Childhood Stories: Rachel

A while back, I decided that I wanted to share some stories from my childhood.  If you miss that first post, you can find it here:      Childhood Stories: A Blunt Knife

Now, on with this post.

Rachel

When I was young, my mom did this thing that was fairly common at the time among lower to middle income families with a lot of children:  She babysat other children to earn extra money for our family.  At the time, these children who needed watching during the daytime work hours consisted mainly of children from single parent or divorced families in which the custodial parent had no choice but to work outside the home.

This is how I met Rachel.  

Rachel was the only daughter of a young nurse named Karen who my mother worked with at Children's Mercy Hospital. 

I've been trying to put together just how long my mom babysat Rachel based only on 40-year-old memories and the few factual dates that I can find.  I know that Rachel was born in October of 1971 and so was almost exactly two years younger than I.  In addition, I seem to remember her being at our home prior to me starting kindergarten at the age of 4.  My mom didn't stop watching Rachel until I was approximately 9 years old and in the 4th grade.  Putting this all together, it seems to be a span of around 5 years that Rachel and I's lives intersected.

During these years together, Rachel and I were constant playmates and became fast friends.  We spent hours upon hours playing together.  Just the two of us, sharing imagination and dreaming.  We were kindred spirits, cut from the same cloth:  Both creative, sensitive and shy yet optimistic and in awe of life.

I have many fond memories of Rachel.  We used to lay on our backs on the next door neighbor's front terrace and stare up at the clouds in wonder, occasionally pointing out the likeness of one to an elephant, giraffe or whatever other exotic animal we saw manifested.  We used to pretend to drive a huge city bus using an old discarded bicycle wheel as a steering wheel.  We used to pick and eat delicious mulberries off of the tree in our backyard.  We did that thing that kids do where we shared stories with each other of encounters with witches, ghosts, tornadoes, etc all the while knowing that the reality of each tale existed only in our imaginations and never calling the other person out for such obvious yarns.

I also remember a day when we adventured into the old detached garage behind our house.  A place we were specifically forbidden to explore due to the abundance of perilous rummage amassed there.   Of course, it was my idea and Rachel was reluctant to break the rules but I coaxed her into entering with the promise of a wondrous treasure of odds and ends.  And so, in we went.  I don't remember if our explorations were the cause or if there was another, but there were some pieces of broken glass scattered on the floor.  For some reason, broken glass is a wonder to children.  Perhaps because it is a surrealistic manifestation of things as they should not be.  A glimpse outside the sanitized childhood created by adults and into the truth of entropial reality.  At any rate, due to the aforementioned wonder, and to achieve the fullest experience thereof, I picked up a piece of the glass and ran my fingers along the smooth portion just letting the tip of my fingers skirt the jagged edge.  With the power of the glass to pierce delicate skin mere micrometers away, my fascination reached its zenith and I encouraged Rachel to pick up a piece so that she could also experience this fascination.  Rachel, perhaps being younger, clumsier or maybe merely not having as much exposure to broken glass as I, instantly ran her finger along the harsh broken edge and blood immediately began to flow.  I tried to comfort her.  Tried to tell her that it was just a small cut.  Tried to convince her that we didn't need to involve the adults.   But only for a moment because I saw that she was bleeding profusely and it would take more than the a mere bandaid to stanch the flow.
Rachel ended up going to the emergency room and receiving stitches that evening while I remained at home, crying in my sister's arms, overwhelmed with remorse due to the role I had played in sending her there.


The intersection of Rachel and I's worlds came to an end sometime in early 1979.  The details are a bit fuzzy.  As I mentioned above, the memories are nearly 40 years old and were processed and stored through the senses of a 9-year-old child.  That said, the following are the events as I remember them.

Rachel's mother dropped her off at our home one cold morning in January of 1979, drove herself to the hospital that she and my mother worked at and shot herself in the head, dying instantly.  I don't think that I ever saw Rachel again after that day.  At least I don't remember seeing her again.  I do know that after that day, she went to live with her father and stepmother in Warrensburg, MO which is about an hour away from the Kansas City, MO area.

It's interesting what childhood events do to you.  Try as I might, I cannot pull a clear image of Rachel's face into my mind.  I can pull vague images, kind of like if you were looking at someone out of the corner of your eye who is standing just behind you.  I can remember mannerisms.  I can remember characteristics.  I can sometimes remember her voice.  But I cannot lock into a clear memory of her face and I wish that I could.  The interesting part is that I have a clear memory of her mother's face.  A clear memory of her whole person actually.  Standing in our doorway in a while nurse's uniform with a slight smile on her face.  Saying goodbye to her daughter for the day.  This is odd because the interactions I had with her mother were few and were brief.  I can only surmise that due to the tragic way that she left this world, my 9-year-old brain chose to forever imprint a picture of her onto my grey matter.

Over the years, I would sometimes think or Rachel and so through the resourcefulness of the information super highway, I sought to reconnect with her using only her first and last name (which I wasn't even sure of the correct spelling of at the time).

Unfortunately, it didn't take me long to find out that I was too late.

Rachel Joan Rothove Rodriguez  passed away suddenly on Friday, December 2, 2005.  She was only 34 years old.
I was able to track down her stepmother and correspond briefly with her by email and take solace from a blog post she made a couple of weeks after Rachel's death.

Here is an excerpt:

"For now I am wondering, "How do I live the rest of my life without my daughter?" She died suddenly Dec. 2, 2005. We were very close despite the 1000 miles that could have kept us apart. We talked daily, often more than once. I have always been grateful for our relationship, and it has been wonderful for some years now. But now I dread answering the phone. Kind of like becoming sensitive to the traffic behind you after a rear-end accident.

The last two weeks have shown me how she had accomplished...all her high school dreams and more. A loving husband, beautiful children(3), a big home, and a successful career as an entrepeneur. Regardless of her young age of 35 Rachel had lived several lifetimes. She had become my best friend, sometimes my only friend. We have talked each other through so many life experiences. We had great laughs and great arguments. I am lost without her.

Her last interest was in the work and life of Frida Kahlo, a painter. My daughter related to the hardship. It is a long story. The end has arrived. I will see my work differently. I have to relocate the joy, maybe filter Rachel's sense of humor and tastes in a body of work."

 This post along with the description of Rachel in her obituary are a perfect reflection of the Rachel I knew and I am happy for that.  Her obit speaks of her enjoying singing, dancing, reading and writing poetry and collective thoughts.  She was a truly creative soul.

And so, I can't help but wonder.  Why?  Are some people just cursed?  It seems that from the moment of her birth, Rachel's life was meant for ultimate demise.  Does life just home in on certain people and destin them for tragedy and hardship?  We all know of people who seem to be followed by trials.  Modern day Jobs if you will.  There have been two such people in my life thus far.  One is Rachel and the other is my sister Mary.  I won't speak of Mary in this post but her story is equally as tragic as Rachel's if not more so.  Why do some people appear to be earmarked for disaster?

I guess none of us can really know.

For me, I will keep wondering and questioning while I cherish the impact that Rachel had in my life during my own troubled childhood years.  She helped me survive in her own way and I will be forever grateful and inspired by her life to seek to do the same for others.