03.12.15
by

A Secret Lapse in Judgment

Part one here.

4 days. They watched over and kept my mom for four days. It felt like a month, maybe more. The first and most important task to get under control was right-sizing the medication. That included eliminating the prescriptions that, when combined with others, were driving this tail-spin.

From the moment I was forced to drop her off, I wanted to pick her back up. That day finally came. Things were back to normal. There was only one small change with the family. My wife and I had a new little boy.

Caleb.

Caleb has a couple of distinct facts about him.

First of all, he was the only child who was planned. This was a special event. While our first two children snuck up on us, although we knew what the act could lead to, Caleb was a thought out and planned for child.

Secondly, his name was chosen with peculiar intent. Our first two children, Aiden and Cassidy, were named after a horror movie character and a Lifetime movie actress. I wish there was more to it. There isn’t. For the third go-around, we wanted to have a name that carried a strong meaning both literally and metaphorically.

We chose the name Caleb Joshua. It was a strong Biblical name. Caleb which means ‘to fight like a dog’ or ‘bold’ and Joshua which translates to ‘salvation’. While we felt noble with our selection, neither my wife nor I ever envisioned that these two names would take on such a literal meaning that would test us beyond anything in our lives.

Two days after Caleb was born, we arrived at the house. The bassinet was set up near my wife’s side of the bed. The nursery newly decorated and painted awaited for the transition from mom and dad’s room. For the first 26 days of Caleb’s life, everything was going as planned. Then day 27 arrived.

My wife was in our bedroom with him. She was changing him into an adorable pajama onesie that was decorated with chubby green frogs, each one donning a pair of reading glasses. The thought bubble that read ‘ribbit’ was spread out sporadically across the pattern.

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He began to cough, even choke. His body to small and weak to know how to clear his own throat, he resorted to holding his breath unintentionally. My wife screamed from the room to me while she watched him struggle to breathe.

I ran in and grabbed him off the bed.

“He isn’t breathing! He isn’t breathing!” she screamed at me.

His body tightened up and contracted against the pull of my hands as I tried to cup his head and pat his back. Ignorantly, I pulled him in front of me and began to blow gently into his face in order to force him to catch his breath. He continued holding it. His face developed a purple hue. His body arched hard away from me and his back contorted as he struggled against himself and the choking that had cut off his air supply.

“Caleb!” I called out a bit too harshly.

“Oh my God!” my wife cried out as she looked on.

“Do we call 9-1-1?” her voice was loud. Piercing.

“Caleb!” I screamed again still trying to blow into his face.

His tiny body went limp in my arms. I twisted back towards the bed and laid him down. I looked at his face. The purple was slowly dissolving as the blood rushed away from his face. I held my hand under his nose. I felt air being gently pushed out. His chest resumed the up and down motion that implied he was once again breathing normally.

My wife fell down to her knees in front of the bed and bent over and kissed him repeatedly. Her hands were shaking. She dropped the cell phone that she was clutching. She was still crying. The adrenaline finally began to fall off of me but was replaced with a surge of anger.

I walked the room pacing hard. Once again the events and stress of the past several months was forefront in my mind. The episode that I had just witnessed with my son collided with everything that had yet to be resolved. I was getting everyone around me help. Everyone except for me. I balled up my fist and swung hard at the wall. My hand crushed into the sheet rock and sunk with a satisfying thud into the newly placed hole.

I made my way to the kitchen table, drug out a chair allowing the metal and make a crude scrapping sound against the ceramic flooring. I plopped down. I was exhausted from everything going on. I was exhausted after watching my son nearly suffocate in front me. I wanted the weight of it all off of my shoulders. Every time something tragic began to happen, I would compile all of the previous events of my life. Each time, it would push me down deeper into my own darkness.

I finally retained control of my anger. I breathed slowly in and out. I looked back towards the bedroom and captured my wife cradling our son. Her face was still scarred with the tears of what we had just witnessed. We had no idea. We had no idea that my mom had not yet seen the worst of what was lying underneath. We had no idea that this would be the last night that our Caleb would spend in our room. A fight for life was about to begin. Unfortunately we would have front-row seats and absolutely no control.

