The House On Duford Road

This is my first real post in years. I’ve given you updates, brief on purpose. I appreciate every single person who has contacted me on here, Facebook, YouTube, etc. All of you who tell me your stories; your triumphs and faults, of grief and pride. I remember all of you.

Depending on your time zone, it may or may not be December 14th yet. For me, December 14th is tomorrow, in a few hours. But in a way, December 14th has been every day of my life for 10 years.

My mom, Terri O’Neal, also known as Terri Strickland to some of you, died a decade ago. Her sudden passing changed everything about me. I’ve since spent the past 10 years attempting to be someone she would be proud of, while simultaneously having questions that will forever be left unanswered.

Losing her destroyed me. I became an alcoholic, just full of rage and sorrow, for a very long time. I’m over 2 years sober now, but there was a time when drinking was one of the only things keeping me going day to day. I could not wake up and face my life without her anymore without being numbed. My smiles were fake, my laugh was fake, I was not happy to wake up every day.

It is hard to think about this stuff. It’s not something I let myself think about anymore. I was 21 when I lost her. I’m 31 now. I’m in a stable relationship, I have and adore my 2 daughters, I have a steady job in a field I enjoy, I have a car and a home and a cat.

I am happy now. Truly. But there are moments, so many moments, sometimes the smallest things remind me she’s not here anymore and I can’t call my mom anymore. I look at people who treat me with disrespect and wonder would they even be standing if they had been through a fraction of what I have.

I’ve even become more open about Fire Dot Com. I recognize there’s nothing I can do about it airing on TV and being on literally every media platform out there. I recognize that I can’t do anything about teachers using my story, my life, in their lesson plans, or teenagers who know nothing of loss or pain making tasteless podcasts laughing their way through my nightmare.

So instead I take the emotions all of it gives me and funnel it into continuing to improve my life and ensure my family never has to go through the things I did.

The spark for me writing this is a dream. A multitude of dreams. I lived in a house in 9th grade, a house on Duford Road in South Carolina. A lot of core memories happened during my time living there, but those are things for another day.

My mom had a hysterectomy during this time. Something that should have been simple. Painful and life altering in its own respect, but it shouldn’t have left the kind of print it did on this life. A sponge was left in her, the surgeon then cut several organs when going back in to retrieve the sponge days later, and her life was changed.

Sure, she was here until 2013, she had had experiences and had those years with me. But she was in pain nonstop, could not walk very far without help. It set off a chain of health problems that I now know my brain registers as being the reason she died.

In the 10 years since I lost her, I dream of that house when I dream of her. She’s never there. In these dreams she’s also dead, and I avoid the master bedroom. When questioned why, dream-me says it is because my mom died in that room.

But she didn’t die in that room. She died years later in another room in another house in another town.

But also, she did die in that room. A future died. She’s missed out on so much, and she didn’t get to meet my children, when all she wanted were “grandbabies”. It took me a decade to face what I blame for her death.

I will only answer this one time. I’ve been asked a few times by strangers over the years of what my moms cause of death was. I don’t know. I genuinely, 100 percent, do not know the exact reason my mom died at 49 years old while taking a nap. But I do know if she hadn’t had that surgery, if she hadn’t had that doctor, hadn’t gone to that hospital, she would still be here. I just know.

But the light shining through this all is that I’ve accepted there was nothing I could have done. I did what I could with what I had and who I was. I can only hope she knew she was loved, and loved by me most of all.

Refreshing

I have not drawn in a long time, this was nice to do.

My fiance wants to get a tattoo for our daughters, whose names are Evey and Vivi. Vivi is also the name of his favorite Final Fantasy character, and Eevee is a Pokémon. So, I drew this using a sketchbook app on my phone. He loved it and is going to get it tattooed one day.

First Tattoo

I got my first tattoo today. It says Give Yourself A Try, which is both a lyric and the song title for a song by my favorite band, The 1975. This song, and their music, got me through many bad nights. I choose to give myself a try every day to be a better me.

She’s here!

Introducing my second daughter, Vivian Hope Gaugert 💙💙

Light at the end of the Tunnel

Here’s a happy update for all.

I’ve lived in Missouri for a little over 2 years now, and within the past few months I have finally gotten my own place with my daughter and fiance. Evey just turned 5 and its hard to imagine all she and I have been through in these years but I am glad we are where we are now. I have a good paying steady job, I have my daughter, I have a car, I have a home.

