Mourning Has Broken

by Erin Davis

  Whether I signed up for it or not, the message I was getting across the board was that it would be my job now to follow my own little family’s motto and “be on my best.” I’d have to keep going and show that you can survive anything. It might get a little messy at times, but I had a job to do, and that was to offer up hope that life could, indeed, go on. It would never be the same, and the sun might not ever shine with the same bright intensity, but it would still come up every day nonetheless, and I’d be there calling play-by-play on each sunrise.

  Someone expressed concern to me at one point just after my return to the radio that by doing this show, by seeming to heal so quickly and before their ears, I might be doing a disservice to others dealing with their own grief. How could I be there laughing and carrying on with my life when they couldn’t get out of bed in the morning?

  I considered my response very carefully. It hadn’t occurred to me that just surviving as best I could, and in so public a way, might be causing harm to someone walking the same path. My answer to that is: all I can do is me. As much as I tried for decades to reflect the feelings and experiences of our listeners, an effortless kind of empathy that had always served me well in my radio career, I came to realize that I can’t be responsible for the thoughts or the healing processes of others who’ve been dealt a blow like we were; I can only do the best I can.

  Really, that is what survival after a catastrophic loss is all about: doing your best (without harsh judgment from others or from within), being open to and willing to seek help and realizing there is no set timeline; there are no rules. I have heard from and read about enough people who share this washed-out road to know that some who’ve suffered this kind of trauma can’t get out of bed for weeks, months, even longer. There are some who barely keep going, and others who simply don’t. One bereaved mom, who writes to me regularly, visits her young child’s grave daily and has done so for the past thirty years, and on the dates surrounding his birth and his death, she tells me she routinely takes far more painkillers than are prescribed to her in hopes of overdosing. The pain is palpable in this woman’s anger-laden emails, which are so often barely legible because of the prescription drugs she is taking for pain (of all kinds), and, honestly, I wonder how she makes it through each day. I wonder, too, just how many more days she has left to suffer. I have tried to tell her that she has more strength than she knows, but my words fall on deaf ears. She’s been on this road for so long.

  On the other side of the shroud is the remarkable story of strength and hope that is Ellen Hinkley. I say remarkable because, as public as our ordeal in losing our child was—partly of our own choosing—Ellen and her family had the unbearable burden of waiting several excruciating years to see her child’s killer come to trial. Then she had to live through the further publicity of a court procedure.

  In a story that many Torontonians and possibly an equal number of people across Canada remember to this day for its exceptional cruelty, the inference of a crime sparked by homophobia, and the duration it took to come to a conclusion, Christopher Skinner was brutally murdered in 2009. The twenty-seven-year-old, who was said to be following in his father’s footsteps toward a career in law, was on his way home from younger sister Taryn’s birthday celebrations in Toronto’s Entertainment District. In the wee hours of that morning, a fight broke out between Christopher and the driver and passengers of a vehicle on whose windows he is said to have pounded after being denied a ride home. Christopher was punched and kicked by as many as five men and then run over by the escaping SUV. While, mercifully, Christopher’s suffering ended when he later succumbed to his injuries in hospital, the pain of his parents, family and friends would go on for years, as everyone was left suspended in a jagged limbo of not knowing if the killer or killers of this charismatic and promising young man would ever be apprehended.

  It took four long years for the first big break in the case to come: an ex-girlfriend of one of the vehicle’s passengers tipped off the police, who were able to build a case by wiretapping the phones of the suspected driver. Lauren’s death led Christopher’s mother to reach out and offer her condolences and empathy. Eventually, she would also provide a perspective for me—and you—that I hope you’ll find as invaluable as I have, from her unfathomable position as the mother of a murdered child.

  Ellen’s husband and daughter faced the media during the course of the trial that led the evening TV news for weeks. Christopher’s case had captured the city’s attention not only because of Toronto’s low crime rate but also because this homicide was particularly brutal. Many wondered if it was a hate crime because Christopher was gay, although the police later determined that this was not the case. Ellen herself says that while her now ex-husband and daughter answered questions and made statements, she would mostly stand by and cry. She describes that time in her family’s life in one word: “surreal.”

  At a time when you are trying to process the fact that your child has gone and will never return (and that means all the things he will never, ever do with you again, like Christmas, celebrate birthdays or the birth of his nephews, just hang around), now we were dealing with interviews with police, media, press conferences, updates from police or, at times, long silences from the police. [We were] always wondering if the suspect was caught, would that make it better?

  Once a suspect was apprehended and brought to trial, Ellen displayed incredible bravery and honesty and was completely dedicated to honouring the memory of her dear Christopher. In one harrowing, unforgettable chapter of this trial, the bereaved mother took the microphone to share how losing her son had affected her life:

  Victim. Impact. Statement. A horrible, despicable thing to write. Something I never expected to have to write when looking down at my newborn son, 34 years ago. I hate to think of myself as a victim—I have been doing everything in my power NOT to be a victim since Christopher was murdered on October 18. But I am. I am just as much a victim as Christopher John Andrew Skinner.