03.03.15
by

The Bitter Taste of Panic (Final)

Read Part One here.

CONCLUSION

Crying was not supposed to be audible in this scenario. There was no place for crying. Had the day’s turn of events gotten to my wife in such a way that she simply broke down? If that were the case, I would understand. While we are a blessed couple with beautifully healthy, loving children, our life has been riddled by consistent challenges. The break-in would be added to the bottom of that list.

I saw what looked like two figures standing behind my car. I had to squint to make out the shapes. A new outside light above the garage would’ve helped, both at that moment and also should eager thieves return. I had been making a laundry list of security upgrades that were needed all evening. A new outside flood-light was added.

As I stepped closer to the sobbing sound, a car drove down the street. The high-beams cast a light on my driveway and revealed the source of the noise. My wife stood there embraced by the arms of another woman who was crying uncontrollably. The scene in front of me would normally have drawn a confused stare but nothing about this day made sense. I suppose my shock-value was numb.

“Everything okay?” I ignorantly asked.

The embrace remained. The crying subsided.

The lady lifted her head from my wife’s shoulder and looked in my direction. It was the mother of the young man who lived across the street. The young man who had just been hauled off in the police car.

“It was her son that broke in.” My wife calmly stated with one arm still resting on the neck of the distraught mother.

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“I’m so sorry. I don’t know why he keeps doing this. I don’t have any control over there.” The mom begged and apologized through more tears.

She continued, “My daughter recently tried to commit suicide. Their dad is not in their lives. It is just getting worse.”

“I’m sorry you have to deal with that.” I was caught off guard by my response. Here I was apologizing to someone else when it was their son that had caused my problem.

The pain and despair in her eyes was somehow more valuable than any electronics. My wife stood by consoling the heart-broken mother. I stood by finally able to find some relief that part of the mystery was resolved.

In the midst of another unfortunate event, I was there, in a familiar spot, watching my wife be beautifully strong. Getting to see her heart-break for someone else even when she is the victim, is a priceless characteristic that not many people have. She perfects it.

My cell phone rang.

“Mr. De Leon? I have good news! We have all of your items.  Can you come down to the police station and identify them?” The police officer barked out.

We made the quick drive to the office.

I looked at the table that held everything that was taken only 3 hours earlier. The side door swung open and a police officer walked in holding a Paw-patrol-themed backpack. The same tears coated my eyes as I extended my hand and received it from him.

This day is one we will never forget and that has left its lasting mark on us. Each bump in the night now has more meaning. Each time we leave the house we are anxious to get back. Each time I put the key in the door knob the fear that the deadbolt will be locked again lurks. In the meantime, we have taken it upon ourselves to use this unlikely meeting between ourselves and the seemingly helpless mom who lives across the street as an opportunity to reach out.

Who knows? Maybe this break-in took place in order to just align the paths. In the meantime, I’m making some security upgrades. Anyone have a Rottweiler?

03.02.15
by

The Bitter Taste of Panic (4)

Part 4

The velocity of whatever was used to blow out the glass divided by square panels was done with such force that pieces were shot far in all directions. As my wife swept, I moved the couches, both in an attempt to make sure no bare feet would endure the pain of stepping on the sharp debris but also to try and find the tool that was used.

I found plenty of broken glass. The object that was used to create such a mess, still remains a mystery.

The policemen began finger printing key areas. Their efforts resulted in one single, partial fingerprint that was lifted from a pair of headphones that the burglars deemed not worthy of taking. They rifled through a couple of top drawers. The drawer on the right, held the headphones. They were removed and tossed onto our bed in the master bedroom. The police officer was reluctant that the partial print would bring any success in locating who was responsible.

As they began to finish the process, the third policeman came back into the house.