And, I have a baby on the way. I am a bit over 6 months pregnant currently with mine and my fiances baby girl. Yep, another girl, haha. We have picked out a name but aren’t announcing the name yet. Evey is over the moon excited about the baby and talks about her daily. What an adventure we will have.

Life, finally, is good.

Still Here

A lot has happened this past year. I am still in Missouri. Have a decent job right now that I’m good at. My roommate let’s me use their car.

My ex husband and I finally communicate regularly and my daughter is doing good, I haven’t been able to see her but hopefully soon.

I have an amazing boyfriend, fingers crossed. I am hopeful.

Last September, I had a miscarriage at 7 weeks and had to have surgery from it. It took a long time to heal mentally and physically but I’m ok now.

That’s all for now.

Life Update

Greetings all.

I hope to continue with this blog, but I wanted to update my audience on a few things to explain my absence.

My husband and I recently separated, it was my decision not his, but we are making peace with it so that our daughter will continue to be happy.

I no longer live in North Carolina. I am now living in Joplin, Missouri. I am safe and very happy, so there’s no need for any of you to worry.

I deeply appreciate the loving comments I have received recently. You guys are amazing.

Luna

Absence

Memory is weird. Like, I can’t quite recall the sound of my mom’s voice, but I remember the house my very first best friend lived in every time I drive by it. I could probably drive down my best friends road in the dark with no headlights, but I can barely remember how it sounded on all those Christmas mornings when I was growing up.

But also, I forget what I’m doing and almost put milk in the cabinet, but I can mimic my daughters most common babble on the spot. I remember random assignments from high school, but my graduation day evades me.

I remember the exact smell of folgers coffee brewing in the morning and the homemade sweet tea on the counter but not what my mom smelled like.

There are so many things I remember, but so much more that I’ve forgotten. I can’t remember almost my entire first year of college, as if I’ve blocked it out of my mind. People tell me things that happened and I know they’re telling the truth so I agree, but don’t remember.

Is it anxiety? Depression? PTSD from a fire, foster homes, a tv show, death threats, a car crash, my mothers death, and who knows what else? I have no idea, but I know there are others out there that struggle like I do with remembering.

Don’t be ashamed if you don’t remember, it just means your endless strength is taking a necessary toll for now. Peace will come.

Fire Dot Com-The Joshua Hinson Fire

On May 10, 1995, Joshua Cade Hinson was brought into the world. I do not have many memories of him. I am now 30 years old (update 2023), and there was once a time when I could remember his face and his voice, but those memories have faded after all this time.

On October 20, 1996, his heart stopped beating. There were no more first words, no more first steps, no more first anything’s. His entire future went up in smoke, literally.

Most people following this blog know me as Brittany Zedalis, because I got married in 2012 and have avoided using my maiden name as much as possible due to not wanting to be associated with the Hinson family. But my maiden name was Brittany Hinson, and as much as I hate it, I’ll always have Hinson blood in my veins.

So yes, I am the same Brittany Hinson that was in the very well known house fire in Tabor City, NC, that fateful night. I was 4 years old at the time. I have very few memories from before the fire. I remember running through our kitchen with a box of cereal in my hand early one morning. I remember the bright blue baby swing that we had hanging in our backyard for Josh. I remember our staircase, and how there was an aquarium sitting next to it for a long time. I remember my first fireworks; being woken up in the evening and carried to the car to go see them. The only memory I have of Josh is of the look on his face as he sat in his stroller and saw fireworks for the first time.

My memories pre-fire end there.

I don’t remember the days or weeks following the fire. I know that I was found inside the house and was airlifted to a hospital. I know I woke up on the flight there and they had to stick me with something to knock me back out until we arrived.

I’ve had a deep love for art and imagination for as long as I can remember, and it started with my recovery after the fire. Growing up, I was told by a few close individuals that I woke up in the hospital and knew Josh was dead. That I spouted out a whole story about Jesus, Heaven, and all that. It wasn’t until my mom died in 2013 and I found a folder full of my medical records that I realized none of that was true, and that was something that will always bother me.

