# 6 - Trusting the process of Life

My resilience to survive meant, I would have to shut down the trauma occurring in the moment. The easiest way to make the unbearable disappear, became a simple task. Simply, lock it away. Forget. In the late fifties understanding the effects of trauma seemed limited to the average population.
 
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder or PTSD has been difficult to recognize or understand, even for our military members. Those who have sacrificed for freedom are great examples of the sufferings from trauma.
 
Today, we often hear “Counselors are available….” to assist survivors and/or victims after a traumatic event. The importance of dealing with an issue as soon as possible is has become a greater focus and important process.
 
Not having assistance to process the traumatic experience in my early years effected my learning skills and ability to process future information.
 
I became, an expert at tucking away horrific incidences. What my young developing brain didn’t want to think about became lost. Somewhere in areas of my brain, I created a holding place. I was able to put aside the encoded data stored on an imaginary disk. Truth faded into surreal images of camouflage. I remember feeling blank. Like a blank emptiness when a teacher or adult would ask a question. Blank that lead to fear and I would be speechless. I couldn’t find words to speak. This has carried into adulthood when feeling stressed. The lack of understanding my handicap often created a hostile situation.
 
I built a history of many forgotten moments. Now, today, I am able to learn from them.  I am shown valuable information. Information leading me to a greater understanding of myself; but, more importantly a greater path to understanding. A higher power, or fate has created my destiny.  I don’t know what non-believers would call me. Most likely, they will think me just crazy, and that’s ok. I got to be me and attempt to share.
 
I am one small embryo created in a giant universe placed on a physical planet to experience extreme emotions. Emotions, a voice in my head, all would guide me to new experiences throughout a life time. Opportunities to identify that there is something going on I am unable to put into words.
 
Seventy plus years later, I am writing about this journey of unexplainable miracles. Attempting to share a history of survival.
 
How I was protected in one incident of survival, through the power of a Guardian Angel or two.
 
Patty was my third-grade classmate and friend that lived across the street. My Mom provided needed childcare while her parents worked. She was an only child.
 
Patty would come over in the morning, get in bed with one of my little brothers, not me. I was really upset and complained, “Patty is my friend!”
 
Mom told me, “Patty has always wanted a little brother . . .” that is the reason she wanted to be with one of mine. I had three little brothers. No wonder she like to come to our house. It really had nothing to do with me. Hard to accept, but it was true. I still liked Patty a lot. She was uniquely different, kind of like me.
 
After Christmas, my Mother seemed to act strange about having Patty over. She stopped watching Patty on weekends. Mom's words, "I kept seeing Patty crushed." 
Mom said, that she feared something would happen while Patty would be riding the new bike she had gotten for Christmas.
 
Though, the money helped our family, Mom didn't want to feel responsible if something happened to Patty while on her watch.
 
My Mother told stories about unexplainable incidents. She mentioned how an Angel had saved her, how she knew things, before they happened.
 
The details of how Angels protected me at the time Patty died were kept locked away from memory.  
 
Post Trauma Stress Disorder (PTSD), can do that; blocking a memory of an incident too painful, to shocking to accept.
 
Studies show that children are very good at blocking pain, especially children who have experienced abuse. Add unnecessary guilt, and personalities soon develop with odd perspectives.
 
After years of training, education, counseling and other modalities, I recognize the reason why painful heartbreak became blocked. Hidden subconscious pain has had an effect on my behaviors and attitudes. Programming, displaced feelings of responsibility set me up in relationships throughout my life span.
 
Hard to understand that over fifty years later I am processing, reliving detailed accounts.
 
Divine circumstances, total recall, when the timing was right. I was protected until I was emotionally more mature and able to accept the trauma of the day Patty died. Now, I can cry the tears. The retention of information can be put to a greater use.
 
Patty and I, along with two of my younger brothers most likely walked the four blocks to school that morning. Patty and I were in the third-grade class together. My little brothers would have been in the second and first grades. A normal school day, in our innocence, very unware of the change about to occur in our lives.
 
Buckman Elementary was an old red brick school. Patty and I would climb the steps to our classroom. When the time came, the whole class would go down the stairs to the gym on the main floor.
 
This was where our teacher led us in, games and activities, such as: “The Farmer in the Dell,” “Ring around the Rosie” and “London Bridge.”  
 
The old gymnasium had circles and lines painted on a wood floor. The walls were painted army green, made of old wood paneling had been in place for many years. High on the wall were the steam radiators. Someone thought it best to place them high, so that the children would stop being burned during the cold months.
 
When the hidden away memory came, it caused me to relive the moment as if it were happening again. In a short second, I was my young self.
 
I had recently turned eight years old. I was back in the gym. Just as watching a television segment, I had instant replay. More than instant replay, I had all senses activated. Touch and smell were fresh. I experienced simple details. The gym, the wood floor, the old bench painted green like the walls, children’s voices, all as clear as the day I last saw Patty alive.
 
The majority of the class was in a half circle. All except the three of us, Joey (with a club foot), Patty, (who wore hearing aids and had been very sickly her whole young life) and me (the shy, fearful introvert). We sat on the bench against the gym wall watching and waiting. I was very happy setting next to Patty, lost in a world all my own. Sitting next to Patty I recalled touching her wrinkly hands. They were very soft. I was lost in the fascination of them.
 