“Well no one saw anything. Talked with neighbors on both sides.” I sighed as he spoke.

“However, the kid across the street…” he paused and let out a short chuckle.

“Well he was reported by his parents as a run-away last night, so I’m hauling him in.” He finished.

I was hopeful that his chuckle was an indication of someone responsible for the missing products, instead it was an inside joke amongst the cops as they appreciated the irony of the meeting.

They cleaned up the fingerprints and then left the house. I finished picking up glass and made my way out the front door. I watched as the kid in the baggy shirt was being patted down and placed into the car. I almost chuckled but held it back. I found it interesting that he stood shooting hoops only 15 feet away from me and made no attempt to run off or hide as the police cars showed up.

The police cars were gone. Our most costly electronics were gone. We stood in the kitchen with a bag of Redbox films, a bottle of wine and snacks. All of which would be of no use now as our romantic night-in had turned into an anticipation of whoever broke into the house, returning to finish the job.

We sat down and thought about the event. We did some research to find out if one of our kids had told some of their friends that we would be away this weekend. The pinpoint robbery and neglect of other objects was too much to think it wasn’t someone we knew. We spent the next two hours trying to solve the crime.

Then, I allowed panic to set in. I am embarrassed to admit.

I grabbed some boxes from the garage and began to pile everything that we owned that was valued at more than $10 and I shoved them into the containers. I worked for 30-minutes clearing off shelves and boxing items to toss in my car as I planned to head to my brother’s house.

I knew at the moment I was doing this that I was being a coward and displaying incredibly feeble faith. I couldn’t stop myself.

My wife went into the garage to switch out some laundry. I heard the garage door open again.

“Oh my God, Paul.” She called from down the hallway.

My heart skipped for a moment and I walked towards her direction. She stood in the doorway, the garage door held open by her hip. I noticed the flashing lights coming through the dark night.

“What is it?” I called, my voice carrying more panic.

“I don’t know. The cops are back out front and I swear that I overheard the words ‘xbox’ and ‘burglary’.” Her panic was noticeable as well.

We turned off the garage light as both of us did our own impression of trying not to be caught. We crept up to the windows of the garage door. We strained to listen to the conversation and activity that was taking place across the street.

I noticed the young man in the back of the police car. I knew him. He knew us. He had been to our house a couple of years ago.

I watched while trying to remain unnoticed. A large police man walked out of the house carrying a black box and a handful of smaller boxes.

“Is that the shape of an Xbox?” I whispered to myself.

I felt some relief that we could possibly be coming to the end of this ordeal. I even felt relief that it may be the young man who knew us and had been over before. I would choose that outcome over some unknown person still lurking in the back alley waiting until we fell asleep.

The policeman placed the black box in the trunk of his patrol car. He walked to the drives side door, opened it, got in and slowly drove off.

I had no further information.

“My brother’s house it is then.” I thought.

Back inside the house, my wife remembered that she left a few more bags in our car.

“Well before we leave, I’m going to go out to the car and get the rest of the stuff.” Her voice was defeated.

A sense of nervousness came over me at the thought of her walking outside alone. I pressed it down. I was already embarrassed at how I was acting. When she wasn’t back after 3 minutes, I headed for the front door.

An alarm of fear rang loud in my ears as I made my way out the door and down the sidewalk towards the driveway that was just out of sight from the side of the house. Goosebumps covered my arms as the muffled sound of someone crying broke the night’s silence.

02.26.15
by

The Bitter Taste of Panic (3)

Read part one here and part two here.

What the police would find collided with what I wouldn’t find as I stood there watching them pull out their handguns and walk around the corner. I began to walk towards the sidewalk and asked my wife to join me.

The neighborhood was met with a silence that caused my ears to ring. The only sound that penetrated the very surreal moment was the basketball that was still being bounced around by the teens across the street.

I watched the two, a girl stood watching a boy who was wearing an over-sized white tee-shirt. The urge to gather information that they could possibly have was kept at bay by the anticipated return of the two policemen currently clearing our home.