The truth is that I didn’t know Josh was dead when I woke up. I didn’t speak for weeks after I woke up. I wouldn’t talk. No one told me that he had died for a long time because of all of the trauma I had already endured. One of my lungs had partially collapsed, which I also didn’t know until finding my medical records. The doctors wanted to focus on me recovering.

There was a children’s play room in the hospital. A big one. It was there that my love for art and imagination was born. I communicated with everyone through art, and I think in that process, art became a part of my soul. I became severely attached to that room, not wanting to leave it for anything.

I don’t remember being taken from my mom initially. I just remember that after my time in the hospital, I was living with my Mema, Bernice Prince. I remember my visits with my mom. I didn’t understand what was going on by that time. I knew my brother was dead, my home was gone, and that I wasn’t allowed to be with the one person I needed the most-my mom. There was one visit in particular that was most traumatizing. All I wanted was to stay with my mom, and the social workers practically dragged me to their car. I screamed and cried, was covered in snot, and still they would not let my 4 year old self stay with my mom. There is no room in my heart for forgiveness for anyone involved in keeping me from her that very long year.

I was then taken from my grandma, because she had suddenly gotten very sick. When I was older, I learned she had had a stroke. Funny how I lived with her for many years later on just fine, but somehow the courts thought she couldn’t handle taking care of me at the time and stuck me with strangers multiple times.

It was my time in foster care that is seared into my brain and I’ll never forget it.

I was in a few homes, but there was one that shouldn’t have been allowed to take care of me, or any children for that matter.

I remember there were multiple children living in the house, but they were all teenagers and were the family of the mother “caring” for me. I say “caring” because what they did was not caring at all. I was forced to take baths with literal ice in the tub. I was made to sleep on the top bunk of a set of bunk beds, and repeatedly fell off in the night. They didn’t care. One of the older boys sat me down one day and forced 5 or 6 jalapeño peppers into my mouth at once. It wasn’t until a year ago that I could finally handle eating spicy things again. They stuck my pampers on my head. They put me on a trampoline and took away the ladder so I was stuck there for hours, crying. They were abusive, and no one ever believed me or punished them. I can only hope that karma reached them one day.

The last home I was in was with my aunt. I remember she had adorable pug puppies, and I got chicken pox during my stay from the neighbor’s boys. Hey, at least I can’t get them now.

I remember many of my visits with my mom during that year. I remember playing with my puppy at her house, building things from play-doh, my Sailor Moon pillow on her couch, her final hugs before I was always ripped away.

I didn’t understand why I couldn’t be with my mom. I have no doubt that me being ripped away from her was why my mom never recovered from the fire or the loss of Josh. I was her rock, and she was mine, and there was a cavern forced between us.

So many people were determined to prove that she was guilty. It was a small town surrounded by other small towns, and everyone was eager to point fingers at a Hinson girl. They were/are vile, disgusting, horrible people.

I remember a lawyer trying to prove that I could have started the fire by playing with a lighter, and I remember proving him utterly wrong the day he held a lighter out to me in his hand, trying to get me to take it, and I refused because I knew lighters were dangerous. Moron.

The day all charges were finally dropped against my mom, she fought as hard as she could to take me back. She called the elementary school I was attending and let them know she was on her way. Everyone in the school knew, except me. When she arrived, I was on the playground. Students and teachers inside went to the windows to watch. Someone snapped a picture the moment I saw her. I ran to her, she ran to me, our arms outstretched, and I was finally with my mom again. As I should have been the entire time.

For the rest of my mom’s life, she was haunted by the fire. She was haunted by my brother’s last words, “mama, mama, mama”. She was haunted by the townspeople who are still determined to this day that she set the fire on purpose, despite Dr. Hurst proving that it was started by exposed wiring in the attic and water damage.

We didn’t talk about Josh a lot. I was more open about him than my mom, understandably. Because anytime she tried to talk about him, her heart broke. I remember a horrific afternoon in 2010 when I first truly saw her heartbreak over the loss of her baby boy. Her and my dad were sorting through old boxes, and she found one with something inside that she didn’t realize was there-his hair from his first haircut. My mom lost it. She absolutely lost it. She screamed and wailed that she wanted her little boy back. I had to go outside because it was so horrible. I’ll never, ever forget it.

