Prologue and Chapter 1

Prologue

I had been traveling on my life's journey a long time before I ever put
pen to paper. Many memories of my past were evoked by the music I was ex-
posed to while growing up. The lyrics of a particular song, a certain melody or
the sound of a tenor's voice took me back in time. Looking through family pho-
tos brought back things I had long forgotten. The stories told to me by members
of my family found their way into my head and my heart. Whether the experi-
ences were good or bad, I locked them safely away in the recesses of my mind
waiting for the day I would finally write them down.

One of the most vivid memories of my early childhood was my first
ballet solo. I pictured myself at four, dressed in a black leotard with a pink tutu
my mother had made for me; my fine blonde hair was curled around my face,
and my blue eyes sparkled. I remember looking back over my shoulder, to
acknowledge Mom's encouraging smile as she gently pushed me onto the stage
from behind the curtain. With shaking knees, I slowly made my way to the cen-
ter. When I was ready, I glanced at my father sitting at the piano, signaling him
to play. Soon the melancholy notes of "Melody of Love" floated from the piano
as his fingers gracefully moved across the keys. After I had finished my perfor-
mance and the applause began, Mom and Dad joined me on the stage. We stood
together holding hands, while we all took a bow.

This moment, etched in my mind, represents a time when we were a
close-knit family of three, and my parents were deeply in love. That love would
fortify me with the self-confidence, drive and security I would need to get me
through some extremely difficult times during my life. My four younger siblings
were not as fortunate.

Whenever I hear the smoky voice of Dinah Washington singing, "What
a Diff'rence a Day Makes," I'm taken back to darker times, when in the wee
hours of the morning, I'd see the glowing ash of my father's cigarette as he

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stood in the darkened hallway waiting for my mother to return home. A fero-
cious battle ensued when my mother stumbled into the apartment and began
slurring her words. My parent’s loud shouts could be heard throughout our
second-story apartment and probably half-way down the block. On those
nights, I'd bring my younger sisters into my bedroom and cuddle with them
throughout the night.

The sound of an ambulance passing by my house reminds me of the
night of my mother's first suicide attempt. I can still see her coagulating blood
slowly dripping down the walls of our bathroom. I vividly remember trying to
clean it off before any of my sisters could see it. This was one of many nights I
would cradle Judy, Kim, Linda and Lisa into my arms, while trying to shelter
them from the chaos of our lives.

This is the bittersweet story of growing up in an extremely dysfunc-
tional home in the 1950's and 1960's. As the oldest child of my biological moth-
er, Bonnie, and my adoptive father, Stew, I was the only daughter who benefit-
ed from the strong love my parents shared during the early years of their mar-
riage. Shortly after the birth of my first sibling, Judy, their marriage started to
crumble. As it rapidly eroded over the next decade, I assumed the 'mother role'
at the age of twelve. I believed it was my responsibility to guide and protect my
four sisters through the traumas of alcoholism, the instability of frequent moves,
my parents' violent arguments, marital affairs, separations, molestations, and
suicide attempts.

While guiding my sisters, I held fast to my dream of escaping the tur-
moil and drama in my life by attending college. I planned to obtain a career that
would financially enable to me reach out to each of them and pull them out of
the dark abyss of their lives. To achieve this dream, I had set high goals for my-
self and worked hard to accomplish them.

The first part of my memoir paints a picture of a happy little girl grow-
ing up in a sound environment, surrounded by the love and adoration of her
parents. I spent a good deal of time sharing the stories of my early years to illus-
trate how vitally important a strong, nurturing foundation can be during the
first five years of a child's life. Unfortunately, my four younger sisters did not
have the same benefits.

As you travel with me on my journey, I will share with you the devasta-
tion caused when the family unit is destroyed by alcoholism, marital affairs and

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incest. While intertwining many stories describing my climb, I also include the
story of my fall.

At the age of sixty-three, I decided it was my responsibility to tell the
story of our chaotic lives. After reading many memoirs, I realized that our story
is not as tragic as some, but nonetheless, it was very painful for everyone grow-
ing up in the Smith household.

By writing this book, I hoped to bring some peace and understanding to
my three surviving sisters―Judy, Linda and Lisa, and to honor the memory of
my sister, Kim, who passed away in 2005. Writing this memoir has been a ca-
thartic experience that has brought me peace.

Looking back at my life helped to convince me that the future can be
what you make it. But in order to do that, you have to believe in yourself. I did!

I invite you to join me on my journey through
The first twenty-seven years of my life.

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Chapter 1

The Road Back to Hell

December 3, 2005

I opened my door to the ringing of the phone and reached across the
desk to answer it. I picked it up and heard someone sobbing on the other end as
I said, “Hello.”

“It’s bad!” Between the sobs, a weak voice pleaded, “Diana, you’ve got
to help.”

It was my youngest sister, Lisa.
“What in the world’s wrong?” I asked. “Calm down and catch your
breath. I can’t understand a word you’re saying.” My legs started to shake and I
dropped into a chair next to the desk.
“It’s Kimmie, Diana. Something bad has happened! They took her to a
trauma center in Chapel Hill in a ‘he...heli…helicopter,” she stuttered.
“Oh my God!” Collect your thoughts, I told myself. You need to be
strong. “Was she in an accident?”
After Lisa stopped sobbing, she said, “No. She has an aneurysm and
they don’t think she’s going to make it!”
Hearing my startled voice, my husband, Jim, rushed into the room and
approached me. He had a puzzled look in his eyes, so I shook my head to let him
know I couldn’t explain right then.
I struggled to control my voice before asking Lisa if she was positive of
the diagnosis. After assuring me the diagnosis was correct, she explained that
Kim had complained of a severe headache earlier that morning. When Kim’s
daughter, Christine called around noon, she couldn’t understand a word her
mother was saying. She immediately called Gary, Kim’s husband, and told him
he needed to get home right away.
Lisa tends to exaggerate, but I knew this was serious. Something very
wrong was happening to my sister in North Carolina, and I was in Brookville,
Pennsylvania, almost six hundred miles away.

