Our daughter, Stephany, came to us as a foster child when she was 2 1/2. (We also have two biological children, who were 4 and 7 when Stephany arrived.) Four years later, the court appointed us Stephany’s guardians, ending a sporadic relationship with her birth parents.

We all delighted in Stephany’s learning to talk, to play, and to interact with others. Many of our family’s “famous quotes” can be attributed to her from this time period. On Halloween while they were enjoying their treats, I said to the kids, “Stop when your tummy says, ‘Stop,’” to which Stephany replied, “MY tummy says, ‘GO!’” 

As a young child, Stephany loved dolls, dress-ups, animals, and art. Her impressionistic watercolor of a dragon terrorizing an apartment building hung over our fireplace for many years. Stephany’s exquisite hamster sculptures, with raw little tails and carefully painted whiskers and paws, still gaze at me from my dresser, along with her large paper mache penguin.

While her early learning continued with open-faced joy, Stephany also threw frequent, self-destructive tantrums. We learned to head some of them off with distraction or silliness. Sometimes we threw our own pretend tantrums, to interrupt hers. But at times, nothing could bring her out of the screaming, scratching, hair-pulling, sweating, eye-rolling, rages, which seemed to send her into another world. 

As she acquired language and we got to know her better, it became apparent that she had suffered sexual abuse, as well as gross neglect before she came to us. But there was more damage done, which we could not see or begin to make sense of until her late teens.

In school it took Stephany a longer than usual time to learn to read. After that hurdle, math became a challenge. By middle school, anything involving abstract concepts was clearly beyond her grasp. Stephany’s sixth grade special education teacher provided enough support for her to handle the transition to middle school, but the following year with less experienced and understanding teachers, exposure to a more unsavory crowd, and increasing hormones Stephany’s world began to fall apart.

The fall of seventh grade she ran away overnight and slept with a boy she had met in summer school. We were stunned, but somehow managed to talk her out of wanting a baby. While putting up a defiant front, she remained inwardly child-like and vulnerable. During the gynecological exam, she asked me to hold her hand. 

Though we had re-started therapy with her, searching for a therapist or treatment that might have some effect, nothing seemed to improve her darkening mood and increasingly dangerous behavior. In middle school she hid pills and attempted suicide several times. She tried to burn our house down. She soon was spending time in juvenile hall, inpatient mental health units, therapeutic school programs, and finally residential treatment. She was diagnosed as bipolar with psychosis and borderline personality traits.

When she entered residential treatment, we felt practically giddy to be relieved of the stress of all-nighters in the ER and the strain of everyday life in a danger zone. We worried about the impact of Stephany’s behaviors on our other children. Our whole existence had centered for several years on containing Stephany’s impulsive and dramatic outbursts. We were numb and uncomprehending; however, we vowed never to give up on her. We visited her on weekends and talked on the phone almost every day.

Stephany’s stays in residential treatment and in group homes afforded her the opportunity to meet other, more street-wise girls. They ran away together, having bad adventures with men on skid row. She acquired a nicotine habit and experience with street drugs. But she would call us, crying, when friends deserted her or things did not turn out as she expected. 

Her behavior continued to escalate, rising to previously unimaginable heights. She jumped out of second story windows and attacked staff with pens. Running away became a way of life for her. Even the best institutions said, “She’s everyone’s favorite but most frustrating client. We’re sorry we can’t help her anymore.” 

In retrospect, I believe most of the advice we received actually turned out to be destructive. Tough love and exposure to more sophisticated teens in various institutions, merely contributed to her “bad kid” education. Finally in 1998, one therapist called us from a workshop on FAE, saying, “It sounds just like Stephany!” Nothing, however, seemed to change in her treatment. I often wished she could live on an isolated, semi-self-supporting farm, helping as she was able, with structured activities, trained, caring staff, and padded rooms for those bad times.

After Stephany turned eighteen, her mental health diagnosis was taken away from her. We tried stints of having her live at home, but quickly became exhausted with Stephany teetering on the icy roof or hypothermic after passing out in a park or taking all her birth control pills in one gulp. Mostly she preferred to stay at the homeless shelter or with “friends,” who unfailingly took advantage of her.

Eventually, she established a relationship with a young man, who seemed to genuinely care about her. Although he was a heroin addict, they loved each other, and he provided protection for her on the streets. He also knew how to keep Stephany from falling into despair. “Don’t get crazy on me now, Babe,” he would say. In many ways it was a great blessing for Stephany to have him in her life.

Sometimes, though, her boyfriend was jailed, and Stephany was left alone on the streets. She would turn herself in to the police for threatening public figures, in order to be in a safe place. Unfortunately, her threats escalated alarmingly, drawing the attention of the “feds”. They held her for months, while they tried to figure out what to do with her, providing no medication for her depression, which eventually overcame her. 

While in jail, Stephany tried to commit suicide by suffocating herself. Though paramedics managed to restore a heartbeat, Stephany was already brain dead. Three days later, when life support was withdrawn, she died. 

Standing by her bedside at the hospital, I was overwhelmed with emotion. But the clearest feeling was of mutual forgiveness. I know Stephany did not really mean to cause such problems for everyone. And from letters she had written in jail, I know that she felt loved and that she looked back on a happy childhood. Stephany enriched our lives more than I ever thought possible. She opened our hearts to unconditional love. I know she forgives us for our human failings. Now, we need to forgive ourselves. 

We are very thankful for the individual social workers, bus station security officers, teachers, therapists, police officers, and legal workers who befriended her and truly cared. Our greatest respect, though, goes to Stephany, who lived courageously in a society that could not find a way to understand or help her.

David Kline and Judy Gilligan
klinefam@4dv.net