Grandmother, March 2, 2005, by Betsy Shorts

From MemoryArchive

Who: Betsy Shorts
What: Grandmother
When: March 2, 2005
Where: Washington DC

I don’t remember my grandmother’s funeral. I vaguely recall some shifting about so my cousins and I could sit together in the front pews, and a soloist (male or female – I’m not sure which) singing “Here I Am, Lord.” The service was lost to me, just a blur in the anger, shock, and grief that surrounded her death. Except for one thought that repeated while I watched the procession at the end of the service. As they walked out I could only think, “This is so messed up – I’m watching my brothers and cousins carry my murdered grandmother’s coffin.”

I got the call at 3:30 p.m. on March 2, 2005. It was a typical Wednesday, and I was sitting at my desk at my internship. The phone call with my mother was brief; she told me my grandmother, Dorothy Bone, and my great-aunt, Doris Fisher, were killed in a robbery attempt at the beauty shop that morning. My head was spinning as I left the office to pack and drive home that night. This wasn’t right. This was something you read about in the papers but it didn’t ever actually happen to you. It was too surreal.

My mom filled me in on what they knew so far when I got to our house in Doylestown, Pa. Michael Cooney, the shop owner, was dead too. They had been the only three in the shop at 10 a.m. Their assailant stabbed them to death; my grandmother had 5-7 wounds, my great-aunt had 7-10, and Cooney had 28.

The theories about the motivation for the killing changed as details about Cooney’s life came out. Cooney ran an antiquing business out of his shop as well, and the people he dealt with were frequently convicted criminals. The police now think that there was a business deal that went wrong, and Cooney was supposed to be the only target. My grandmother and great-aunt were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I flew with my family to Belleville, Ill. for the funerals. I think the hardest moment was when we gathered at the funeral home before my grandmother’s service on Saturday to say our final goodbyes. We stood around her casket, crying. The director of the funeral home asked for the ten grandkids and three great-grandkids first. My cousins and brothers approached the casket, two and three at a time. But I looked at her lying in her casket and I couldn’t do it. As everyone else went forward, I backed away. “I can’t,” I said, choking on tears.

It was too hard. At 21 years old, I’d already lost my other grandparents. Those goodbyes were never easy, but this one was impossible. I was closer with her than I was with my three grandparents. And they died from failing hearts and post-surgical complications – the way the elderly people are supposed to die. They died because their bodies decided it was time to stop fighting. It was normal. But there was nothing normal about this. She wasn’t ready to die. I wasn’t ready for her to die. I wouldn’t say goodbye. My older brother, Steve, came over and put his arms around me. Steve pulled our younger brother Dan into our hug. I cried as their broad shoulders surrounded me and I could hear Dan sob. The three of us just stood there, holding onto each other while we broke down.

Back in Washington, I spent the next month crying myself to sleep most nights. I would lie in bed and start thinking about her and how she died. Or my mind would wander to moments from my childhood. I’d remember my grandmother beaming at me from the crowd during dance recitals and horse shows. I’d think about taking walks on the beach with her when we vacationed in the Outer Banks, N.C. Sometimes I wouldn’t even think so far back; I would think about sitting with her on a couch this past Christmas, flipping through photo albums from her trip to Italy. She was so excited to show me because I had just returned from studying there for a semester.

If I didn’t cry myself to sleep, I drank myself to sleep. My drinking began to get pretty out of control. It wasn’t unusual for my roommates to come home and find me drunk off of a bottle of wine that I opened and finished by myself that evening. Sometimes, I would lie in bed and my heart would start racing. When deep breathing didn’t calm me (and it never did), I would take shots of whatever hard liquor was open. I would pound them back, one after the other, and hope the alcohol would hit my system quickly and calm me enough that I could sleep.

On nights that I would go out with my friends, I just got absolutely hammered. Sometimes I’d be fine and spend the night laughing. But it was a completely different story if anything happened that would upset me. I would easily get angry and irrational and the night would end with me screaming in my friends’ faces. Or I would start crying hysterically over the most insignificant things. I’d never been an emotional drunk before, and my friends had no idea what to say when I’d cause a scene. Of course I thought nothing was wrong. But no matter how much I tried to tell myself and everyone else I was fine, I wasn’t. I was a complete mess.

When I wasn’t back to my normal self after a few weeks, my friends didn’t know what to do with me. So they chose to do nothing. My friendships suffered, and I felt more alone than I ever had. It was as if no one understood, nor did they care to. Everyone expected me to be me, and I disappointed them when I wasn’t. No one tried to talk to me about what they saw happening or how I was feeling. At the same time, I wouldn’t go to them when I was crying or upset. I was used to being the rock, and I didn’t want them to see me be weak. Most of my friends never really saw how much it was still hurting me. I didn’t consider until months later that it was only my friendships that were breaking down while everyone else’s were fine. That should have been a red flag to me that perhaps they weren’t the only problem.

The turning point came one night early in June. I was spending the summer in Washington, and my older brother Steve, who was 23 at the time, had just moved back home. We all knew it would be an adjustment to have him back in the house, especially for our younger brother Dan, 16. It only took a week for things to go wrong. I called home one night to say hi, and my mom told me she had to take Dan to the hospital. Apparently a ridiculous argument escalated to blows, and Steve broke Dan’s nose. After I hung up the phone I went to my housemate Cody’s room and crawled into his bed. As I told him the story, I started crying. While I laid there with tears rolling down my cheeks and he rubbed my back, I realized how scared I was for my family.

The five of us were typically such strong individuals but my grandmother’s death was breaking us down. It was three months later and each of us was still completely at a loss as to how to handle it. I guess I expected for my mom to still be a mess, but I couldn’t believe my brothers were getting into fistfights. I just didn’t understand it. I felt guilty, too. Obviously we were all hurting. But my mom was the one who really needed support. Instead of giving it to her, we all made it worse. Dan and Steve were breaking each other’s noses, my dad put up an emotional wall, and I let my grades slip and started lying to my parents. We were letting our family self-destruct.

When my brothers and I stood together at that funeral, we held onto each other for comfort and companionship. We relied on each other to make it easier. But somewhere in the next three months, we lost that. We turned on each other instead of turning to one another, and none of us dealt with what we were feeling.

While I was in D.C., I didn’t have anyone who really understood how devastating this kind of death is. But once I let my friends see me struggle, they were willing to try and understand. If I was ever going to be okay, I had to stop being the rock and let them be strong for me. That night in June, while Cody rubbed my back, I realized how much easier it was to let them hold me while I cried instead of trying to hold it all in.

That summer was the best thing for me. I was able to relax and put my life back in order. I spent a lot of time talking on the phone with my mom about everything and nothing – whatever she wanted. I took trips home whenever I could, just so I could hang out with Dan and Steve and my parents. I fixed my friendships, I talked to my friends when I was upset, and I let them take care of me. By the end of the summer, my friends all said, “You smile so much more now.”

I’m not over my grandmother’s death. I never will be. I won’t have any real closure until the investigation is complete, and neither will the rest of my family. The holidays this year are tough. I’m dreading the trip to St. Louis later in December because my whole family – parents, brothers, aunts, uncles, and cousins – will be one big emotional wreck. But at least we’ll all be holding onto each other.[[Category:Death