the head and brief hello.  My job had transferred me when I moved. I went to work, but I didn’t get close to anyone there, not physically or emotionally.  I also realized my personal space, the space around me that is my space and no one else is invited in, grew larger.  I wanted to keep people at a arm’s length so speak. Actually it was longer than a arm’s length.

After the arrest was made and the accused plead not guilty, we were assigned a deputy prosecutor to try my sister’s case.  I spoke with him a few times. I let my guard down, I trusted him.  Three months ago, in December, I learned the prosecutor had been fired. Fired for not doing his job correctly.

I was angry. Not only angry at the prosecutor, but angry at myself for trusting him.  We now have a new prosecutor. I want to trust her. However, she is going to have to work hard to earn my trust.

Moving also meant finding a new doctor, a new dentist, a new psychologist.  I asked around at work about a doctor and dentist.   I didn’t ask about a psychologist. Wouldn’t my co workers think I was crazy or something for needing a psychologist?

I made an appointment to see a doctor.  Of course, she’s female; it seems like I can only trust women for now.   The doctor is okay. I have developed a trust for her. I also found a dentist, again a female. I made and cancelled two appointments.  After all, a dentist violates my personal space. I wasn’t sure I could let anyone, man or woman, get that close to me, physically.

I did eventually make another appointment and I didn’t cancel.   I sat in that dentist chair, nervous, anxious and close to tears.  When the dentist came into the room, we chatted for a minute or so.  When she started to examine my teeth, tears started streaming down my face. She stopped and asked if she was hurting me. I shook my head no. She backed away, handed me a few Kleenex and said she’d give me a few minutes.

She sat there in silence, as if she was waiting for me to speak.  I finally did speak. I told her about my sister’s death and how it has affected me. I told her keeping this appointment was a huge step for me. She smiled, a gentle smile and said, “I’m glad you chose me to take this step with.”  I relaxed.  She seemed to understand.  She proceeded with the exam, pausing at times to back away, to give me space.  I so appreciated that gesture.

Since my sister’s death, I have and continue to experience the journey of grief. I feel the sadness, the anger, the emptiness.  Since my sister’s death was a homicide, I’ve realized that the man who brutally stabbed my sister to death  not only took my sister, he took so much more.  I often wonder, will I ever truly feel peace of mind again?  Will I ever truly feel safe in my surroundings? Will I ever look at the world and see more good than bad?

Will I ever have the ability to trust again, like I once did?  Although, I honestly feel like the answer to all four of those questions is ‘no’, I am not ready to give up yet.

I do my grief work.  I try very hard to do my complicated grief work.   I’ve learned that literally, in an instant, life can change. And that instant, it seems, will be a constant in my life until I too, take my last breath.

Shirley Wiles-Dickinson 2011

The post Woman Finds it Hard to Trust after Sister’s Murder appeared first on Open to Hope.

After my sister was murdered, just under 18 months ago, I experienced anger. I still experience it.  I was angry that it happened to my sister. I was angry at God, and I still have a few questions for him.  The anger now comes and goes. I think I have taught myself to release the anger when I can and suppress the anger when I need to.

A few months after my sister died, the anger welled up inside me and finally came spilling out. I had days that I wanted to hit something.  I knew I couldn’t do that. My counselor had told me time and time again, I could feel, think, act in any way I wanted to as long as I didn’t cause physical harm to myself or anyone else. If I did that, I would be crossing the line, the line between healthy and unhealthy grief. 

My anger and my need to hit something grew.  In my home, the door that led from the house to the garage had a half window in it. When I would go to the garage, I would grab the door knob and look at that glass. I often thought, I could punch that window, it wouldn’t do much damage. I fought the urge. Every day, I fought that urge.

Finally, I made a sign that read “Do Not Cross That Line.” A sensory reminder that kept me from punching that window. Eventually, I did go out and purchase a punching bag, complete with the gloves.  My husband hung the bag in the garage for me and I began to use it everyday. I punched and cussed and punched and cussed. Every day, often several times a day, I would go to the garage, pull the gloves on and punch that bag. It felt good. I was releasing the anger in a healthy way. A way that worked for me.

Nine months after my sister’s death, I moved back to my home state. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a garage or a place for the punching bag in my new home. My son has the bag in his garage, 90 miles away from where I live.  I began suppressing the anger more and more. 