No one ever wanted her to move on. No one ever wanted her to go a day without feeling the pain. Her own family held a grudge because of how much notoriety she and I both received around the country. My own cousin hated me because I received so many clothes and toys that Christmas. I guess they forgot that my brother died. Or maybe they didn’t care. Or both.

A man decided to write a horrible, lie-filled book on the fire and my mom. He interviewed people who barely knew my mom, and they said plenty of hateful things that weren’t true in order to try and garner themselves 15 minutes of fame. Thankfully, it was all buried and gone. Probably because none of it was true. But I remember my mom throwing a kitchen chair across the room the day she found out about the book, because it seemed as though no one would let her live her life.

A show known as Forensic Files made an episode called Fire Dot Com. It was about the fire, the case, and my mom being proven innocent. The entire point of the episode was to be an example for how sometimes, the law gets it wrong and the subject is innocent. That episode is now on Netflix, Hulu, and all over YouTube. It went up shortly after my mom died, and I am glad she wasn’t alive when it resurfaced. Why? Because although there have been plenty of kind words from commenter’s and viewers, there have been a ton of hateful responses as well. People who didn’t know her, people who didn’t watch the episode all the way through, people too stupid to comprehend what the episode was saying, people focusing on my sibling’s adoptions.

I have 3 half siblings, 2 brothers and a sister. They are much older than me and were adopted out before I was born. I was told one story for their adoption, they were told another. I don’t know why Forensic Files decided to mention their adoptions in the episode, because it had absolutely nothing to do with the fire. They must have just wanted to add more drama, and they succeeded. I go onto those YouTube videos once a week to read through any new comments (update 2023 I no longer do this due to the strain on my mental health) and stand up for my mom when I can because she’s no longer here to do it herself.

I’ve been in contact with all 3 of my siblings for years, even though I don’t always get along with them. 2 of them even lived with my mom and I off and on over the years. So despite what other people believe, my mom loved ALL of her children. Even when it hurt.

Tomorrow marks 21 years since the fire. I still cannot believe it’s been so long. I don’t know why I decided to write this today. It feels cathartic, so I’m glad I did. I know that people search for me online because of the Fire Dot Com episode, so perhaps they will find this and it will answer some of their questions. In the years since the episode resurfaced, I have been contacted on Facebook and email by people who were deeply moved by my story.

At the end of the day, mine and my mom’s lives were permanently changed the day of the fire. I grew up fast, forced to process my trauma alone after being taken from her. I went through counseling for years to come to terms with everything. 21 years later, I think I’m doing pretty well. But my mom was never the same. She went to her grave knowing the world had formed an unfair opinion on her, and she was never allowed to be truly happy again. I can’t find it in my heart to forgive everyone involved, because they did irreparable damage to my best friend and they tainted the memory of my little brother.

When the time comes, my daughter will know everything that happened. She’ll know about the grandma that would have showered her with love and the uncle she never got to meet. She’ll know how strong her mother is and the trials she faced and conquered. She’ll know of the officials who put their own desires for money and a quick-close case above the safety of my mom and myself.

Every time I look at my little girl, I see a little bit of Josh in her. Sometimes it’s her smile, sometimes it’s her laugh. But despite being ripped from the world far too young, he still lives on in her and in myself. I can only hope I serve his memory justice.

In Memory Of..

Fire Dot Com-The Episode

In My Heart

In just a few months, it will have been 4 years since my mom unexpectedly died.

She had been sick for a very, very long time. She was sick with so many different things, that frankly I’m surprised she held on for so long. A hysterectomy gone wrong caused her non-stop pain for years until she died. A rare brain tumor that made its presence known in 2010 onward caused severe vertigo, memory loss, and confusion. She had mini heart attacks that made her heart weak. A not-well-known type of tuberculosis caused weight loss and she was unable to keep anything down.

By the end, I could barely recognize her as the woman who raised me.

She was skin and bones, but I had grown used to it by those final years. When people visited that hadn’t seen her in a long time and were shocked by her appearance, it always surprised me. I remember a girl who was like my sister, who had lived with us for a few years in high school, visited one evening in that last year. It was the first time she’d seen my mom in a long time. My mom was talking on the couch about different things, and I looked next to me and saw that my friend was crying and trying to hide it. She was shocked by how different my mom looked.

I had to remind myself that these people hadn’t seen her every day; they didn’t see it happen like I did.

