Death came calling today, literally, at 7:08 a.m., when the phone rang and I learned that the sister of my youngest son's close friend had died Monday in the Virginia Tech massacre. The news was raw and brutal. And I always thought there had to be six degrees of separation for these types of things. Hell, there's less than six blocks of separation. My son can walk to his friend's house in less time it takes me to shave. This kid was on my son's Little League team; he's been in my house too many times to count; he's tracked mud on my floor, and apologized, and now the dragon has come.
Fifteen minutes later, with the sleep barely wiped from his eyes, I have to sit down and tell my son the news. He is unblinking, then his eyes start to rim with tears and I'm trying to be brave but feel a dam about to burst down my cheeks as well. "Stephen's going to really need a friend now," I say; my mind is screaming, admonishing me: "Is that the best you can fucking do?!"
I'm wondering that myself because I am no stranger to death; in Afghanistan a man died on my back as I tried to carry him to safety. Three times death has circled my door, as three times a son of mine has tried to ride the dragon straight into hell. Three times he has failed, but each time his journey took him further and the effort to pull him back proved more tenuous. No parent should have to bury their child. And maybe that's what has me numb this morning.
No Parent Should Have to Bury a Child
I fear few things, but the thought of having to bury one of my children settles in my bones; it horrifies and torments me (in October one of my four sons, a Navy corpsman, is heading to Iraq with the Marines).
And I am immediately sad for Peter, Stephen's dad. We haven't spoken yet but just imaging the emotional ordeal he endured on Monday breaks my heart, as I piece together some details from other friends and neighbors. After a thousand and one attempts to reach his daughter, Mary, a freshman at Va Tech, Peter decides a little after 6 p.m. to make the four-hour drive to Blacksburg, VA, where the university is located. Pedal to the metal, it's a race against time that he fears he may have already lost... about the time he arrives on campus an official from the university is pulling into his driveway back at home, knocking on his door, and telling his wife that their daughter is dead.
By luck, or chance or some inspired move in the great cosmic chess game, Stephen's grandparents are visiting this week. Stephen's mother left this morning for Blacksburg; meanwhile, Stephen and his other siblings are staying home from school, they still haven't been told the news. But Stephen is a bright 11-year old kid--he and my son both attend a "gifted" program at school--he's got to be thinking the worst.
When I was a little kid, just about my son's age, a friend of mine who lived three houses down, Jim, lost his brother; he drowned on his honeymoon. I never did hear the full story, hell I was only 10 or 11 and I just didn't care about details. But I do remember trying to ask Jim about it and remember him exploding; he started yelling at me, spittle flying everywhere and collecting in the corners of his mouth, all the while denying his brother was dead. And then he just collapsed on his bed, shuddering as he wept. I'd never seen anything like it, and I felt embarrassed, even ashamed. We never, ever, spoke about that day. For the rest of the time I knew Jim, through our high school graduation, he was never quite right. He withdrew and then just slipped into the anonymous margin of our hometown.
So now I wonder how this will all effect my son and his friend. I wonder if I'll have anything worthy of passing on to my son that might help him, help his friend and allow them to muddle through the experience and find that death, at some level, is doable.
Photo credit: AP Photo/The Roanoke Times, Stephanie Klein-Davis