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“Calm down, Lisa. Remember when Tom had an aneurysm? The doc-
tors performed surgery to control the bleeding in his brain, and he survived.
We have to believe Kim will, too. She’s in an excellent hospital being treated by
specialists who deal with this type of thing every day. Try to think positively,
okay? ” I was attempting to instill confidence in Lisa that I didn’t feel myself.

“Okay, I’ll try, but this is bad. I know it,” she said. She told me her
daughter, Andrea, and our sister, Linda were on the way to pick her up and
drive her to the trauma center in Chapel Hill, North Carolina.

The throbbing in my head made me realize I was in no shape to make
decisions. I had to pull myself together. I took a deep breath and calmly told
Lisa to call me when she reached the hospital. After we had hung up, I gazed out
my window and saw quarter-sized snowflakes falling on the ground and cover-
ing my driveway. If I tried to make the journey tonight, a long and risky drive
lay ahead.

I collapsed in my chair. God wouldn’t let Kim die when so many peo-
ple needed her, would He? He couldn’t let her die when she had finally turned
her life around, could He?

Jim stood watching as my tears began to fall. When he wrapped me in
his arms, I closed my eyes and prayed, “Dear God, I don’t believe I have the
strength to deal with all that lies ahead. Please help me.”

My first inclination was to pack my bags and head for North Carolina
immediately, but Jim convinced me to wait until Lisa called back. “Maybe things
aren’t as bad as they seem,” he said. “If you leave in this snowstorm and have an
accident, how can you be of help to anyone?"

Although I decided to take his advice, I felt helpless waiting for the
phone to ring. It upset me when I realized Kim’s three children, Danny, Amy
and Christine, Kim's husband, Gary and my two sisters, Linda and Lisa, as well
as the grandchildren were converging on the hospital while I sat in the comfort
of my home. Early that evening, my niece, Amy, called to tell me Kim was in
intensive care where the doctors were trying to stop the bleeding around her
brain. They had to control that before they could consider operating, which
meant the surgery would probably not take place until the next day. She advised
me to leave in the morning.

Before I hung up, I promised to pray for Kim and head out early Sunday
morning. In the meantime, I reminded her I was only a phone call away. As the
evening wore on, I made at least ten calls offering encouragement to my family
members while they sat in the hospital waiting room. I tried my best to console

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them from afar. About eleven o’clock that night, I realized there were at least
fifteen adults and children, sitting in the waiting room outside of the ICU.

Where were they going to sleep? What were they going to eat? I knew
my family lived from hand-to-mouth with no credit cards and probably very
little cash. That’s when I realized there was something I could do. I called infor-
mation for the number of the nearest motel and made reservations for a few
rooms. Then I phoned Lisa to tell her that anyone who wanted to leave the hos-
pital for a while had a place to sleep that night. It wasn’t much, but it made me
feel better because I was doing something.

After I had gone to bed, all I could see every time I closed my eyes was
Kim lying in that bed fighting for her life. Waves of sadness engulfed me. I
wondered how her family would manage without her if she died. I also won-
dered what I would do if she was no longer here. Years before, we'd had a huge
argument about the way she was neglecting her three young children. Conse-
quently, we barely spoke to one another for almost twenty years. In 2001,
when Grandma Conklin passed away, we reconciled our differences. Since then,
we had enjoyed several wonderful years as sisters and friends. Please don’t let it
be over so soon, I silently prayed.

As I lay there awake, I recalled the traumas our family had endured
over the years. Although I had given them financial support and offered advice
on ways to improve their lives, it usually didn’t work out. They were still mired
down in problems. Drenched in sweat, I finally got out of bed, put on a robe,
and went downstairs to start a pot of coffee.

I sat in my easy chair, sipped my steaming cup of coffee and stared at
the lights on my Christmas tree. I thought of the beautiful Christmases we’d
shared when my sisters and I were younger. I fast-forwarded into the years that
followed, a home movie featuring my parents' constant arguments over money,
alcohol and affairs. When I remembered the suicide attempts, separations, and
the divorce, the movie turned into a horror show.

As the oldest of five girls, I had become a mother figure to my sisters
and tried to offer my love and support when they needed it. Eventually, the
responsibility became more than I could bear. As a divorced mother raising two
sons, I finally had to step away. Although the guilt of my abandonment often
overwhelmed me, I understood I had to separate myself from the chaos created
by my family if I were to survive.

This time was different. I knew I had to be there for them now, no mat-
ter what the cost. I put my cup down, went upstairs, and started packing.

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At daybreak, when I pulled out of my driveway and started down Inter-
state 80, I felt as if I was being pulled into a swamp and feared I would be swal-
lowed up by all of the grief in Kenly, North Carolina. This road was leading me
back to bad memories, heartaches and feelings I had buried for many years.

The farther south I drove, the more I felt like I was driving back into
my own personal Hell.

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