As most moments of uncertainty that I have faced, my mind began to play out the possible scenarios of what we would walk into once the front door was inevitably unlocked. My mind and its trained imagination run deep and dark right from the start. The worst case is the default in these instances.

I knew nothing would be left. The games, the Blu-rays, the televisions, the jewelry, the laptops and iPad – they would all be gone. All of it had taken us years to save up for and pay off. Gone in one instant. I shook my head in an effort to delete the nightmare.

The nightmare remained but changed its appearance. Perhaps the house was ran-sacked, drawers dumped out; electronics left destroyed for no reason other than some free time on the intruders hands.

As quickly as that thought began to leave, another one entered. Did our dog run out the backdoor? Had these people found our dog? Had they decided to hurt her? Would I walk into a house covered in blood with a trail that led to her lifeless body? Would my daughter be able to handle another permanent goodbye? The thoughts piled on top of each other without regard.

I shook off the horrible imagery and paced the sidewalk. The officers were taking an enormous amount of time to comb over the 1200-square foot home.

What was taking so long? I thought while trying to peer into the garage door windows.

As I leaned forward, another thought arrived. What if the bad guys were in the garage hiding. What if the police opened the garage door and a gun-fight ensued? I stopped leaning, walked out of what I considered the line-of-fire and stood on the opposite side of the driveway.

The front door finally opened. I tried to read the officer’s face. A seasoned pro, he gave away no clues. He motioned for us to join him. I walked with a brisk pace. He met me at the doorway.

“Well the house is clear.” He began.

“It looks like everything is here – that we can tell. We saw you had some computers out, but they didn’t take them.” He stepped to the side to let me walk past him.

“Go ahead and look around in case we missed something.”

I stepped into the house and immediately noticed the spray of broken glass that extended from the backdoor all the way into the front hall way. The surreal was  gone. Someone had broken into our home. The feeling of being violated quickly made its presence known.

I walked towards the opening that led into the living room and kitchen. The hall way walls still blinded me of anything other than the shards of glass that covered the floor.

“I would just ask that you don’t touch anything.” The officer spoke as he followed behind me.

I began to place my hands behind my back.

“Sir, you don’t have to put your hands behind your back.” He said through a muffled laugh.

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As I walked into the living room my eyes, familiar with the location of the Xbox game system, immediately looked to its designated spot. The shelf was empty. The shelf next to it that held six or seven games was also relieved of its duty.

“Took the Xbox.” I sighed through disgust.

My thought was interrupted by the sound of the glass crunching under my shoes. I stepped into the living room. My work laptop was still on the kitchen table. A small moment of relief tried to arise but it retreated with the sound of more crunching glass as my wife and the second officer joined me.

I scanned the rooms like I was playing the most twisted game of hidden objects. I attempted to pull from the catalog of things we owned. This portion of my memory vault was rarely, with reason, visited. My wife walked into our room. She came back out.

“They took the iPad.” She informed.

I felt the anger beginning to surge. I walked into the bedroom with her. Surprisingly they passed up the second laptop, the collectibles and other items that I was nearly certain would have been gone. The robbery was not making sense.

A house left alone for three hours and only two specific items were gone. It didn’t take much time for the police and us to realize someone knew what they wanted, knew that the kids were gone, knew that we left and worse, knew us.

I failed to notice the small pile of papers and folders that were in the middle of the kitchen floor at first. I reached down to investigate them. I couldn’t place the items.

“They dumped out his backpack!” My wife spoke as her voice crossed over to panic once again.

I stood up and saw the chair where my youngest son would place his backpack each day after school. The Paw-Patrol-themed bag was gone. Anger swelled up, I swallowed it back down. I was nearly okay with having to replace an Xbox or iPad but the thought that they had taken my sons first backpack, therefore violating his privacy and the sentimental value attached to it, was more than I could handle. I felt my eyes watering up.

“They used it to carry everything.” I stated as the police officer nodded in agreement.