I needed a new release, a physical release.  I had read or heard somewhere about an older lady who felt anger when her husband died. I remembered what she did, so I too, decided to try it. I went to the local Goodwill store and bought as much of the inexpensive glassware I could carry.

I then told my boss what I wanted to do and she okayed it.  The glassware stays in the trunk of my car. When I feel the need and I have the opportunity, I drive to work when no one is there. I pull up to the dumpster, retrieve the glass from my trunk and start throwing the glass in the dumpster. I throw with all my might. When the glass shatters inside the dumpster, it’s like a release for me. It helps me with the anger.

A third way I’ve released anger is to write. I write letters, never sending them, to anyone or anything that angers me.  Sometimes, just getting the thoughts out of my mind and onto paper, is all it takes.  I’ve written several letters. I re-read them sometimes, I throw them away sometimes. I can always write more letters.

Anger is an overwhelming emotion, especially to those of us who had rarely really experienced anger. Not at this level.  My anger comes and goes. Since my sister’s murder, I experience anger on different levels, at different times.
I feel anger that it happened to my sister. I feel anger that she died in such a tragic way. I feel anger that she died in terror and fear. I feel anger at the choice that one human being made to end another human being’s life. I feel angry at the justice system. I still at times feel anger at our higher being. 

Anger is okay. It is perfectly normal to feel anger. It’s even better when you find ways to release the anger. I suppose I’ll be tossing glass in dumpsters and writing letters for a long time to come. It’s okay, I’m normal.  

Shirley Wiles-Dickinson 2011

The post Releasing Anger While Dealing with Loss appeared first on Open to Hope.

The initial trial was set for June 7th, then continued until June 21st.  The trial was continued once again, this time until September 13th.  As September approached, yet another continuance, November 29th.  Then, just before Thanksgiving, the trial was once again continued until March 7th.  All the continuances were granted to the defense.

Every time the trial approached, I would feel myself becoming anxious and nervous.  It took every ounce of mind strength to focus on work and any other task I would do.  I told myself with each upcoming date not to get my hopes up. Try to stay pessimistic!  Avoid disappointment at all costs.  Try as I might, every time the trial has been continued, I go through a period of disappointment, letdown.

I know the trial will not end my grief. The trial will not make anything better. Justice being served will not bring my sister back.  What I hope for is that justice served will let me move past the waiting and worry. It will let me take a bigger step forward, so to speak.  When justice is served, I hope to be able to focus more on the good in my life.

I attended the final pre trial hearing on February 23rd.   It was the first time I saw the accused in person.  As this man was escorted into the courtroom in his orange jumpsuit, hands and feet shackled, I realized I was holding my breath.  I began my deep breathing…smell the roses, blow out the candle.

I knew I couldn’t say a word, I couldn’t cry out loud. Once we entered the court room, we were told no talking, no noise whatsoever.  I continued my breathing, all the while glaring at this man. I saw his size. A big man, much stronger than my sister.  At that very moment, I loved her even more for fighting as hard as she did.

He looked at me, our eyes met and I held my gaze. He looked away. I felt as if I won a small battle.

I had learned, a few weeks prior to this pre trial, that the lead prosecutor on my sister’s case had been terminated.  He was fired before Christmas.  My first thought was that now the prosecution is going to have to ask for a continuance.  The new prosecutor will need time to review the case.

Sitting in the court room, listening to the public defender ask for yet another continuance, my heart sank.  The judge agreed; he needed more time, since he had just been given information from the new prosecutor about the case.  So, once again, the trial was continued.

Now the date, May 16th is embedded in my brain. Will it happen then? Will we finally get on with this process?  Will justice be served for my sister? I hold onto hope. Hope, it seems, is all I can do.

Shirley Wiles-Dickinson 2011

The post For Family of Murder Victim, Wheels of Justice Turn Slowly appeared first on Open to Hope.

On my first visit, the therapist and I talked about my sister’s death, the tragic way in which she died.  I shared some of my darkest thoughts with the therapist. My sister was murdered, in her home, brutally stabbed to death.

I talked about how I thought about her crying out, begging for her life. I talked about the way she fought for her life. I talked about the fear and terror she felt before taking her last breath. I talked about her dying alone.  Towards the end of the session, my therapist looked at me and said, “There is a quote that comes to mind that I think you will understand. A quote by Winston Churchill. ‘When you think you are going through hell, keep walking.’”

I looked at my therapist. I understood what the quote meant, at least what it meant to me. The therapist told me that I too would keep walking. Slow small steps. She reminded me it would be a long walk and to take my time.

