2017 Out Of The Darkness Walk: University of Houston
Into The Sunshine: A Walk For Dad
Click here and select a team members' name to donate to the "Out Of The Darkness" walk to honor Mark Hendricks.
Walk Date: 04/02/2017 Walk Location: Lynn Eusan Park - Houston
Check-in/Registration Time: 04/02/2017 at 10:00 am
Walk Begins: 11:00 am Walk Ends: 2:00 pm For more information, please contact:
Contact Name: Dr. Patrick Lukingbeal ; Contact Phone: 713-743-5365 ;Contact Email: plluking@Central.UH.EDU
Burying the Lede
Diana Finlay Hendricks
I cannot say thank you enough to each of you for what you have done for us over the last eleven weeks and four days (but who’s counting).
To say that it has been a struggle would be an understatement. But we have all grown a lot since January 3, 2017. In a single instant, I learned two of the most important lessons of my life. I cannot control anything, and I cannot fix everything.
We have also learned enough to write a book about what to do – and what not to do – for grieving families. Wow! The what-not-to-say book is something we have already begun to smile about – if not laugh out loud. (Note: Do not call a widow who lost the great love of her life less than a month before, and tell her that she is going to be okay because she’s “still marketable.”)
On the other hand, our extended family, friends and community have raised the bar so high in Being There. And, equally important, in Giving Us Space. Amazing meals. Bailey’s Irish Cream. Chocolate Covered Almonds. Advil PM. Dog Walks. Bringing Toilet Paper. And Trash Bags. Pantry Organization. Spice Cabinet Alphabetization. Folding Clothes. Going to the Laundry. Haircuts. Crystals. Moving Mark’s Clothes. And Moving Them Again. Holding My Hand. (And kicking my ass a couple of times when I was just being pathetic).
And after the memorial, you were still here. A phone call away. (though I have been avoiding the phone so please forgive me if I have not returned calls promptly). A knock on the door when I thought I wanted to be alone and I needed you most.
And so here we are. It’s been eleven weeks and three days since I lost the great love of my life. I cannot say enough about how amazing the past 13 years have been. Mark took my breath away. I kicked my foot up when he kissed me. And we laughed. And since January 3, I have been heartbroken and lost.
Our lives have changed. All five of our children are closer than they have ever been, and I feel closer to each of them than ever before. Maybe in part because of those two lessons it took me this long to learn. I never wanted to let them see me weak – and not in control – and not able to fix things.
Today, the meltdowns are rare. Not completely gone. I do stand in front of the gift bag (yes, a red paper gift bag with white fiberboard box that fits perfectly inside and holds Mark’s ashes) and say, “What the hell am I supposed to do now!” pretty regularly. And my heart skips a beat when I see something I want to share with him right now and remember. He’s not here.
As much as I have struggled with what happened, I have been stumbling over what’s next. I considered writing a blog but quickly realized that I didn’t want to read some pathetic tome about getting through loss. There are plenty of people doing that. Geez - even I would avoid my own blog about that. I thought about writing a lot of those thoughts I have been meaning to put down in my Moleskine journal. Just for me. And I will probably do that sometime.
Meanwhile, life is going on. For the past year, I have been working on a video project that will be shown in police departments across the nation during their shift change briefings – about resiliency and recovery, and how the actions of the first responders immediately after a traumatic event in a community or a neighborhood or a family can start the recovery at the scene. We will be talking to survivors, and heroes and community leaders – folks with boots in the ground who helped in the recovery. Lessons learned. Things that work. Things that don’t.
Little did I know that I would face my own boots-on-the-ground experience on January 3.
It was a fairly normal day. Mark was suffering from what we thought was a terrible allergy/sinus infection. We had been in the ER a few days earlier where he was given allergy meds and antibiotics. He was scheduled for foot surgery in December in San Antonio – complications from diabetes that had limited his mobility to the point where he was unable to drive and only walk with a walker. The surgery had been postponed due to the upper respiratory issues and was on the books for January 19. I was leaving on Jan 5 for the Delbert McClinton cruise, to pre-promote the book, and rest and relax and listen to great music. Mark loved the cruise the year before but could not go this year because of his mobility issues. DeLynn was planning to come in and stay with him while I was gone, and help Patrick with the usual routine.
