Parents of Murdered Children members find strength via mutual support
Southwest resident Terri Bryson felt alone after her 23-year-old daughter Cherish was murdered three years ago. A grieving Bryson searched for support groups she could join, but she said she felt like an anomaly at the few she found.
Other parents had lost their children through natural causes or accidents, but Cherish had been violently ripped from Bryson’s life.
“It’s hard to find a place where you don’t become that parent, that couple or that family that something horrific happened to,” Bryson said. “It kind of quashes other people’s grief because they feel like they didn’t have it so bad.”
Five months ago, Bryson and Laura Patterson, another grieving mother, decided to restore a local chapter of Parents of Murdered Children, an national organization that supports family members of murder victims, for people who, like them, needed someone to relate to. The small group meets once a month at the Solutions Wellness Campus, 2975 S. Rainbow Blvd.
No new members wanted
Tissue boxes are placed in each corner of the room, and members are invited to bring a photo of their deceased loved one.
“This is not a fun club to be a part of,” Bryson told the group in November. “Violence has taken a toll on our lives.”
At the meetings, members take turns talking about their experiences and how they’ve coped.
Seven years after her son Steven’s death, Ester Tannenbaum said she still visits his grave in California every four weeks. Afterward, she goes to his favorite diner, Bob’s Big Boy, and eats his favorite food, chicken tortilla soup, because it gives her peace. She also calls the prison where her son’s killer is held regularly to make sure he hasn’t been released.
Tannenbaum said that from her experience, no one ever really gets over their loss, but somehow they learn to exist.
“We would not even say all this to our friends because they don’t understand,” she said. “It’s like, ‘Get over it already.’ They have not a clue what you are talking about or what you are dealing with.”
Member Sharon Gentile echoed Tannenbaum’s sentiments. Her friends and roommate have told her to stop talking about the slaying of her son, Bobby, which happened 11 years ago.
“I wish people would just not say anything at all,” she said.
Gentile was a member of a Parents of Murdered Children chapter in California before she moved to Las Vegas. She said joining the chapter saved her life, because before connecting with others, she had lost all hope in life.
Gentile considers the group a safe space where she and the others can take off the masks that hide their grief daily and where they can admit to themselves and others that they are not OK.
Gentile has had to live without her son Bobby for more than a decade. Gentile’s younger brother, Dennis, was also killed in 1980. She admits that even though she’s been grieving for a long time, she has much to learn about how to live with the pain.
Gentile said that only four years ago did she finally start putting up Christmas decorations around her apartment. She now puts out a small Christmas tree in her bedroom with tiny ornaments that represent Bobby and Dennis and wraps boxes for them. She said she’ll also cook their favorite foods and have a potluck that includes balloons.
”It makes you feel that they are there, and it took me a long time to be able to do that,” Gentile said. “Christmas was their favorite holiday, so it’s healing to do something that they both loved instead of putting my head under the covers, like I used to.”
Moving forward
For Bryson, starting the chapter has become her way of honoring Cherish’s memory and serving the community that helped her heal. She said attendees tell her they’ve been waiting for a group like Desert of Hope to arrive in Las Vegas for a long time.
Bryson said she hopes to plan more frequent meetings as the group welcomes more members and connect them to other resources in Las Vegas.
“I say that the day that Cherish died, a ministry was born in me because I want to be here to help the moms and the sisters and the siblings and the grandparents that have felt the deep cut that I have felt,” Bryson said. “There is strength in numbers.”