A terrible year

I called the CFRC in Orlando today. They said Ted will be definitely be moved to another facility. They could not tell me when or where, as it was confidential.

No visitations are allowed at the CFRC. A visitation form has to be filled out for each prison. It takes about three weeks for each prison to process the completed application. Although I submitted visitation forms to Brevard C.I., I will have to start the process all over again when he reaches his new destination.

Supposedly, he was able to take my letters, his books that I sent him, paper, envelopes and stamps with him to his new cell. The officer told me they did not go into property. Yet, I’m still waiting on a letter from Ted. A phone call would be even better.
1993 was not a good year. Two horribly traumatic things happened.

One day, I received a phone call from my mother in Florida. “I think your father shot himself,” she said. What she said did not compute. My step-father had always been a deacon or elder in a church. Very religious. Very strict. That day is a bit of a blur, but my family ended up boarding a plane for Florida – not knowing if my step-father was alive or dead.

My mother and step-father had always been teachers. As I mentioned before, they eventually started their own small Christian school in CT. But when my step-father finished his PhD in 1984, he accepted a job in Clearwater, FL as the head of the Education department at a Christian college. It was his dream job.

In 1985, my mother was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. Two years later, she walked with a cane at my wedding.

Around 1990, a new President took over at the college. He got rid of a number of established professors to bring in his own associates from Bob Jones University. My step-father was one of the ones let go, even though he had graduated from Bob Jones University as well.

The economy back then was similar to today’s economy. My step-father could not find a job – he was over-qualified. They lived on credit cards for a year or so. My step-father eventually bought a truck – similar to a Snap-On Tool truck – and sold auto parts to repair shops and gas stations around Tampa Bay.

Ironically, he also had a part-time job teaching a GED class at the Pinellas County Jail – where Teddy would end up 16 years later.

My step-father was not a businessman. He found himself in debt to the IRS. My mother was sick and getting worse. He had suffered from depression for 25 years and took medication for it. A doctor in Clearwater refilled his medicine by phone – without seeing him in person at all. It was later discovered that my step-father was taking over five times the recommended amount of medication a person should take.

By 1993, my mother’s MS had progressed to the point where to had to ride an electric scooter around the house. She was able to get out of bed, into the scooter and into an armchair. They both went to church three times a week – and ate out with a large group of friends after church every Sunday.

On April 29th, 1993, my step-father went into his work truck parked in front of the house, wrote five long suicide letters and shot himself in the head. He died instantly.

My mother heard something, rode her scooter outside, but was unable to get into the truck to see if he was alright. A neighbor found him.

My husband and I flew to Florida with 3-year-old Teddy to arrange the funeral and put his affairs in order. The funeral was very traumatic. Teddy stayed with his paternal grandmother. I sat in the front row and cried so hard as I stared at my step-father’s face – at the huge patched-up hole.

We stayed in Florida for several weeks. Interestingly enough, the church community fell away. Sure, a few church friends and a small number of professors from the Christian college attended the funeral, but only one or two so-called close friends visited my mother a couple of times afterward – and then disappeared entirely. Only one elderly woman remained in contact throughout the years.

This affected my views on organized religion, although I never lost my faith in God. Ted said it best – “The bad times show you who your good friends are.”

My mother did end up winning a medical malpractice suit against the doctor.

Next: Ted witnesses another traumatic event
Photo: My step-father, Dr. Walter Hatten, in front of his truck