As I drove home that day, I thought about that quote. I also thought how it felt like I was going through hell. Keep walking. The phrase stuck in my mind. Over the next weeks and months, I kept walking. Early on, walking meant getting off the couch and getting dressed. Eventually walking meant doing a load of laundry and fixing myself something to eat. Walking meant facing each day, doing something, anything.  Week after week, month after month, I felt myself straying a little farther away from the edge of that black hole.

Six months after my sister’s murder, an arrest was made. I was able to take a few more steps away from that black hole.

It has been a very slow process. I’ve learned patience not only with myself, but with others and the justice system. The black hole is still there, albeit it appears much smaller now. I’ve moved farther and farther away from that hole.  I know it wouldn’t take much for me to slide closer to that hole again, but I keep walking. Every day I keep walking by working, writing, honoring my sister.  The black hole will always be there, but as long as it is just a small speck on the horizon, I know I’m walking and I’m winning the battle.

Everyday I think of that quote. Everyday I tell myself….keep walking.

Shirley Wiles-Dickinson 2011

The post When Living in Grief, ‘Keep Walking’ appeared first on Open to Hope.

When my sister was brutally murdered in her home, the shock alone was overwhelming. That was followed by complete sadness and anger. The one question the survivors of Tuscon will ask and will never get a justifiable answer is, “Why?”

In time, they will get the answers to all the other questions, but the why will linger on with them for the rest of their lives.

For a very long time, those affected will wake up every morning thinking about what happened. They will go to sleep every night thinking about what happened.  It will become a part of who they are. I only hope they too will seek help from professionals and others who have suffered the same tragedy.

The mourners and wounded may begin — as I did — to look at the world and the people in it as bad, terrible, frightening.  It will take time for them to be able to see that there is good in this world.

Personally, after 18 months, I still struggle with that issue.  Most likely, they will increase their awareness of personal safety.  It’s almost that “looking over your shoulder” feeling.  They will avoid confrontation because they now know bad things happen to good people.  In this world we live in, confronting someone about anything may result in violent actions against you.

Today, I wish I was in Tucson, close to those people, lending a shoulder to cry on, listening to their questions, comforting them.  Today, I will struggle too. The memories of my sister’s murder will follow close behind me today, lingering, waiting to pop into my mind.  And I too will relive those first weeks, hoping once again to wake up from this terrible nightmare.

Shirley Wiles-Dickinson 2011

The post Tucson Murders Rekindle Memories of Sister’s Death appeared first on Open to Hope.

My son graduated from college before Dad died. My daughter graduated from college after Dad died.  I often think how my life has changed, what is different now, after Dad died.   Before Dad died, I talked to my Mom a lot, after Dad died I talked to my Mom even more. She needed me more. She always needed me, even before Dad died. It took his death to make me realize that.

Before and After, our measure of events and time. 

When my sister was brutally murdered just over a year ago, the before and after took on a new role. Before my sister died, family was important to me. After she died, family is so very much more important. Before my sister died, I lived 800 miles away from all of my family. After she died, I made the decision to move back to my home state to be closer to all of my family. Before my sister died,  I thought I was taking measure to keep myself safe. After my sister died, I learned to take even more measures to keep myself safe.  

Before my sister died, I never thought about bad things happening to good people. After she died, I learned bad things do and will continue to happen to good people.  Before my sister died, I thought we had time to do all we had planned to do. After she died, I learned life can literally change in an instant.   

The before and after with my sister’s death has been so much more pronounced than with any other loss I’ve experienced.  I don’t measure when events happened by her death as much as I did when Dad died. Instead, I measure what I’ve learned about death and homicide.   

Before her death, I thought I had experienced most of the ups and downs of life. After her death, I learned there were many experiences of life that I would rather not be forced to learn.  Before my sister died, I didn’t give a lot of thought to all we had shared together. After her death, I cherish those memories, I protect them, I hold on to them so tightly, knowing nothing can take those memories from me.

Like many other people, my life has become a before Sandy died and after Sandy died.

Would I like to return to the before? Of course, who wouldn’t? However we know we can’t go back, only forward. So try as I might, I continue into the after, one day at a time, sometimes, one step at a time. My life has been forever changed, not before, but after.    

Shirley Wiles-Dickinson

The post Before and After appeared first on Open to Hope.

Why did I come into the kitchen? What was I going to do? Where did I put my keys?