They didn’t get phone calls from her at all hours of the night where she was confused and thought someone had called her. They didn’t get random text messages full of scribble and nonsense because she didn’t know what she was saying. They didn’t see her many moments of pure dizziness to the point she had to cling to something close by to stay standing.

It was not easy.

We couldn’t go to the mall like other mothers and daughters because she wasn’t able to walk the distance without being in immense pain. We couldn’t go to the movies, either. When I was little, we used to ride bikes and roller-blade pretty often. That was out of the window as well.

I moved out in my college years, and even though I did visit her often, I wish I had visited even more. She and I talked every single day, even if we had argued over something, except for the day she died (December 14, 2013). I remember she was feeling bad that day, so I figured she hadn’t texted me because she was tired and that I would get my usual goodnight text from her at least.

I didn’t.

My phone rang, and it was my dad. My dad and I weren’t on good terms, so I knew something horrible had to have happened for him to be calling me. I watched my phone ring for several rings, not wanting to answer it. I’ve never dreaded answering a phone more than I did in that moment, because some part of me just knew.

I answered, and the first thing he said was, “Brittany, your mom is dead.”.

She had laid down to take a nap, and never woke back up. I remember being really angry with him for a while afterwards because I couldn’t believe he just came out and said it like that, over the phone no less. He apologized a few days later for telling me over the phone. He said he wished he had told me to give the phone to my husband, Michael, so Michael could tell me. But I would have known if he’d asked for Mike. I would have. So I forgave him. He had to be there with the police and emergency crew.

I remember just dropping my phone. My dad was still connected, but I don’t know if he heard me screaming. Mike turned around from his computer, saw my face, and I just screamed that my mom was dead. I remember it was as if his face broke, and he flew to me. I started hitting anything I could reach, and I remember Mike holding my arms down and trying to help me calm down. I just screamed over and over that I wanted my mom. It was the worst moment of my life.

I had the option to go see her that night. I didn’t go.
I didn’t see her at all after she died.

I wanted to remember her the way she was the last time I saw her. Happy, smiling at me through the glass door while sitting on the couch, holding a Winnie the Pooh plushie I had just given her.

Side note: My mom was obsessed with Winnie the Pooh. Ob-sess-ed. So anytime I was out and saw anything Pooh related, I bought it and gave it to her. My 11 month old daughter now has my mom’s Tigger plushie. She loves it.

I remember it rained that night. It was like the sky opened up and the rain fell just as hard as my own tears. I called the people who needed to know. I realized that my mom meant more to more people than I had realized. A friend collapsed in a store when she got my call. Another immediately jumped in her car and drove to me. Another grabbed a bottle of wine and rushed over. That night and in the following months, then years, I found out who my friends really were.

We didn’t have a visitation or a funeral, and I’m glad we didn’t. I couldn’t have handled it. I would have ended up in a hospital myself. She was buried next to my little brother, just as she had wanted. My dad brought roses to her burial, and we all put one on her coffin. That is seared into my brain. Today her burial spot lies without a gravestone because I haven’t been able to afford the stone I want to get her. One day, she will have a gravestone with Winnie the Pooh etched onto it.

It’s been years, and I don’t let myself cry about it much anymore. I always feel weird when I cry over her, because people make it seem like you shouldn’t be crying anymore after all this time. But just because I don’t cry doesn’t mean I don’t hurt every second of every day. It wasn’t until a few months ago that I was able to listen to the song “You’ll Be In My Heart” from Tarzan (it was our song) without losing it.

When it rains, I think of her. When it snows, I think of her. When I hear certain songs, I think of her. When I’m outside letting our dogs out, I think of how nice it would be for her to drive up in the driveway for a visit.

When someone leaves me an anonymous message saying “I’m still around, even though you think I’m not…I’m here.”, I think of her because I never let myself have the closure of seeing her after she died. My brain knows that she is gone, and I know how stupid it is, but for that brief moment in those instances, I wonder if it could be her. I know, stupid. But sometimes grief doesn’t make sense.

Somehow I learned how to live with the pain. There was a time when I felt like I was literally going to die from the loss of her. But I slowly went a day without crying, then a few days, then a week, and so on.

I took one step, then another, and another.

But in between those steps, I still remember the bright smile on her face as she cuddled her new plushie and watched me drive away.