Turning Curse into Blessing: Navigating Loss, Tragedy, and Unexpected Connections
Having taken a writing workshop this weekend with Cheryl Strayed, author of Wild, I am inspired to tell my truth. My story. To let it all out and not worry about who will read it or what the reaction will be. Just write. The assignment, tell a story about turning a curse into a blessing. My story…
So, picture this: Mother's Day, 2004. The air was heavy with mixed emotions because, well, my mom had passed away a year and a half before, and here I was spending the day with my grandmother, both of us trying to deal with the void in our lives. We went out for lunch, took a stroll down to the beach, and ended up sitting on a bench, mostly quiet but occasionally breaking into fits of laughter as we recalled funny anecdotes and memories. It was bittersweet, but looking back, it's one of the memories I now treasure.
One memory we shared that day always brings a smile (and maybe a few tears) is the time I got my mom a cell phone. See, we were living in New Mexico, and she loved going off on her little adventures. I figured, for safety reasons, she needed a phone in case she got stranded or something. Let me tell you, my mom and technology? Not the best match. She struggled to use the ATM machine on a good day. She once got stuck in a car wash because her roof racks got tangled in the spinning thingamajig. She sat in there for an hour before someone realized and got help for her. I asked her later, "Why didn't you use the cell phone I bought you?!?” Turns out, she forgot she even had it! I found it ironic that my attempt at ensuring her safety turned into a complete failure.
After spending the day with my grandmother, I drove home in silence, forgoing my usual music. As I drove, I replayed memories of my mom in my head. We shared countless amazing moments—traveling, attending concerts where we danced all night, and shared laughter fits where we could barely talk.
But then, just when I thought life couldn't throw any more curveballs, it did.
It was 9:07pm, I will never forget it. I had only been home for 3 minutes when a loud, unexpected knock shattered the silence of my empty house. When I peeked through the window and saw a police officer standing there, my heart skipped a beat. "Are you Stacey? Is your dad Walter Pratt?" she asked, her tone serious and somber. Confirming both, I braced myself for the worst.
With a heavy heart, the officer informed me that my dad had been murdered on the side of a road in Utah. The words felt surreal, like something out of a nightmare. She handed me the sheriff's phone number, and as I dialed, a whirlwind of emotions engulfed me.
As I spoke to the sheriff, learning the gruesome details of my dad's death, a bitter realization settled in. They had notified my dads mother, my grandmother, as the next of kin because they didn't have my contact information. The fact that my entire dad's side of the family didn't know how to reach me stung deeply. It felt like a cruel twist of fate that on Mother's Day, a day meant for love and celebration, I received this devastating news in such a cold and impersonal manner.
Amidst the chaos and heartache, I reached out to my hard-of-hearing maternal grandmother, attempting to convey the tragic events through sobs and tears. It took her a moment to comprehend the magnitude of what I was saying, but once she did, there was no hesitation. She immediately had my uncle drive her up to my house, bridging the physical gap with love and support in a time of unfathomable grief.
The whole ordeal was a rollercoaster of emotions. The trial, the details of his murder, and the way it tore our family apart—it was a nightmare. I won't sugarcoat it. And then, the lies that came out during the trial, the twisted stories. It was like living in a bad crime drama.
The gruesome details of my dad’s murder still haunt me to this day, a tragic tale of senseless violence and heartbreak. It all began on May 9, a seemingly ordinary day that turned into a nightmare near Fisher Towers, about 23 miles northeast of Moab, Utah. A man, later identified as Graham Austin, flagged down my dad at a pullout. What followed was a horrifying sequence of events – Austin approached the driver's side of my dad’s truck and mercilessly stabbed him with a large knife.
In a desperate bid to escape, Austin pulled my dad from the truck, jumped in, and fled in his vehicle, leaving my dad bleeding and dying at the scene. A passing motorist witnessed the brutal attack and promptly notified the police, setting off a frantic search for the perpetrator. The authorities managed to track down my dads truck in the Westwater area of Grand County, about 25 miles from where the murder occurred. When the Highway Patrol approached my dad truck, Austin fled on foot, sparking a pursuit that led to his eventual apprehension after about a mile. He was dressed in my dad’s clothes and later we found out he had been eating his food and going through his belongings.
The scene was one of utter horror – my dad, a retired Navy Commander and former UDT/Seal, lay lifeless with multiple stab wounds to the chest. The legal proceedings that followed were a harrowing journey through the justice system. Grand County Attorney Happy Morgan made a plea agreement with Austin, not to seek the death penalty or life in prison without parole in exchange for his guilty plea. However, this agreement was short-lived as Austin later decided to plead not guilty.