Those forgetful moments are normal when your mind and heart are grieving.  I remember several times I was driving in the car and forgot where I was going!  There were mornings I couldn’t find my glasses and would search the entire house, only to have my husband gently say to me, “Honey, you’re wearing your glasses.”

Often, I felt I was going crazy.  I forgot birthdays. I forgot phone numbers. It seemed like I would forever be going through life, trying to remember what I was supposed to do each day.

I’ve listened to many people describe the same things.  I am so glad I’m there to reassure them that it is normal.

I developed a few strategies to help me remember the daily things I needed to do.  Some may think I went to the extreme to remember, but  it worked for me.

I found several little notebooks, all a different color. I labeled the notebooks with important things I needed to remember. One was labeled” Doctor.” Another was labeled “Marriage.” One was labeled “Work.”

I probably had 8-10 of these little notebooks, and I kept them close to me at all times. I’d write down appointments in the corresponding notebook. If I had questions for the doctor, I’d write those questions in that notebook. It was my way of organizing my brain!  It helped.

As the months went on after my sister’s murder, I often felt like there was too much going on in my mind.  It was overwhelming to say the least.  At one of my support group meetings, I remember describing it as if I had a twelve-burner stove and on each burner was a big pot of soup that needed to be stirred. I felt like I was bouncing back and forth between those pots, stirring and stirring. It was exhausting and I was always afraid I was forgetting something.

My support group leader helped me immensely with those pots. Together, we sat down and talked about each pot of soup. Which pots could I really control, which pots belonged on the front burners of the stove?  I slowly learned to let some of the pots remain on the back burner and not worry about them. I’d tell myself they were slowly simmering and were fine left unattended.  I learned to let go of those pots that I couldn’t control. I learned to prioritize which pots needed my attention. I learned to de clutter my mind.

So if you are forgetting while grieving, you are not going crazy. Find what works for you to de-clutter your mind.  I am happy to say, that I am down to only a few notebooks.

In this new year, my goal is to keep my lists to a minimum.  I’m learning to let go of the small stuff.  When I empty my mind of all that small stuff, it’s amazing how the wonderful memories of my sister fill my mind.

Shirley Wiles Dickinson

The post Memory Loss During Grief appeared first on Open to Hope.

At first, I felt so weak, needing help dealing with the loss. As the weeks unfolded into months, I realized, with the help of all my support, that I wasn’t weak at all for needing help. I was strong for realizing I needed it. And even stronger for asking for help.

I remember discussing in the support group ‘finding a purpose.’ When we first talked about finding a purpose, I thought the group leader meant a purpose for Sandra’s death.  How could I ever find a purpose for my sister being murdered?  Jennifer, the group leader, was so patient with me. She explained I would not find a purpose for her death, but I would find new purpose for myself because of her death.

I then became almost obsessed with finding that purpose. What would it be?

I thought about writing a book (I’m still toying with the idea). I started writing for Open To Hope. Was that my purpose….to educate others through my own experiences?

The man accused of murdering my sister was arrested in March of 2010.  All the preliminary hearings were completed by early May.  Our court date was set for June 7th.  As June 7th approached, all of us grew very anxious, wanting this part of the tragedy over. Unfortunately the trial was continued until June 21st. I just knew on June 21st that we would go to court and it would be over.

I had my hopes up so high. When the trial was again continued until September 13th, I found myself deflated. I was beside myself with questions and disappointment.   I had started doing some research about the court process etc. a few months before and I decided to continue with that research. I needed to be better educated. I needed to channel my disappointment into something tangible for myself.

Educating myself was  perhaps one of the best decisions I made.  I researched. I not only researched the court processes, I researched the man accused of the murder.  The information I found was appalling. I was shocked at the information I found and anger began to show it’s ugly head.  By the time, I completed my research on the accused, I had a file over an inch thick about this person and his criminal activity.

I reviewed the files I had printed. The more I read them, the angrier I became.   I took the information to my support group and shared it with the group.  I had moved back to my home state in May and found a new support group.  The group was specifically for family and friends of victims of violence.

The group leader, Lisa, listened to what I read and responded with, “so what are you going to do about it?”  I looked at her with a blank stare. What did she mean? She then went on to tell me how several laws that are in affect today came about because someone cared, someone demanded change, someone fought for change.  Lisa really gave me a lot to think about.
The next day, I had made my decision. I started emailing state senators and representatives. I told them ‘my story’.  I shared my information with them. I told them “the criminal justice system as it is, failed my sister, failed my family terribly.”

