aka the causeway face attacker Ruth Charles could not find a Haitian church in Miami to hold a funeral for her son, Rudy Eugene.
The brutal details of his attack on a homeless man, the roaring headlines, the whispers of Vodou or demonic possession, all conspired against Charles, who simply wanted to bury her son with a proper
church service and then return to a quiet, anonymous life with a fianc and two younger sons. The news of Eugene’s death on Memorial Day weekend was already too well known. He was shot to death by Miami police as he crouched over Ronald Poppo’s limp body, naked and growling, chewing off chunks of the man’s face. It took several bullets fired by a stunned police officer to stop him. At 31, the son who had carried a Bible, quoted scripture and worn a four inch cross on a chain around his neck had become something unrecognizable, known across the nation as the Miami zombie. Two weeks after Eugene died, a funeral home chapel agreed to hold a service. His mother shuffled
never left my side. James had to go fill out the paperwork and park the car, but Jan was there beside me constantly. I felt such complete trust in Jan that I had to hold her right hand a particular way through each contraction. It was quite funny! A contraction would start and I’d yell, "Hand! Hand!" and Jan would come running and grab my hand. I don’t know why, but it was only Jan’s hand that comforted me. It had to be Jan’s hand. She also helped by taking me to the bathroom and getting me water to drink, a cold cloth for my forehead (without being asked), and waving tissues with aromatherapy oil on them around the room. I found that I couldn’t communicate what I wanted or needed, but Jan always seemed to know, thank goodness. She suggested different laboring positions and she helped during the delivery by suggesting positions for pushing, too. I only pushed one hour and then our beautiful Hana was born. (Hana means "flower" in Japanese). Jan stayed with me while I