Tom and I were reading the paper on a Sunday morning in my apartment in East Dallas. The phone rang in the bedroom. I sat on the floor to answer it. It was my father. “Oliver…is dead,” he said, his voice breaking. He kept talking, but I said I had to get off the phone. I hung up and wailed. Tom ran in and held me.
I was leaning over my desk at The Dallas Morning News, jotting something on a legal pad. Waltrina came over, leaned in close, and said quietly, “Stan passed away this morning.” Whatever I was writing trailed to a scribble.
I arrived at the hospital to visit Kevin as I had every day since he went in. As I reached for the door to his room, a young orderly stopped me. “You don’t want to go in there,” he said.
Tom picked me up at the airport after my trip to London and we went straight to the hospital. Russell’s friends and family were gathered around his bed. I stood near the foot of the bed, between Tom and Russell’s young niece, whom he adored. We all had hands on Russell. I don’t recall the ventilator being turned off but Russell hung on a minute longer. “Let go,” I whispered, and his niece turned and said sharply, “What?” I guess she thought I was talking to her. A moment later, it was over. 
I was sleeping on Monte’s couch when my cell phone rang. I got up to answer it, knowing what it was. “Mom died this morning,” my brother said.My brother, his girlfriend and I were sitting on the couch in my parents’ apartment watching a Saturday Night Live special. My brother’s cell phone rang. It was the hospital where my dad was. I met my brother’s eyes. He nodded.
12 comments:
I want to give you a big hug. Though this is painful, I just want to tell you that you so elegantly captured your grief here, making it irresistible to read. It is universal, I think, how we've all gotten that kind of phone call. I got the news of my mother's death on a voicemail and that still haunts me.
Thanks Karen. I went back and forth for quite a while on whether to post this and even now I'm not sure why I felt compelled to. But I think this stuff is so rarely spoken about that maybe it needs airing out. I imagine all of us who have suffered loss have tape loops in our heads of these moments but I've never really heard anyone talk about them. I felt some fog lift just from writing these down.
A voicemail sounds terrible. Did you save it? Were you tempted to? Or did you erase it right away?
It's been almost 10 years since I got the call from my father's wife. 6 months previous he'd been diagnosed with brain cancer and it was only a matter of time. I made the 90 minute trip to Athens, TX in under an hour to find him in bed gasping for air. They had two five year old kids together who stood transfixed. As I cradled his his head I felt completely serene but removed as if acting in a play in high school drama class. I knew he was waiting for me. I kept saying " It's ok, it's OK, just let go..." and within about 5 minutes he slipped away in my arms. I felt more relieved than grief stricken as I shot up and said goodbye to everyone and blankly reported to a lame hotel bar DJ gig I still felt obligated to work. My father, who created the musician in me, would've wanted it that way.
Wow, Mr. Rid. XO.
Hi Sophie -
Well, you've hit on something universal here so it's good that you shared it, especially if it lifts your fog.
No, I didn't save the voicemail. Come to think of it, I never even thought to do that. I had been in Atlanta when she died and my sister had tried to get hold me of several times at home. That's why she left the message, but I still wish she hadn't done it that way. I do remember that all I wanted to do after hearing about my mother was to go and get my dogs from the vet where we had boarded them during our trip. Even though there were people at the vet on the Sunday when I went to get them, the manager insisted I couldn't have them until Monday. THAT'S what set me over the edge. I wanted my dogs! We never board them anymore because of that. Funny how that lodges in my mind still. I'm getting angry now just thinking about how rude those people were even after my hubby explained the whole deal. Blah!
I guess these are what psychologists call "flashbulb moments" -- moments of such import that they are saved in our memories as clearly as a photograph.
Flashbulb moments. I like that.
I'm stealing that.
You won't be stealing it from me. It's out there for the using.
Among those many unfortunate calls we all receive, I will never forget one call from my mother. I was at my desk at work killing time before I left for a hair appointment. She said my grandmother had passed away that morning but she didn't want me to get the news while we were on deadline so she waited to tell me. We discussed the specifics and hung up, me trying to keep it together long enough to leave the office, or at least get to my car. I was successful until I looked down at a Post-It I'd often shuffled around, thinking "I need to do that tomorrow." It read: "Call Grandmommy."
I love that you posted this, Sophie. I hope the fog continues to lift. :)
Ah, Nerver. That's a rough story. I bet you lost it then. Did you throw the note away?
Ah, those flashbulb moments. Like you, I remember every important one that's occurred in my life, right back to Dec. 31, 1964. I was in sixth grade then. That's when a fiery car wreck killed four members of my extended family, who had just left our house early that morning after visiting us for Christmas.
It was the first of many losses, and at the age I am now, it seems a year does not go by without losing people I love. It reminds me, as someone once said, that death is what gives meaning to life and makes us value it more.
Terrible, Joyce.
I have seen a lot of loss, too. Sometimes I feel oddly fortunate to have learned the ropes of something that people do deeply dread. I mean, for the most part, I am familiar with the journey from the flashbulb moment through the processing to the other side. I don't fear it as I used to.
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