I continued to email the same people for a few weeks. I was pleasantly surprised when I actually received a phone call from one of them.   I had been heard.  I was given more names, names that were directly involved with the restructuring of the criminal justice system in my state.  I began emailing those people too. Within a few weeks, I received an email. The email was from the coordinator of the ‘team’ working on the restructure.  She asked for my opinions and ideas. She heard me and she listened.

I am now happy to say that I have been invited to the statehouse at the state capital to give my input and opinion on the framework for the restructure.  I don’t know if what I have to say will change anything or not. I do know, I won’t quit fighting for the change.  I will not quit fighting to protect other potential victims and their families.

No change will undo what has been done. No change will bring my sister back. I know that.  Change will protect others.  Change is my new purpose.  It’s funny how, when I more or less quit dwelling on a purpose, the purpose came to me.  I feel re-energized. I am doing something that needs to be done.  I am my sister’s voice.

I share this experience hoping that perhaps others will also find a new purpose.  It may not be changing any laws or being invited to the statehouse. It may be to volunteer to drive cancer patients to their chemo treatments. It may be to volunteer for hospice.  It may be to look back and see that person just starting this journey of grief and offering them a hand, listening to them, giving them hope.

The post Finding a Purpose After a Sibling’s Murder appeared first on Open to Hope.

Last year was the first Christmas without my sister.  Personally, I felt like skipping over the entire season.  I knew in my heart that others were depending on me to help make the holidays bearable, so I helped.

I did ask less of myself though.  I did most of my shopping online. When I did go out to the malls I was surrounded by happy, laughing people and I felt very alone. I didn’t feel like laughing and being happy. I was almost angry that everyone around me was going on with their lives. Did they not know my sister was brutally murdered? Did they not know the world is a terrible place?  Did they not feel my pain? The answer to those questions was simply “no”. They did not know, they did not feel my pain, how could they?

I was attending a weekly support group at the time. ( I still attend a support group.) Our group leader was so helpful when it came to the holidays. She told stories of how others coped with the holidays. She gave us suggestions and ideas and most of all, she told us that however we chose to spend the holidays was okay. It was our choice.

It was okay to spend the time alone. It was okay to spend the time with family. It was okay to cry. It was okay to laugh. Whatever we chose to do was okay.

That helped me immensely. I was able to take some of the pressure off myself by understanding that Christmas of 2009 would not be the same as every Christmas before that and it was okay.  The group leader also asked us to make our plans.

Then she asked us to have a plan B.  My husband and I planned to travel back to my home state to celebrate Christmas with my family.  We had the day set, all of the family would be together.

I was nervous about that day. How would I react when Sandy wasn’t there?  Would I cry all day? Would others think I was weak?  We were gathering at my childhood home. The only home I remember as a child.  I thought about all the Christmas’s we celebrated in that home, all the Christmas’s with the entire family together.  Now we would be gathering again at that home, without my Dad or my sister.  Oh, how hard that day would be.

About a month before Christmas, our group leader told stories of how other families had honored their loved ones at family celebrations. One family had an empty chair. The chair that their father had always sat in. Another family made a centerpiece out of their Dad’s old fishing hat. The used it on Thanksgiving day and it became a tradition for them.

What could I do to honor my Dad and sister? I felt the need to do something.  One day, one of my brave days when I ventured out to Wal-Mart I was walking through the store, the craft department and I saw it. I knew immediately what I would do.

In his retirement, my Dad had made wooden birdhouses to give away. He enjoyed cutting the boards, building the house, painting them an array of colors.   When my sister died and we had to clean out her house, we saw bird houses lined up on a soffit in her living room. I had always known she collected birdhouses, I was just surprised at how many she had.

So as I stood in Wal-Mart in that craft section staring at a ready to finish birdhouse, my idea came to life. I bought everything I needed. I went home and worked diligently on that bird house. I painted it red and green. On one side, I neatly printed ‘DAD’.  I then used stickers of all the things he loved to decorated Dads side of the birdhouse.  On another side, I neatly printed Sandra.  On her side I used different stickers representing all the things she liked.

I added some Christmas stickers and I neatly printed ‘Family’ above the perch and hole on the front of the birdhouse.

On the day of our family celebration, I carefully unveiled the birdhouse. It was a huge success.  My Mother turned it so she could study each side and she smiled.  The birdhouse became a family tradition. It would travel to each home that was hosting the annual family Christmas celebration.