Mark woke up as I was getting ready for work and asked me if I was hearing all of that. I heard nothing. He heard voices like someone had been injured on the lot next door to our house and was screaming for help. There was nothing. I said that maybe he was half dreaming and he agreed. He got up and started his morning routine. I said, “I love you,” and he said, “You’re gorgeous,” and I laughed and gave him a kiss, and went to work.
I had to run an errand and stopped by the house at about 10:30. He was sitting in his chair and watching CNN. He was planning to have a salad for lunch. Routine conversation. I said, “I love you, have a good day.” He said, “Love you too. See you later.”
Mark and I wrote emails, text msgs, and notes to each other all the time. I generally went to bed before he did, and it was not uncommon to wake up the next morning and find a late night love-letter email waiting for me to start my day.
I got an email from him at about 1:30 that afternoon. “Just watched Paul Ryan get sworn in. Think I’ll go take a nap. Love you.” I was busy and didn’t get another email from him.
In journalism lingo, here comes the part we call “burying the lede.” It means beginning the story with details of minor importance while postponing the most newsworthy or essential facts.
I left the office a little before 5, got home and he was not in his usual spot on the sofa. I went into the bedroom and he was not on the bed. Barkley was laying across the doorway to the bathroom. I stepped across him, and Mark was slumped in a chair. I thought he had hit his head or vomited. There was something all over the floor and blood everywhere. I grabbed him to my chest to try to fix him, and said, “Oh no. Oh Mark.” And screamed for Patrick. I went to the living room and dumped my purse and found my phone. Patrick ran with me back into the bathroom. He was reaching for Mark to move him to the floor when I saw the gun – on the floor of the closet – where it had fallen after he pulled the trigger.
The firearm was a family heirloom – a Colt .45 that his highly decorated Marine Corps father had purchased in 1943 and carried with him through WWII, the Chosin Reservoir in Korea, and leading the 11th Marines, 1st Marine Division through Viet Nam. He had showed it to me and told me the story about it, but I had never seen Mark shoot it. He never shot a gun in the 13 years we were together.
Patrick and I were both on the phone with the 911 operator when I saw the gun. She told us to go outside and we did – holding one another on our knees in the front yard, sobbing. The fire department, EMS and police came. They asked me who I wanted to call. I asked for my colleague who just retired from the SWAT team. John Curnutt arrived quickly. Our neighbor, Brian Burleson, drove by the house and went directly around the corner to the Porterfields’, our best friends. He told Winton, “A lot of emergency vehicles are at Diana’s and Mark’s. Joanne Prado (Justice of the Peace) just drove up.” Winton was at our house within minutes. Kim arrived soon after.
We started making calls. Our family has blended famously, and it is hard to say stepchildren or mine and his – but I called “my” kids, Jenni, Sterling, and HalleyAnna and Dustin got to the house quickly. Patrick made the hardest call. He called his sister, DeLynn. I asked him to call his mom, Becky, and ask her to come over too. DeLynn drove up from Katy and was here in record time.
That evening and the days to follow blurred together. I knew that there was little I could control anymore but one thing was important enough to push through the fog. I did not want everyone to know that Mark had died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. I did not want him to be defined by that final moment.
(As an aside, we are still awaiting the toxicology reports from the autopsy, but there is evidence that there was severe kidney failure, causing him to hear voices and gain a substantial amount weight in the last two weeks)
When the Austin American Statesman called about a news obit, they asked how he died. I said “From complications from diabetes.” I will stand by that. The diabetes was at the root of all of his illnesses. And if the toxicology reports come back and say the findings were “unremarkable,” I will live with that. (They have not come back yet).
Mark did not leave a note. In fact, he had paid the electric bill online and written the mortgage check earlier on that ordinary day. But he didn’t leave any indication why this happened. If he made the decision that he was not getting better and did not want to spend more time in hospitals, filling up with prescription meds and being basically locked up at home, I am going to accept it. I have come to learn that I don’t really have a choice in that.