Until, the teacher stopped the class, “Everyone be quiet, please.”
 
The gym became silent.
 
The teacher spoke in gentle kindness to the three misfits on the bench. I remember the uncomfortable eye contact. “Would you children like to come join in the game?”
 
The thought was unbearable to me. I felt every eye upon us. I remember trying to hide.
 
Sliding behind Patty, on her right side, my stomach felt tight.
 
The attention focused in our direction made me feel very desperate. I kept trying to move further behind Patty to disappear from view. I could feel Patty’s long brown ringlet on my cheek. Her Mother made sure they were perfect. I could smell her, a fresh, clean scent.
 
I remember her turning her head toward me, bewildered as to why I was pushing her to the edge of the bench. Next, the miracle happened.
 
Intervention, Angels, the next moment, I was lifted off the bench and being carried across the room. The sensation was if I were floating. I found myself across the gym far from where Patty sat, where I had been trying to hide.
 
Reflecting, it was surreal. With others watching, my feet must have been in action touching the floor. It was not my well or desire to leave my little hiding place on the bench, yet, I found myself in the circle the farthest person from Patty. An unseen force had taken over me.
 
If there was anything odd about my movement across the room to others, it would have been surpressed by the horror that followed.
 
Within a fraction of a second, everyone’s attention was drawn away from me. All the eyes that had been watching me shifted.
 
We all heard a horrid loud thunder. Joey jumped off the bench running as fast as he could move with his club foot. He had been setting on the bench next to Patty on her left side.
 
Patty continued to sit not responding to the loud noise. She looked puzzled. We were all starring at her. A faint smile and a flush of pink crossed her face. She had to be wondering, “Why?”
 
Why we were all starring at her? Her hearing aids had failed her. I don’t know if she even felt the vibration that must have accompanied the load rumble.
 
The next moment, another loud sound. Another blink of an eye, it seemed to happened quickly, Patty was lying unconscious on the gym floor. Her head incircle of dark blood, her glasses twisted at a slant her face.
 
The heavy radiator above our heads was too much weight for old wood and screws. The metal came down, off the gym wall and was now resting on her legs after striking her head of curls. My precious friend laid helpless. I felt helpless.
 
The teacher jumped into action asking for help. She struggled to get the steaming heavy metal off Patty’s burning legs.  The hot metal burned with each attempt. Too heavy for our teacher move.
 
“Go get help.” I heard her say to the one little blond headed boy who tried to help lift the hot metal.
 
The majority of the class were frozen in shock. I remember that I couldn’t move. Not until someone came and directed us out of the gym area. Seven and eight-year-old children in a state of shock, witnessing a traumatic event; how would it change each life?
 
More recently, my older sister reminded me of a conversation. My teacher told my Mom that I had been setting next to Patty moments before the radiator fell. Confirmation, my blocked memory of the incident was real.

Also blocked, the guilt. I have carried a burden of surviving death while my friend died. Guilt that I didn't help save Patty when the teacher asked for help. Deep issues never faced, but tucked away, to hard to talk about. Feelings, no one thought to address for me or for my classmates.
 
How I ended up the furthest away was only due to the unseen force placing me out of harm’s way. I was protected. Reliving that moment, I know there are miracles.
 
More pieces of stories have been recalled and facts found in the old newspaper clippings.
 
The hot metal prevented the men who came into help lift the heavy metal. My teacher finally did it on her own. An “Adrenaline rush of strength”, my Mother said made it possible.
 
Mrs. Corwin wore bandages on her fingers and hands for weeks.
 
The ambulance came. They had to use a mattress like blanket to remove Patty due to the damage to her little body. She died on the way to the hospital.
 
After Patty's death, her Mother and Step-father had three children. Interestingly, Patty would have had little brothers. Just like I had my little brothers.
 
My three younger brothers were the honorary pallbearers at Patty’s service. I remember the open casket was presented as a beautiful bedroom setting, full of stuffed toys and flowers, while the Brahma’s Lullaby played. The shock and sadness in the roomful of mourners penetrated as I sat with my Mother and older sister.
 
I was given one of Patty’s favorite stuffed little dogs.
 
Our Mother had been given a gift. She said she had sensed things at times that came to pass. It did.
 
During my twenties, I began to wonder if I had some kind of a special gift. At my Uncle’s funeral, a man’s voice began singing “the Old Rugged Cross.”
 
I remembered singing the song with my Mother. I remembered my Mother’s voice. As I recalled my Mother’s voice, I began to hear her. First it was a faint level, and then it became louder, and so loud in my head I found it unbearable. I opened my eyes and looked at family around me expecting them to hear it too. Silence. The room was quiet, listening to the man, the one voice giving his rendition.
 
The moment I thought “NO! Don’t let me hear!” it was gone.
 
Shocked, I knew I had heard my Mother’s voice. She was there with us, with me, letting me know the veil is very thin.
 
As my years have given more opportunities, I can see a purpose. I can identify my teachers. I know the invisible force giving guidance and protection during my journey. I do have much to write about, to share. For me, I had to live the majority of my life time to identify the miracles and the answers to my prayers.
 
As Louise Hay states in her motivational teaching, “I Trust the Process of Life.”

There must be some greater reason for each incident and I am finding this inner desire to share my scared spaces. Please bare with me as the spirit is moving me.