“Where is Miley?” My wife asked.

The office spoke up.

“We found the dog in the backroom.” The word found stung deeply.

“She scared my partner to death. I guess whoever broke in, took her into the room and closed the door.” The officers words caused me to continue to put the puzzle together.

“This was someone who knew us and took the time to prevent Miley from running outside.” The thought should have brought relief, instead it only stirred my emotions as I dropped off the cliff of confusion.

After another 30-minutes of fingerprint collecting, filling out paperwork and trying to remember every single item we have ever owned to verify if more was missing, the policemen began to wrap up. A third officer walked into the house.

“I’m going to go ask the neighbors if anyone saw anything.” He said after introducing himself to us.

I watched him walk out the front door. The kids shooting hoops across the street were now joined with three or four more teenagers. The crunch of the glass broke my stare. My wife opened the pantry, retrieved the broom and began to sweep.

I looked at the hole in the glass. Once again I launched into layers of fearful thoughts.

“What was I going to tell our children? My son would be devastated that his Xbox and games were gone. We need to get Caleb a new backpack? Would he understand why someone stole it? Would he spend each night in fear now? Would they be able to sleep in the house knowing that this happened? Would I be able to sleep in the house? Who did this? Would they come back to finish the job?”

The last thought brought everything to a crashing halt. Would they come back? My stomach ached at the thought.

In two hours that question would be answered. They would be back.

02.25.15
by

The Bitter Taste of Panic (2)

Read Part One here.

The car ride back to the house would not be complete without a stop at the local Sonic for some much-needed ice cream. It was a need, not a want. The plan was to spend the evening snacking on food that is bad for you while watching some of the Oscar-nominated films in preparation for the following nights awards show.

With the frozen calories covered with chocolate in our possession, we headed for our house. I pulled in. Nicole grabbed a few bags that carried recent purchases from our short road-trip.

“Still Alice?” I asked as I walked around the side of the car.

Still Alice is one of the nominated films on the must-see list.

“Yea, that’s the one with Julianne Moore right?” My wife asked as she swung her purse over her shoulder.

“Nope. It stars Peter Cetera.” I sarcastically joked back while laughing at myself.

My smile quickly faded as I turned the key and pushed the door open. It resisted and clanked as the dead-bolt hit hard against the lock hole. I didn’t comprehend it at first.

“Did my mom come over to visit?” My mind quickly tried to understand how a lock that can only be accessed while inside of the house had somehow been turned.

I bent down and placed the ice cream on the porch.

I knew that someone had to be inside of the house. I also knew that no one was supposed to be inside of the house. As we walked to the side of the garage and found the back gate ajar, I knew something had gone horribly wrong while we were gone.

I dialed 9-1-1.

“911, do you need police, fire or medical?” The operator chirped.

For some reason my thought at that moment reminded me that 9-1-1 calls were recorded – sometimes even played on major news stations as talking heads described the attached event. My life experiences have left me with a worst-case-scenario will always happen whenever something goes wrong. A short daydream wondered how I would sound as Anderson Cooper revealed the grisly details. I snapped out of it.

I recapped what I had come across to the operator.

“Police are on the way. Do not go inside the house.” She ended the call.

With that sentence it became real. Someone had been inside or worse, was still inside of our home. I stood by the mailbox and leaned against it as my mind began to envision what was on the other side of the front door that was not supposed to be locked.

I thought about our laptops, one of them which belonged to my place of business. I thought about the electronics, the collectibles, the jewelry – I walked through the mental check list, my stomach growing emptier with each item disappearing from their designated location.

“What about Miley!” My wife spoke, her voice with a hint of panic.

Miley is our little dachshund dog. Her free-spirited adventurous personality mixed with an open gate to wherever her paws would desire launched another set of unpleasant thoughts. The fear of how my daughter would react to such a loss began to take over. I shelved the thought with the hopes that there was another explanation and if not, that they backdoor of the house was still closed.

