My Tulsa neighborhood near 1st Street and 168th East Avenue is reeling in shock today. Yesterday was an ordinary day in the neighborhood until a very strange thing happened. I was changing my 1-year-old’s diaper when my 3-year-old came in carrying a handgun. It was a fine gun, my husband served in the military and he knew his firearms. Somehow my little guy found it and I was about to tell him to put it down immediately when he shot me through the head.
When you die, it doesn’t happen all at once. You kind of hang around for a while, and though I couldn’t see things that clearly, I could see enough to know that everyone was very upset. A homicide detective with the Tulsa police named Dave was beside himself and kept saying:
“It was a horrible, horrible accident.”
But what was breaking my heart was the fact my little guy knew he had made a big mistake. He just wasn’t sure yet how big a mistake. When the police came, they realized he was the only possible suspect, since I didn’t shoot myself in the head. So I had to watch from the other side as they loaded my little guy into a police patrol car and drove him off to be interviewed by child specialists who will try to get him to describe what happened. Actually, he was saying all that needs to be said as they were taking him away. “Mommy shot! Mommy shot!” he kept saying over and over again
My mother-in-law, who lived with us, found me bleeding when she came home yesterday at 4:30. She called an ambulance and I was taken to the hospital but it was too late.
My husband was working when my son shot me. I don’t think he knew what had happened until he got home about 8:00 o’clock and heard the awful news. I know that he’ll never be the same and I don’t think my son will either. And of course we know that I’ll never be the same.
What was most heartbreaking was how scared my son was. He tried his best to scram when his grandmother got home but he didn’t get away in time. But I like to think that much as he wanted to leave, he also wanted to stay there with me.
I heard the police talking and they were trying to figure out how my son got his hands on the gun. They said our house looked pretty kid-proof and they’re right – it is — except for the gun which was in an open holster lying on a coffee table in the living room.
I don’t understand why this had to happen. I just don’t. What cruel fate devised this terrible end to my life and this life sentence of anguish for my son and husband? Maybe where I’m going somebody – if there are any somebodies – will be able to explain it to me.
Good-bye, dear family. I wish I could help you but I can’t. And I don’t picture myself a ghost hanging around making everyone nervous. So this is Christa Engles signing off.