The Worst/Best Day of My Life

We’ve all heard the quintessential tales of the day tragedy hit. The descriptions of the acute moments/days when one’s world comes crashing down. 

Whether told from the scene of fatality, or from the moments the news of a child’s death is delivered; the description of shock varies, little. The tale of the day my son died was no different. 

On April 3rd, 2021 (I only remember the date because it was made easy for me: 4-3-21 : ) my eldest of two sons was killed in an off road vehicle crash. He was 14 at the time. 

He was out with a big off-roading caravan of family and friends, I was not on this trip with him. I had been visiting with friends this weekend; it was a beloved community member’s birthday, this day. 

We were preparing gifts and planning for the party, when the call came in. I’m not sure how or who was able to get ahold of the friend I was staying with, but they reached her on the phone. When she walked into the room, I knew before she even said a word that my son was dead. 

From here, it is the classic shock response and recall (or lack thereof). That day, and the several to follow, are a bit of a blur. I have flashes of memories that include specific details albeit they are jumbled and without much sensicle linear timeline. 

I remember being on the floor, in the corner of my friend’s living room; collecting my suitcase to catch a plane to get to my son; I remember losing the ability to stand or walk in the security line at the airport; I will never forget seeing my father on the other end of that flight, he was there to pick me up and drive me to where my son’s body was; I will always remember falling to the floor in my father’s arms in that airport, on that day. 

The wheel of time stopped turning; I floated through that day, and the days to follow. That actual feeling of being in a dream state; watching the events as they unfold. Knowing from a third person perspective you had lived the last day of your life; and that this day was the first of a new one. 

It truly is an out of body experience when you learn your child has died; a brilliant design as, how else could a mother possibly survive the ultimate tragedy of human existence? 

Primal survival instincts kick-in, and I indeed went into survival mode. One has to keep moving, I recall thinking to myself. The number one rule to survival is to keep moving. Falling stagnant assures further demise. Literally one foot in front of the other. I remember talking myself through every step. Must get to Arizona. Must get on a flight. Put your things in your suitcase. Zip your suitcase. Put your shoes on. Get down the stairs. Walk. Get up off the ground. Walk. Open the car door. Get to baggage claim. Get to the lake house. Sleep. Get out of bed. Call the funeral home. Call the coroner. Call-in to work. Call this person. Notify that person. And so on.

I recall a few distinct moments that served as anchors to my new reality as it was unfolding; signals to my conscious that this was indeed happening. Those first few moments with my father at the airport; my friend explaining to the flight attendant that my son had just died, as I laid curled in a ball on the airplane. Crawling into my son’s bed in the room at the lake house where he had just slept the night before. Clutching his clothing as I laid to rest, knowing that was the closest I would ever get to hugging him again. The profoundness of our family, nine grown adults, sitting around a living room weeping, wailing, and taken to their knees on the floor. That day your child died. That day you died with your child.

That’s the ‘worst’ day of my life, in a nutshell. Three years later, I've come to appreciate that ‘nutshell’ also contained the best day of my life. It’s difficult to say, and probably more difficult to hear.

As a mother, when your child dies, you begin to die with them. But you are left to live, and to go on; it is a slow death.The six weeks following my son’s death, I was slowly dying. My body actually started shutting down, became skin and bones, was slipping away and towards my son. But at some point, you have to start living again. At some point, you must turn that corner and begin making your way back to the living. 

It was my son’s beautiful river-side memorial that served as this proverbial corner.

And, so; in a profound sense, you are reborn. And with re-birth, comes opportunity to become anew. The re-birthing process of the past three years has grown me into the woman I am today. Grown me into the mother I am today. A woman, a mother, I never dreamed I could be. Stronger, more fierce, more unshakeable than ever. Free from once perceived self limitations. A vision of the world so pure and authentic. Rattled, flustered, unnerved by nothing. Because I had survived (and continue to survive) everything there is to possibly survive in a mother’s lifetime, all at once. I would change nothing. 

That day my son died.