The kids have been unbelievable. At least one of them is within arm’s reach (or at least their phone number is) any time I feel like I might fall. They are pulling together and surviving their own challenges while keeping an eye on me.
So, we got through the first couple of weeks. We got through the memorial service. We got through getting the cremains (in the gift bag). We got through sorting through Mark’s clothes, and giving them all good homes. And I got through Valentine’s Day. Our anniversary is right around the corner. I think Barkley and I may take an adventure to celebrate that happy day.
And here I am today. Eleven weeks and four days from the moment Mark was pronounced dead. Suicide. My life is now divided by an indelible demarcation - BEFORE and AFTER January 3, 2017.
Last Tuesday, while working on the video project, I found myself in a debate with someone about the use of the word victim vs. survivor, with regard to community tragedies and school shootings. I considered the mortally wounded “victims,” and those who lived through It “survivors.” The other person said he thought everyone involved was a victim. I said, “Victims give in. Survivors go on.”
And then I went home and wondered which word describes me.
The next day, DeLynn sent me a text about an “Out of the Darkness” walk at the University of Houston. Hosted by the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, it is an event that is dedicated to providing support to those affected by suicide.
She wanted to create a team to raise money for the AFSP, to bring the stigma of suicide “out of the darkness,” and to memorialize her dad, but first needed to be sure I was okay with it. I said, “Of course. I am glad you are doing that.”
She asked if I was sure – because, she said that if she does this, she wants to tell the story.
The stigma is real. Today, I don’t know who among our family and friends knows and who doesn’t know that Mark’s “complication from diabetes” was a self-inflicted gunshot wound. I have come to believe that most everyone knows, and thankfully you are too polite to ask for the (literally) gory details. I have tried to give you all of the details in this email, and answer the questions you may have.
I have no more answers to any questions, and I really have a difficult time talking about it. When people wisely nod and say, “Oh yes, everyone’s grief is different,” it is often followed by examples of what worked for them. And I have pretended that whatever they said would help. But it has gotten better.
I have learned a lot in the last few weeks. It was only last Friday when we finished dealing with the insurance claim for remodeling the bathroom, and paid the contractor. And I have put great effort into imitating myself – or the person I used to be. And that leads to people saying, “Wow, you are doing great.” Or “It’s good to see you back in the swing of things.” And I try to smile and say, “Thanks.” And “Fine.” And “Yeah.”
I am glad that DeLynn’s idea of the walk was the catalyst that made me think I am coming out of the darkness, too. I am cautious. I am sad. I miss Mark terribly. And most of all, I do not want him to be remembered for the last thing he did in his life. I hope you will remember what an amazing, wonderful, romantic, funny, smart and loving man he was. And how happy we were together.
I listening to my wonderful psychoanalyst, and taking her advice. I have learned that post traumatic stress is real, and am dealing with this the only way I can. I can’t talk on the phone. I cannot talk about this - and now you know all that I do. I am going “off the grid” for a little while. I desperately need to take some quiet time for myself. And both my psychoanalyst and internist have told me that I need to start focusing on myself. And try to heal my broken heart. I am the only one who can do that. I understand it will take time and I have to take some baby steps to get there.
Then I will turn the page or start a new chapter in my life. It may be a whole new book. Thank you for being there.
DeLynn Hendricks Mitchell
It was about 5:30 on January 3, 2017 and I was sitting on the couch dreading making dinner. The ins and outs of being a wife and mom, it was turkey melt again. It required so much vegetable chopping and everyone hated it anyway.
But, it was a new year. The kids went back to school the next day, the holidays were over and it was back to the grind. I begrudgingly stood up from the couch to make my way to the kitchen. Halfway there, my cell phone rang. The screen said “Patrick”, my baby brother. I knew then, but I answered anyway. I don’t send my brother to voicemail.
“Hey”, I said. “Hey”, he replied. His voice broke and my heart sunk. “I hate to be the one to have to tell you this. Dad’s dead. He shot himself.” I could hear the tears rolling down his face, I could hear the fear and despair in his voice. And I fell. I dropped to my knees in the kitchen and howled….what we’ve come to call the "grief howl."