  How? Financially, my business foundered as I was not able to devote my full attention to the running and managing of an entrepreneurial business. People came into my shop to see the poor mother of the boy who was murdered, not to purchase wool. I became the latest entry in that infamous club no one wants to join: the club of mothers who have lost a child. I had to take time away from the shop.

  Relationships have foundered and been lost because folks did not know how to “handle” the news about my son’s murder. They were afraid to say Christopher’s name, they were afraid to say the wrong thing. So they left.

  But more importantly, how did this affect me, emotionally? I do know that I will never again have daily interactions via social media or telephone with Christopher—almost every morning when I opened my computer at work there was a cheery note, and lively interaction throughout the day. I will never again know the magnificence and strength of my boy’s hugs, or feel his care and concern for his mom. I will never again have heart-searing talks with Christopher when he wanted my advice. I will never be able to watch Christopher’s pure joy when with his extended family. And his family will never know pure joy again. I have been told I was a soft place for Christopher to land after a tough week of city life. And of that, I am proud.

  I felt that my role became caregiver, to take care of my remaining family; my husband and my daughter. In fact, my ailing 78-year-old mother told me that on October 18, she lost not only her beloved grandson, she lost her daughter. Why? Because I could not provide the emotional support she required, and also care for my nuclear family. My mother, Nanny-Junne, has now passed away, and this horrible incident contributed in no small way. Christopher was her life.

  Places that brought me pleasure were no longer places I wanted to visit. Family vacation spots became difficult to go to. I have spent almost 6 years trying to establish new Christmas traditions that would bring us joy, while still trying to maintain and cherish the memories of past Christmases.

  I will never understand how one pe
rson’s carelessness, cowardice and arrogance can take my life, my sunshine.

  This is my life now. This will never change. My loss is always with me and always will be. Always living with the essence of Christopher and a sense of what if . . . what kind of family man would he have been? What kind of uncle would he have been to his unborn nephew? What kind of son would he be towards me in my old age? I will never know. I will never feel his love towards me again.

  I try and find ways to cope. I try and find moments of joy. And with the help of my wonderful daughter, and good friends and family, I am occasionally able to do that.

  But please, let there be no doubt. I am a Victim. Just as Christopher was. Thank you for listening.

  Can you even imagine having to share how broken-hearted you are with strangers and media alike? I mean, Rob and I chose to open our hearts to people about the sadness and the tragedy of our daughter’s death. How Ellen managed to put her loss and pain into words and then deliver them to her son’s killer and everyone else in that courtroom is beyond me.

  Ellen lives in Uxbridge, a township about a fifty-five-minute drive from Toronto. I asked her how hard it was to be part of such a big story in such a small town, something she touched on in her statement when she mentioned selling wool and being somewhat on display. She said that many women came to tell her that they, too, had lost a son. But some just wanted to chat or gossip. She would have none of it.

  One huge idiot I will never forget came in and leaned on the counter and said, “So how’s it going with your son’s case?” I didn’t know her, she never shopped at my shop and I’ve never seen her since. I did kick some people out of my shop because all they wanted to do was talk about the case and Christopher. My response was to put my hands up in front of me and say, “I’m sorry, I don’t discuss that here. If you wish to purchase some wool, I would be happy to help you; otherwise you have to leave.”

  Eventually, Ellen says, her tough approach worked. Like so many in the early stages of grief, returning to a job—just putting one foot ahead of the other and concentrating on something, anything, besides the pain—was a great help, as it helped bring a semblance of her past “normal” life back to her.

  What Ellen’s wool shop in Uxbridge was for her, my place behind the microphone was for me: it wrapped me in the normalcy of radio (a form of media whose participants are rarely called “normal,” myself included). The fact that I had something into which I could immerse myself gave me the illusion that I was living the life we had before the needle was pulled off of our sweet, sweet record. Every day I had to put on my face (both with cosmetics and a smile), “be on my best” and put on a show. It’s not unlike the belief that if you curl your mouth upward, even when you don’t feel like smiling, you’ll fool yourself into thinking you’re happy. We would do that occasionally in our yoga or meditation classes: eyes closed, smiling while we inhale. Somehow the brain translates that physical act of smiling into some form of happiness. It doesn’t always work, but it’s effective often enough to keep me trying. What do we have to lose?

  Ellen Hinkley’s version of community support and fellowship came in the form of a shared passion. She found it odd, but comforting, that at one time she had five bereaved moms in her knitting group. She hadn’t advertised it, but people came and found a safe place to listen and be heard. She says that when it was only the bereaved moms, they could talk freely about their children’s passing and how they were feeling that day. Ellen adds that there was a bit of gallows humour, too, as you can only share that with someone who’s been there.

  Few people can understand the pain of losing a child; one bereaved mom described it to me like being an alien on Earth—you know when you meet another of your kind, because you speak a different language on a completely different level from everyone else. Fewer still could begin to grasp the unique set of trials and reverberations Christopher’s death and its aftermath would bring to Ellen and her family.

