|
For years, Stephannie Lyne fought the demons that hid in the shadows of her mind. With the help of medication, her family and therapists and friends at The Lighthouse for Women, Stephannie appeared to be gaining control of the mental illness that stole too many of her 22 years.
Found wandering the streets of Altoona on Christmas Eve 2003, she proclaimed the world was coming to an end. She would experience vibrant, glorious highs before sinking to depths where no one could reach. For days, Stephannie would disappear without a word. As her moods fluctuated, so, too, did her weight.
After the Altoona incident, doctors told her parents that their daughter was bipolar.
She struggled against the unseen monsters. But in mid-September, nine months after the breakdown in Altoona, Stephannie moved into her own apartment. Everyone was thankful, though guardedly optimistic, that Stephannie was on her own.
For a week, newfound independence was exciting.
But the demons returned with a vengeance, and this time they won.
She died alone in her apartment on East Maiden Street in Washington. The official cause of death was medication toxicity. The manner was listed as undetermined.
Medication toxicity is a euphemistic phrase for overdose. Perhaps it was accidental. Perhaps it wasn't. Her parents never will know what happened in those last few moments of their daughter's troubled life, and that always will haunt them.
There had been no contact since she called several people Sept. 17 to confirm various appointments for the following week. Knocks on her locked apartment door went unanswered all weekend. The drapes were pulled shut.
There was no indication Stephannie was sinking into a deep depression days before her death. She seemed happy or, at least, content. There were no last-minute calls for help. There was no suicide note. They found her on a Monday, a few days after the remnants of Hurricane Ivan swept through.
Love and tears
Nine months after their daughter's death, Shirl and Jerry Rutka hold tightly to each other and to a close circle of friends and family. Their 25th anniversary is today, and while a vast majority of married couples – a staggering 75 to 80 percent – divorce after the death of a child, the Rutkas feel their marriage has strengthened.
They met as teenagers in their small, neighboring hometowns in Cambria County and married young. Stephannie was born a year or so after they wed. Nine years later, another daughter, Ashleigh, was born. Theirs was a normal life. Jerry has a degree in mining engineering and works as a manager in transportation for Consol Energy. Shirl is a registered nurse in the intensive care unit of Canonsburg General Hospital.
Stephannie was a spontaneous, energetic and talented girl who played flute in the Trinity High School band before graduating in 2000. She taught herself to play guitar, designed a Web site for Duncan Miller Glass and won first-place honors for a video at Robert Morris University. She joined the U.S. Army Reserves in her senior year of high school.
In college, however, her world began to fall apart.
"Things didn't seem right. She wasn't acting like a 22-year-old," Shirl said. "It was like her rebellious teenage years continued on."
Stephannie became very secretive about her life.
"College life is more intense," Jerry said of his daughter's experiences at Penn State University-Altoona. "Her highs were higher, and her lows were lower."
She had breast-reduction surgery and began to take painkillers – too many painkillers.
"Her checks and balances were not in order," Shirl said.
On Labor Day 2003, after deciding not to return to college, Stephannie disappeared for three days. Her co-workers at Red Lobster reported her missing to police. Then she resurfaced after a car wreck on a rain-slickened road near Altoona, had an argument with her mother on the telephone and announced she had taken a job in Altoona at a local restaurant. She moved out of her parents' South Strabane Township home.
For three months, there was little communication. Sporadic conversations were short and curt, and then her cell phone was lost and eventually turned off. Her parents could only contact her at work. On her birthday, Dec. 16, they never heard from her, and then the phone call came on Christmas Eve with a physician on the other end telling them Stephannie was safe and in the hospital.
Her parents had her declared legally incompetent and were named as her legal guardians.
"It was either that or she said she would walk out of the hospital," said Jerry.
There were delusional episodes and a constantly changing chart of medications, but slowly, Stephannie began to emerge from the depths.
She moved into The Lighthouse for Women, a halfway house in Washington that treats women with mental-health and substance-abuse issues. Her progress was steady, but slow.
She moved into her apartment, surviving on Social Security Income benefits, food stamps and Medicaid. A week later, in desperation after not hearing from her for three days, Shirl and Jerry broke into her apartment and found her.
She was buried Sept. 24.
The road back
The first week of November, Shirl and Jerry attended their first grief and loss support meeting with the Rev. Cathy Peternel, director of pastoral care at Canonsburg General Hospital, as their spiritual counselor.
"The first meeting was tough," said Jerry. "They asked what happened."
The six-week session stretched longer, through the Christmas holidays. Even now, members of the original group along with other alumni of various grief support groups meet for dinner once a month. Last Thursday was a special gathering with a special ending.
Before 15 family members and those from their grief support group, Jerry and Shirl renewed their wedding vows with Peternel officiating. Their daughter Ashleigh, 14, stood nearby. A picture of Stephannie was on the table, along with two candles from her room and the original candles that graced the church altar 25 years ago.
Stephannie's death may have torn Shirl and Jerry's hearts apart as parents, but they refuse to let it destroy their marriage.
"You've gone through a lot together," Peternel said during the brief service in the front yard as the sun set. "You've know pain many people will never begin to know, and you've held together."
As the couple renewed their vows, several members of their support group dabbed at tears. For many, the loss of a spouse or grown child is still very fresh. There were no deep, wracking sobs of grief, but rather soft tears of joy for the Rutkas, mixed with remembrances of how wonderful now-lost love was.
When Jerry and Shirl promised to love one another "for better or for worse," this time they truly understood the meaning of the words.
Both admit the first several months after Stephannie's death were difficult, individually and as a couple.
Jerry has learned to talk more. Shirl has learned to listen. And they've both learned to put a "time limit" on dwelling on Stephannie.
"We saved each other," Shirl said.
There are still bad days, lots of them, and there will be more. But there are good days, as well. They've gotten through all of the firsts – first Christmas, first Easter, first Mother's and Father's days, and her birthday.
The loss has strengthened them as a couple and has let them grow independently.
"You have to grieve together, but to a point, you have to grieve separately. We had to regroup and grieve separately. I knew he felt pain, but mine is mine and his is his, it's not the same," Shirl said.
Jerry said he understands his wife more now.
"We had to allow each other to grieve. She understands my quiet time and I listen to her more.
They shared a tragedy almost beyond comprehension, yet that experience let them better understand their love for each other.
As the couple sat on the back deck of their home two days before they renewed their vows, Jerry said,
"We realize now we aren't alone." |
Timeline
Add to favorites 