I made it through last Christmas.  I had a back-up plan ready to go, but didn’t need it. It was difficult being in the house we all grew up in. I found myself walking through the rooms remembering all the times I shared with my sister. I found myself staring out the kitchen window hoping she would pull into the driveway like I’d seen her do so many times before.

It was then that a few tears would fall. I missed my sister, I still do. I missed hearing her squeals of delight when she opened a gift. I missed her laughter and her sparkling eyes.  If I closed my eyes, I could see her, I could hear her laugh, see her smile. I knew she was there with me.  And knowing that, I made it through the day.  I  held onto those memories and I smiled.

This year, I find the holiday season a little more bearable. We have two new family members this year: my first grandchild, Henry, and a new great niece, Quinn. Two new sets of eyes to see the traveling family centerpiece. Two new lives to help us celebrate the holidays.

Whatever we chose to do during the holidays is okay. We can continue with tradition, we can make new traditions or we can sleep through the day. Whatever we chose is okay, it is our choice.

The post Prepare to Make it Through the Holidays appeared first on Open to Hope.

The post My Sister’s Murder: The Questions Continue appeared first on Open to Hope.

Every day, I waited for my phone to ring, to hear the detective’s voice telling me an arrest was made. I tried to prepare myself for that day. How would I react? Would I be overjoyed? Would I feel relief? There is no script for this, no rule book. You learn as you go. I experienced frustration at the lack of an answer.

I already had someone in my mind tried and convicted. Why wasn’t he arrested? I just knew I was right. Wasn’t I? The entire family grew impatient. We cried, we prayed, we begged for an answer to the who. I thought knowing that answer would make things easier, or at least less intense.

I remember the day exactly. March 23, 2010. Exactly 6 months and 4 days after my sister’s murder. My phone rang, I answered. “Mrs. Dickinson, this is Detective F.”  I remember holding my breath. He then told me they had made an arrest. I literally fell to my knees. Silent tears streamed down my face. My husband was home and asking, “What? What?” I put my hand up to silence him. I didn’t want to miss one word the detective was saying.

I responded to the detective, “Who? Who?” He told me the man’s name. It was not who I had tried and convicted. Instead, it was a man who lived across the street from my sister.

The detective told me the scenario they had put together. The man had knocked on my sister’s door about 7 pm. He was looking for odd jobs to make some cash. He had asked my sister before for odd jobs. She was leary of him; she had told me and a few of her friends how he bothered her. She told him no, she had no extra money.

Inside of my sister’s front door was a small table. She was in the habit of leaving her purse on that table when she entered her home. The man most likely saw her purse there. He left and later, most likely came back to her home, waiting in her fenced in backyard, lurking in the dark. When he saw my sister’s bedroom light come on, he most likely thought she was going to take a shower. She was only changing clothes.

He entered her home through her patio door. He most likely walked straight to her front table, going for her purse. Sandra had a dog, Leroy. Either Leroy started barking, a different bark, or Sandra heard something and walked down the hallway from her bedroom to her living room. She most likely screamed and told him to get out of her house. At that moment, the man knew my sister could identify him and at that moment he chose to silence her.

The man was a three-time convicted armed robber. He didn’t want to go back to jail so he brutally stabbed her to death, leaving her in the guest bathroom to be found the next morning.

While the detective told me everything, I stayed on my knees, rocking back and forth weeping. I finally managed to speak. “I was wrong,” I said. The detective asked me what I meant. I told him all these months I had her ex-husband convicted. He said that her ex gave very good information that helped us make the arrest. I then felt very guilty. Guilty of thinking those terrible things about the wrong man.

After hanging up the phone, I reached for my call list. I had prepared a list of people to call, like a phone chain. I called my oldest sister who in turn called my other sister and my mother. I called both my children. I then called one of Sandra’s friends so she could call others. I then called her school principal.

There were so many people that I wanted to know before they saw it on the news that night. The last person I called was my sister’s pastor, Pastor Stan, one of the kindest men I know. I was fine until I called Stan. Then I lost it. After hanging up the phone from speaking to Stan, I handed my husband the phone. I couldn’t talk anymore. I asked him to intercept all phone calls for me. I had group support that night and needed to go.