  Anger is something Rob and I were fortunate not to have had to deal with in overwhelming amounts. Yes, we were angry at the senselessness of being robbed of our daughter, of our future together and of all of the dreams that we held for that bright and happy future (especially if it had anything to do with taking a drug to aid breastfeeding as it was prescribed), but our overwhelming emotions surrounding Lauren’s death, and the loss of her in our lives, were gutting sadness, bewilderment and depression. And as with numerous subjects of Dr. Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’s groundbreaking work surrounding the five stages of grief in On Death and Dying, we also dealt with denial and acceptance. But we came to understand that those stages do not appear or manifest themselves in any particular order, are not experienced in equal amounts, and do not apply in all cases. For example, we did no bargaining: Lauren was gone in the same flash with which she’d arrived. We didn’t have a chance to beg the gods to “take me!” No bargaining here whatsoever; it was way too late for that.

  I asked Ellen if the anger she felt in any way mitigated her grief or provided a distraction from the enormity of losing her only son.

  Having the suspect caught changed my focus. . . . I no longer could be distracted by the police search (and remember, I was hoping that his capture would make me feel better). In some ways, I could now begin being really angry at a group of people. But right from the beginning, I always said, “What about his mother? What about his family?” I never thought we were talking about a monster here; we were talking about someone who had a mom and dad. How were they managing knowing that their child could commit such a monstrous act?

  Before you think I was angelic in worrying about other people, a great deal of the time I was so angry that his selfish behaviour could take away my son. And I really hope he is suffering in jail. There, my angel wings are gone.

  Have I told you how much I honour and admire Ellen’s honesty? She also shared this perspective, which I found to be most helpful.

  My very good friend, who had also lost a child, recommended this: think of a window shade in your mind. When you are strong and calm you can pull it up and look at all the circumstances that surrounded Christopher’s death: the fact that he was beaten, run over and left to die on the side of the road. But when that is too much to bear, pull that window blind down, take a deep breath and wait for another day.

  There were press conferences where all I could do was cry in front of the media and the police force. There were court appearances where cruel harsh details were bickered over by lawyers [and] made me lose my breath. In fact, I didn’t even know what the accused looked like; he had to be pointed out to me. I think I deliberately did not want to know. There were friends who discussed the case and analyzed it, in front of me. All I could think was “THIS WAS CHRISTOPHER! You are talking about Christopher!” I just sat and cried and screamed inside.

  In 2013, the man who beat and then drove over Christopher Skinner pleaded guilty to manslaughter and was sentenced to eight and a half years in prison, two of which had already been served at the time of sentencing.

  Since enduring the horrific ordeal of losing her son and a lengthy and public trial, though, another chapter has been written in Ellen Hinkley’s life story, and it has all of the hallmarks of being the beginning of a happy ending. As Ellen puts it, “I think that if there were cracks in the marriage to begin with, they become chasms with the burden of grief.”

  Thankfully, though, that chasm became an opening for happiness to emerge once again into Ellen’s life. In 2016, she met someone whom she describes as “the light of my life.”

  It happened seven years after Christopher died and two years after my marriage died. I know I needed time to recover from both deaths.

  I thought, “How can I date someone, as a bereaved parent?” Well, I met the right person, who will listen to me talk. He just gets sad when I do. A moment of victory: walking through a shop that specialized in Scottish stuff and I heard “Amazing Grace.” Not only did I not cry, I sang along. And poor Mark had his eye on me, trying to
figure out how to get me the heck out of there. He was pleased when he saw I wasn’t upset.

  Small victories. Small achievements. They all count.

  Ellen and Mark were married in 2018, opening the window shade to a new morning: one filled with promise. I raised a glass to the happy couple, hoping that even though it was sparkling fruit juice and not real champagne, my wishes for only good things in their lives together would come true.

  CHAPTER 9

  I’ll Drink to That:

  My Own Personal Rock Bottom

  Grand Marshal Erin, Toronto, St. Patrick’s Day, 2006

  William C. Smith

  IF THERE IS AN UNDERLYING FEELING OR ATTITUDE we have adopted in the months and years since Lauren left us, it has to be that of gratitude. It’s the same sentiment I expressed at Lauren’s two memorials. But after the guest books and leftover programmes had been delivered to us in boxes and the flowers had long lost their petals, the thankfulness, on many fronts, remained. However, there are few things for which I am more grateful than the fact that going into this horrible tragedy, I had already logged several years of sobriety. I was going to need all the clarity I could muster just to survive losing Lauren, never mind achieve my goal of getting back on the radio and putting on a happy face (or, more importantly, voice).

  I remember when I started to use alcohol as a painkiller instead of simply a social lubricant, as “normal” people do. At twenty-two, when women my age went out at night to meet each other (and perhaps Mr. or Ms. Right), I was home alone. A 4 a.m. alarm isn’t exactly conducive to being part of a vibrant social network, nor (somewhat surprisingly) is working in a primarily male industry. I’d had my flings, but basically, I had no close friends of either gender. And I felt isolated and alone.