The sound of a bouncing ball drew my attention. I looked across the street and watched as two teenagers shot hoops. I thought about asking them if they had seen anything strange while we were gone. I started to take a step towards them when the caw of the police squad car filled the air. Instead I walked toward the officer, extended my hand and filled him in.

We watched as he walked down the side of the house into the backyard. He walked with intent, cautiously. He made his way to the end of the house and looked towards the back door. His steps came to a stop. He turned back towards us.

“Yea, your back door is open.” He spoke. The confirmation forced itself into my mind.

“Miley.” I whispered.

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“I’m going to sweep the house but I need to wait for back-up.” He instructed as he began to speak into his handheld transceiver.

Within 2 minutes another squad car pulled up. The policeman walked past us and met the other officer in the backyard. They exchanged a few words that I didn’t hear. They drew their guns and slowly disappeared around the corner of the house.

02.24.15
by

The Bitter Taste of Panic

My smile quickly faded as I turned the key and pushed the door open. It resisted and clanked as the dead-bolt hit hard against the lock hole. I didn’t comprehend it at first. I twisted the key once again. I was met with the same response. Instinctively I stepped back, putting out my arm to corral my wife with me.

“The top lock is locked.” I spoke directly.

She didn’t respond. I didn’t look towards her.

“It can only be locked from the inside.” My words were morbid and even startled me as I spoke them.

I looked to the window next to the front door. The screen was disconnected and bent forward.

“That has always been like that.” My wife interjected while trying to dismiss what we didn’t want to accept.

I walked back up to the front door, this time with more aggression. I twisted and pushed harder.

Clank! Clank!

“Someone is inside! They locked the door from the inside.” I said stepping back once again and reaching for my phone.

We both walked around to the side of the house. Reality forced its way in as we stood staring at the back privacy fence gate that was swung open.

I dialed 9-1-1.

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Saturday morning was lazy. It was our anniversary weekend. All three kids were more than 45-minutes away. We were not in any hurry to escape the sleep that held onto us. We spent the evening before enjoying a nice meal at a restaurant and laughing while using an app that listed marriage conversation starters.

“If you could only have one hour of memories from our marriage, what would you choose to remember?” I asked while starting to think of my own choices.

Our answers were heartfelt, sometimes challenged and entirely enjoyable. It was a nice atmosphere of dialogue complimented by some delicious Chinese food. With no children climbing under tables, pestering each other, staring at people in the booth next to us or asking if they could use the restroom for the fifth time in one visit, we slowed down and enjoyed the evening.

I finally rolled over in bed the next morning and stared at the clock on my night stand.

11:21am.

I smiled.

“Worth it.” I thought.

I laid in the bed for about twenty-minutes. I slowly felt boredom creeping up on me. Usually I would have my 11-year-old son singing current R&B hits at the top of his lungs while mashing buttons on the Xbox in the living room, or my 5-year-old son up on the bed, squeezed in between the two of us watching Ninjago on Netflix, or perhaps my daughter…well, never mind, she is never awake before noon.

I tried to let her rest a bit longer but eventually the silence of the house was too much and the subtle snores coming from her was enough for me to insist she join me in the land of the awake.

Both up, we got dressed and decided to go grab lunch and do some window-shopping. Being able to walk around a store without constant interruptions can become so valuable and cherished when the opportunity arrives. It almost felt awkward being able to leave the house in 15-minutes flat instead of the hour or more it usually takes when trying to get three mini-Paul and Nicoles ready to go with us.

We made our way to the car that was parked in the driveway. I quickly checked the mailbox. It was empty. My wife made her way to the passenger’s side of the vehicle. Our eyes met. I smiled. She smiled back. We had simple plans but that was all we needed. It’s usually all we need as long as we are spending that time together.

During my admiration of her, I must have failed to notice that we were being watched. Stalked, like prey. Those watching were waiting for the perfect moment to strike. That moment had arrived as they watched me put the car in reverse, pull out of the driveway and disappear around the corner.