CPR On My Heart

Posted by Becky Joie in HandPrints Stories & Videos | 4 comments

© Becky Joie

One blustery Saturday afternoon, I stood on the curb beside my brother’s minivan. I had not seen Ray in many years and we rarely talked, but his trip from Maine to a business conference in Buffalo had allowed a brief visit with me in Corning, New York.

My twenty-something hips wriggled under the dead weight of my two-year-old. Extending an arm in a good-bye hug, I teetered on the curb, counter-balancing the bundle of boy that set my bony frame off-kilter. I leaned into a quick hug, then braced myself on the cold metal.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come along?” my brother asked, towering above his open door.

“I’m fine, Ray. I’ll make it.” My feet shifted at the same speed as my wandering thoughts.

Both guest and long-lost brother, he had stayed the previous night in the master bedroom. The living room couch became my post. With one eye open, I napped, wondering how I would side-step my husband’s questions if he returned home from a hunting trip in one of his foul moods.

“You were pretty jumpy last night when I came through to use the restroom. Are you okay?” A question mark formed in my brother’s eyebrows.

I memorized his features in anticipation of another long absence. “I’ll be all right.” Really? I wanted to climb in and ride away, back to my family in Maine, far from the angry monster I had unwittingly married. But I had to stay; we had a son together. No matter how I felt, my boy needed a daddy.

Only three years older than I, Ray had been a second father to me. I idolized him. He was my only brother, and the image of my dad. My dad loved me, but distance made me feel disconnected. I needed my brother—especially now, but we hadn’t been close. While Ray had spent the last several years in the military, I lay many miles away in my proverbial self-made bed, feeling like an island. Now, for the first time in my life, I realized how much my brother cared.

“You’re a strong person, Beck.” He patted my back like a father would his son.

Becky & Son

“You’re really tough!”

I couldn’t believe my ears. Me? Tough? No, I was weak. I was the kid everyone had picked on in school; the one who cried when someone looked at me. I wasn’t tough. I had married “tough,” and “tough” was stronger than I. I couldn’t escape it; I couldn’t please, no matter how hard I tried. Yet here was my escape route…only, I didn’t take it. I was too afraid.

“Thanks,” I said, not wanting to let on that my independent New England spirit lay on the floor, crushed like a Cheerio under a steel-toed boot.

“Well, call me if you need anything, okay?” he sighed.

“Okay.” I paused for a moment. “I love you.” I sounded so desperate, but he was my brother and I wanted him to know.

“I love you, too.” He closed the door and drove off without looking back.

I climbed the hillside steps to our home. At the top, I dragged myself inside and collapsed into a solitary plastic chair. Look at me, I’m falling apart.

Thirty minutes later, my son sat with shiny aluminum on his head. “Hat, Mama.” He had emptied the kitchen cabinets of all the pots and pans just in time for my husband to come home.

With Pots & Pans

Like being stuck on a never-ending roller coaster, my life of torment resumed, as my husband smashed our furniture in rage. “Clutter! Everywhere! You can’t keep anything clean. I’ll fix you. We won’t have any more clutter in here. What are you staring at? Leave!”

Such words were meaningless; he didn’t actually want that. My presence provided him a target. I couldn’t leave, anyway.

Then my brother’s words broke through my fear: “You are strong, Beck. You are really tough.”

I had entered an abusive marriage under the vow of “’Til death do us part.” And death was inevitable. Either I would die trying to escape, or die from the depression of staying. I had felt powerless… until now.

From the mouth of the strongest man I knew, Ray’s recent words empowered me.

Maybe I am strong. Maybe I can make it after all.

After spending a couple of weeks of filling black plastic bags with supplies, I mustered my persuasive powers to gain access to a getaway car. Somehow my new-found confidence won out. I didn’t quite know where to go, but strong hope hovered, as if my brother were standing behind me as back-up.

I closed the car door behind my son and me, and drove to the safe-house in a nearby town. Determined to find healing, I completed treatment for battered woman syndrome, and volunteered at shelters, hoping to empower others who had experienced domestic violence. Collaborative efforts began the “Peace in the Home” Project, offering speaking engagements to churches and educational facilities.

Having discovered my own self-worth, I now have a husband who is as gentle and loving as a Golden Retriever. Together, we foster and adopt older childhood abuse victims.

It has been fifteen years since my brother’s words delivered CPR to my weakened heart. His support enabled me to reach out, and then in turn, to touch the lives of many others. In the years since, many battered women and children have heard my story, as well as those of others like me. They, too, have learned that they need not be defined by their abuse. Somewhere, deep within, are hidden treasures waiting to be unearthed.

At times it takes the loving hand of another to offer us the hope we need.