Several things bothered me deeply—beyond the obvious fact that my dad was murdered—such as the lies Graham told during the trial and the decision by Happy Morgan to remove the death penalty from consideration. I later discovered that in a small town like Moab, they lacked the financial resources for the numerous appeals associated with death penalty cases. Had the crime occurred in Salt Lake City, the outcome might have been different, but in Moab, it seemed unlikely. Throughout the trial, the lies and taunts from Graham Austin added salt to the wounds of our grief. He wove a deceitful narrative about my father, claiming he made unwanted advances, a fabrication that his own wife was prepared to debunk if she had the opportunity to testify against the man who tried to murder her too. Graham would spin in his chair, stare, smile, and make faces at us. The judge repeatedly warned him to face forward or risk facing contempt charges. It took all my restraint not to flip him off and scream at him “you’re a fucking liar!”
Graham's wife was at the trial as a witness for the prosecution, prepared to counter his fabricated story. She had suffered severe physical abuse from him one night to the point where he believed he had killed her. He attempted to conceal her body by rolling her up in a carpet to transport her in his trunk until a neighbor intervened, causing him to flee. He planned to flee to Alaska to bid farewell to his children before facing imprisonment. He made it to Moab before his car broke down and he camped near my dad for days without any incidents. The entire ordeal was a tragic saga of betrayal, loss, and the cruel twists of fate that shattered our lives forever. The grim reality was that my dad, a decorated Navy Commander and UDT/Seal, was ambushed and murdered in cold blood by a man he didn't even know, all for the sake of stealing his camper to escape to Alaska.
The funeral for my dad was a surreal and painful experience, highlighting the stark differences between his wishes and what actually transpired. He was never one for religious ceremonies, yet his family decided on a formal, religious funeral with an open casket. Seeing him like that, looking nothing like himself after being brutally murdered, was beyond devastating. I couldn't fathom why they didn't consider my perspective as his daughter—why they didn't consult me about his final arrangements.
Walking into the funeral home, unaware that the casket would be open, was a shock that left me reeling. He looked fake, almost unrecognizable, and the sight filled me with horror and disbelief. Sitting in the front row, surrounded by unfamiliar faces from his side of the family, I felt an overwhelming sense of loneliness and isolation.
In the midst of this overwhelming grief and confusion, the doors swung open as if they were under a spotlight with stars twinkling around them, and a familiar face stepped in, bringing a ray of comfort. It was my dad's second wife, Jeanne, and her daughter Misty. Their presence offered a glimmer of solace during such a chaotic and, to put it bluntly, shitty time. Despite my past struggles with feelings of envy, particularly regarding their relationship with my dad, I found a sense of unity in having them there that day. We connected over our shock at the ceremony, realizing it was completely against what my dad would have wanted. I vividly recall Jeanne leaning in, her usual bold self not caring about whispering, and saying, "He's rolling over in his fucking grave right now at this bullshit”. She hit the nail on the head.
It felt like a cruel twist of fate that we had to go through the traditional burial process for my dad, going against his wish for cremation, all because of how he died. Frankly, this really fucking pissed me off. Graham Austin gets to live, sentenced to 5 to life! 5 to goddamn life! Not even life behind bars. He would be up for parole eventually and have a chance at freedom. Yet my dad couldn't have his last wishes honored? I was consumed with anger about everything — about this, about losing my mom, about how I found out about the shocking news, about the fucking open casket, about the priest saying things that I knew he didn’t believe in. I was just so fucking angry. I couldn't shake off this anger for a long time. It took a while before I could find any silver lining or let go of the resentment. The ceremony felt like a mockery of his life, and while I appreciated having allies like Jeanne and Misty, the pain of not being able to honor my dad's true wishes added another layer of anguish to an already heartbreaking situation.
The silver lining was the relationships I built with my dad's side of the family. What started out as a horrible trauma formed relationships that mean so much today. They were also upset that they lacked the information to contact me. Seeing it from their perspective, rather than just my own side rooted in hurt, made me understand their feelings better. They didn't want the police to be the ones knocking on my door, but they simply didn't have a direct relationship with me to handle it differently. And then there were my cousins. Josh and Christine became my great friends, my cousin Josh and I took many an adventure together. And Kara, well, she's more than a cousin now. She's one of my closest friends. We've been through so much together, including a crazy trek up Kilimanjaro that I'll tell you about some other time.
Through the pain and loss, I found these silver linings, these unexpected blessings. It's like life threw a massive curveball, but somehow, we managed to hit it out of the park, if that makes sense. We're still picking up the pieces, but we're doing it together, and that's what matters most.