I remember standing in the shower before support group and bawling. I cried and cried. It was as if I was reliving those first few hours after finding out about her death, all over again. Then I was physically ill. I was sick until there was nothing left inside of me. Then my stomach contracted over and over again. I had never felt such anguish, if that’s what you call it.

I didn’t scream, I didn’t rant, I didn’t cuss and swear at the man. I cried and cried. And I asked, “Why?” I didn’t understand. He murdered her so he wouldn’t have to go back to prison? Did he really think he would get by with murder? Evidently so. At that moment, I learned the difference between how criminals think and how people like me think. We do not have the capacity to think that way. It was way too much for me to try to understand.

It took about 5 days for me to feel relief. I was relieved the waiting for the “who” was over. I was relieved the accused was in jail and in a state that had the no-bond law for accused murderers. He wouldn’t be going anywhere. I also learned that having the answer to the who brought on more questions. What happens now? Will there be a trial? How long will it take? Complicated grief, it actually seems to never end.

The post Six Months After Sister’s Murder, an Arrest and More Questions appeared first on Open to Hope.

On September 18, 2009, I unfortunately became one of those poor families. My sister was found dead in her home. Her death was ruled a homicide later the same day. It is so difficult to explain the feelings, the emotions, the array of emotions that one goes through when hearing news like that about a loved one. The tears are never ending, as well as the questions. Why? How? Who? When?

My husband and I made the journey back to my home state immediately arriving at 4 am on Saturday, September 19th. My grown children, my mother, my other two sisters and my sister Sandy’s only child all lived in my home state. I wanted to get to my niece as soon as I could. My God, her mother was murdered. How does a 24-year-old handle that?

The entire family had questions. We desperately wanted and needed answers.

On the following Monday, we learned how she died. We saw it on the news that afternoon, late breaking news. “Teacher dies from stab wounds to the heart.”

We wanted an answer to the how and once we received the answer, I begged God to take it back. I didn’t want to hear that answer even though I needed to hear it. Sounds a bit crazy, doesn’t it? It is not crazy. It is a normal reaction to a very abnormal situation. If I’ve learned nothing else in the last nine months, I’ve learned that any reaction is normal to an abnormal situation as long as it causes no physical harm to yourself or to others.

Three days after my sister’s murder, we had one answer, the how. I wanted all the answers. I honestly thought we would have all the answers by the time we buried her on the following Friday. Her visitation was on Thursday evening. I remember seeing the memorial pamphlet with her name, date of birth and date of death. From what I’d learned from the detectives working her case, the scenario they gave me was it was most likely someone she knew (no forced entry), most likely a man (most murderers are men).

She had talked to my mother on the phone at 7:30 pm on Thursday, September 17. My sister had talked to her child, her daughter at 7:45 pm. She was in the process of preparing herself something to eat, but had not eaten.

She had called a friend and left a message for him; she was worried or afraid of something or someone. He was in a meeting until 10 pm and didn’t get the message until then. He didn’t call her back because he thought she might be sleeping. I would have thought the same thing. Her neighbor heard her dog barking from 9 to 11 pm. The same neighbor heard loud noises, like someone moving furniture around 10 pm or so. She even thought to herself , “Sandy, what are you doing over there?”

In my mind as well as my other two sisters’ minds, Sandy died on September 17th. But the memorial pamphlet said September 18th. I didn’t understand that.

A few days after the funeral, I called the detective to ask about the time of death. He told me the autopsy report stated the time of death anywhere between 9 pm on Thursday the 17th to 9 am on Friday the 18th. In this case, the time of death is recorded when she was pronounced dead at the scene shortly after 9 am on the 18th.

The detective again reminded me, it’s not like it is on television. I was shocked. I honestly thought they could pinpoint the time of death. Often they can’t.

To this day, I still have a hard time not knowing exactly when she died. I know exactly when my father died — August 3, 9:06 am. My mother knows the exact minute my sister took her first breath, the minute she was born, yet will never know the exact minute her precious child took her last breath. Why is that important? I am not sure why, but it is important.

So, we had the answers to two of our questions: how and when. Even though the answers were hard to accept and hear, we had answers.

To this day, my sisters and I believe she died on the 17th. Every Thursday evening, I think about her. I lay in bed and shed tears knowing what happened on one fateful Thursday night. Fridays are pretty much the same.

Two questions answered, two questions remain: why and who. The two big questions. The two huge questions. How long would it take to answer those questions? Its a process that I hope no one else has to experience in their lives. I pray every night that no one else will ever have to go through this.

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