Two days ago, I witnessed a heartbreaking tragedy unfold on Facebook. I still can’t shake it.
A month ago yesterday, I posted about the 10th anniversary of the death of my beloved feline, Isaac. The veterinarian, R (I want to protect the identities of everyone in this post), who euthanized Isaac here in my home could not have been more compassionate. I still have the note I received from her three days after Isaac left this sweet world. We became friends on Facebook, and I followed her daily posts about her husband and two kids. She clearly loved being a wife and mother. She also posted frequently about her activism for progressive causes; in fact, she was arrested and jailed four times for protesting in the Senate Office Building during the week of the Kavanaugh hearings. If you watched the news that week, R was often seen near Amy Schumer.
On Tuesday of this week, R’s son, who had just turned 16 years old on December 20, suddenly died. Here is how she described the loss on Facebook less than 24 hours later:
I wanted to be a mom my whole life. My world revolves around S [daughter] and C [son]. I read all the books, worried about everything, followed all the recommendations by doctors, dentists and teachers. I used to skip classes in law school just to go down to the daycare center to see what my kids were doing. I started my own business so I could work around their schedules and miss as little as possible of their activities and field trips. I made sure they had all their vaccines and always tried to sneak vegetables onto C’s plate. But in the end none of it mattered. My C stayed home from school yesterday because he wasn’t feeling well. I left for a run and when I came home and went upstairs to check on him he wasn’t breathing. I called 911 and started CPR but it was too late. His heart had just stopped, we don’t know why. What I do know is that our hearts are broken and our lives will never be the same. I adored my baby boy. He was so smart and funny and had such a unique perspective on life. He was 6’2” and strong and it is so hard to understand how his heart just stopped. I am wearing one of his t-shirts and clutching the shirt he was wearing yesterday. The paramedics cut it off but it was one of his favorites and it still smells like him. Every fiber in my body is in pain and it seems impossible that I will ever be able to stop crying or leave the house.
The response on Facebook has been instantaneous and astonishing. Nearly 2,000 relatives, mothers, fathers, friends, and fellow activists have posted wrenchingly eloquent condolences and beautiful photos.
I’m not sure why I’m posting about this. I’m just so stunned. In the past, I’ve always been so jealous of the photos R posted of her kids. “She has such a beautiful life,” I would think, feeling sorry for myself. I remember asking R after she administered the drugs that euthanized Isaac, “Is Isaac dead?” She replied, “Yes, his heart stopped beating.” On Tuesday, a medic said those words to her about her son.
Everything can change in a heartbeat; it can slip away in an instant. Safety is only an illusion. The present moment is all we have.
by David Hewson, 2002, from my art collection
R’s post has been shared nearly 200 times among her Facebook friends.
I have a love/hate relationship with Facebook. When my mother died, I did not announce it on Facebook and asked my beloveds not to use social media to respond to me about her death. But watching how the R’s Facebook community has embraced her, her husband and daughter has given me pause.
The mother of C’s [R’s son] girlfriend even shared the post and wrote a touching tribute to “this young man and his beautiful family.”
The head of the Democratic Party in Maryland — both R and her husband were very active in it — posted a Facebook tribute to their son.
Facebook comment from R’s neighbor: “At times like these, I lose my religion.”
So do I.
Adrienne asked this question when I first shared this new awful news: “Was it drugs?”
I wondered the same thing, but pushed back the question. So sad that the question even exists. I can’t imagine that this is the cause of C’s heart stopping. I can’t, perhaps, won’t.
This is terrifying and I am in tears. I simply can’t wrap my head around that kind of loss. When I was 19 years old, my close friend and neighbor, who was the same age, died of a brain tumor. It was discovered after he suddenly began suffering from debilitating headaches. He was a virile and highly intelligent young man on an athletic scholarship at a major university. His parents were faithful and loving. They did all the “right things” and I watched them sacrifice for their five children. It was my first real experience with death; I was heartbroken and bewildered. I vividly recall the funeral.
I remember just staring at his sweet mother and father, with whom I had grown up just one lawn away. I stared at them because I had no concept of how they were there. How did they even get out of bed? How will they be able to raise their other children? How will they work? How will their lives go on? Today, decades later with four children, I still wonder how people do it. Her pain, the clutching of the t-shirt, it is unfathomable. Thank you for sharing her story. As a Master’s intern studying Clinical Mental Health Counseling, I listen to people share the kinds of unfathomable pain and life-altering abuse that can silently take my breath away. What astounds me more than anything is the human spirit and remarkable resilience. Instead of sending her “thoughts and prayers,” I am sending her gently resilience in her own time and deep, precious love from her tribe. He matters, she matters, and what she did every day of his sweet life absolutely matters.
Truth be told, dear Kelly, I thought of you when I read R’s devastating news. I thought of your own beautiful children and then I thought of how wise you’ve become with your clinical mental health counseling. I knew you would respond to today’s post. Thank you.
Resilience. Yes, let’s send R and her family resilience rather than the tired and cliche “thoughts and prayers.” Resilience. Yes.
Oh, Sharon, thank you for shock and concern for your bereaved friend and for sharing her heartbreaking loss along with the reminder that THIS moment, THIS breath, THIS heartbeat is the only one we can count on … and what gratitude if we get another … and another. We should not take a single one for granted, because there is no guarantee for us or our beloveds.
After reading your post, I am sure to hug each of my friends and relatives just a little bit tighter the next time I see them. And I too will send resiliency to your friend and her family, which will not help at all at first, but may over time.
Thank you for sharing my shock and concern, dear Beth. I thought of you when I wrote the last paragraph of this post because you’ve taught me a lot about living in the present moment. Thanks, too, for sending resiliency to my friend and her family. I’ve addressed a card to her, but have no idea what to write. I pick up the card and set it back down again. Pick it up and set it down. Pick it up . . . .
By the way, you were with me when I purchased the art featured in this post — that gallery in Taos that featured religious art. The image is a study from a much larger work commissioned by a Catholic church to honor Bede the Venerable, the English Benedictine monk who is considered “The Father of English History.” This study is in the part of the painting where Bede’s mother must “let go” of her son so he can begin studies at the monastery of Monkwearmouth — a common practice among young boys of “noble birth.”
Sharon – I think it is okay to write: “There simply are no words.” Then, offer any support you might have to offer, or to make a donation to whatever would be important to R or her son.
Such pain is beyond imagining. I am so sorry for your friend, and I am so sorry for you as well. Grief upon grief upon grief. I well understand your not knowing what to say. I feel the same way here–there simply are no words Never mind “right” words. So I will say no more, except to express appreciation for Kelly’s “resilience” and for Beth’s emphasis on “THIS.” I will hold “R” in my prayers.
Your friend’s suffering is indeed beyond words. No wonder you keep picking up a card and putting it back down. I imagine that she is stunned that she keeps breathing. It is one thing to talk about human suffering in the abstract and another to live it–and to witness the suffering. I ask that she be surrounded by Light and Divine Presence so that she (and we) can bear the unbearable.
Carol and Charlotte — thank you for the Light you are sending R’s way. An obituary still hasn’t been published — I’m checking every day — so I know if the family has designated a charity.
A winter storm has left about a foot of snow, and as I was shoveling, I kept wishing I could at least shovel snow for that family.