I don’t clearly recall that next bout of time- five minutes? An hour? I’m not sure. I sobbed something to him, assuring him that it’s ok, we’re ok, I’m coming, I’ll be there. I have a vague recollection of my young children gathering, my husband trying to understand.
I ended up in a heap on the floor of our guest room, mostly because it was away from my kids, but for no other logical reason. I curled into the floor and sobbed, and cursed. I heard my husband shuffling the kids to their rooms to play. And then I stood. He had made dinner at some point, so I tried to eat. I laid out clothes for my kids for the rest of the week and I went to pack. I stood in my closet fighting the wave….what do I wear? For the love of God, what do I pack for a situation like this? But, I packed, I got in my car and I drove the 2.5 hour drive to San Marcos.
I talked to some people on that drive. My boss and friend, because certainly I would not be at work the next day, but also because she knew. She knew I was spending some time the following week in San Marcos to care for my diabetes ridden father, knew that I’d been feeling some pressure and some pain, so I told her the truth and told her I’d keep her updated. I talked to Ana, my best friend. I can’t tell you what we said, but I do remember her saying “Shit, I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry.” I don’t remember much from that drive- my friend Stephanie texting me with little rhyme or reason. In retrospect, she was keeping me in check. Keeping me driving, distracting a little to ensure I got where I needed to go.
The family had gathered at Kim and Winton Porterfield's house, Dad and Diana's best friends, as the crime clean up crew had taken over the house. I’d never been to Kim and Winton’s and was driving slowly, seeking the double driveway lights indicating entry. A vehicle was backing out as I was coming in, one I didn’t recognize. I rolled down my window and he rolled down his.
Big brown eyes met mine and I must’ve looked a little bewildered, lost. He nodded “You’re at the right place.” That was my introduction to my stepsister’s now fiancé, Dustin. And his eyes told me….fuck, this is going to be bad. A whole new kind of bad. I knocked, was ushered in, hugs, tears. I’m not really sure, but my baby brother, right there. No tears yet there, not for me. The shock was astounding, the numbness was a kindness.
I sat between my mom and my brother, not knowing what to say. What do you say? My stepmother looked as if her world had ended, and that day it had.
We spent that night in a La Quinta because the crime clean up people couldn't let us back in and we had two big dogs with us. It was easily the worst night of my life but the next day I was charged with the need for action.
My family was sad, confused, lost, but there were things to be done. My brother and I went to tell my grandma, my father’s mother, and heard again the grief howl. Smaller, weaker than mine, but there.
There’s a before, during and after to this story. There are before tales of the failed metabolism, the daughter that is her father, baseball and chicken nuggets, a good-hearted woman, legacies of words, and a great love story. After stories of anxiety, drugs, therapy, tears, heart failure, strength together, and guilt. But this is the during. And the during that is the stigma and the hurt and the darkness that nobody wants to talk about.
None of us know exactly what happened that day to get us to the ending point. My father, struggling with complications from diabetes, had hobbled himself into his master bathroom, likely used the restroom, went into his closet, reached into the top shelves, pulled down the Colt .45 passed down from his Marine Colonel father.
He positioned a straight back chair just so, facing into the closet, popped the magazine into the Colt, placed it against his temple and pulled the trigger. The destruction was absolute and, likely, his purpose was achieved in seconds.
My stepmother, the light to my father’s darkness, came home from work at some point thereafter and went in immediately to check on him. When she found him, it did not register what she was viewing, so she called my brother for help.
Certainly, with the blood, he must have fallen. Perhaps the mess….he had vomited maybe. Something was very wrong. There was no pulse, they were both on the phone with 911 when they saw the gun on the floor.
The story told itself and they went outside to await the paramedics, police officers, justice of the peace. To await the masses of people that would swarm the scene and take him away, broken and bloody and gone.
This is not the story of my father, but it is part of him. It is what I consider the ‘during’ right now. It is a darkness and a sadness and a horror that we wish had not happened.
But it did and it’s time that we talk about it. He could not come out of the darkness, but it’s time that we did.