Comfort Comes from Unexpected Places
For anybody who has lost their child, it is difficult to know where relief can be found. Family and friends do what they can with the words they can summon. Some may disappear because they are uncomfortable with the entire situation, not because they are truly indifferent.
The casseroles and flowers arrive, and are accepted with both gratitude and numbness. It is a surreal time, even if the death of a son or daughter has been expected. When it comes without warning, it can cause otherwise well-meaning people to falter and not be present for somebody trying to survive a profound loss.
Not quite two years ago, I returned from a pleasant lunch with our neighbors and we stood in their driveway saying our goodbyes before we traveled the fifty feet back into our respective homes. My husband, David, was working in our studio, and my intention was to return to the list of tasks I had waiting for me. I lingered a minute or two exchanging pleasantries with our friends, and a police car drove up to the curb. At first, I wasn’t alarmed, because the officer inside is also a neighbor, and we often wave. But today, he had stopped for an entirely different reason.
He stepped out of his vehicle, and said, “Jody, I have some really bad news.”
I looked at the sheet of paper in his hand, and the writing printed on the top. Our son’s name and birth date jumped out at me. My name and phone number were also there, as the emergency contact. I looked into the officer’s face, and he said, “Nathaniel has passed away.”
I threw my arms around the officer’s neck, and was aware of both his gun and his Kevlar vest as he held me up and kept me from sinking to my knees. When I regained my balance, we went to tell my husband that our 38-year-old son was dead.
Because it was an unattended death, the medical examiner had to issue a final report after completing an autopsy. I remember signing paperwork, talking to various authorities, and finding small bits of solace knowing that the EMTs had said Nate’s death appeared to be from natural causes, and there had been no violence involved.
Soon the curiosity factor kicked in for some acquaintances, and I dodged questions about a possible fentanyl overdose, or some other preventable factor having been the cause. I pushed these moments aside, and preferred to recall one of my last conversations with our son – who had survived many rough spots and pitfalls since we adopted him when he was two years old. The biological child of substance abusers, he had arrived in this world premature, with cerebral palsy and brain damage, and a long list of disadvantages. His entire life had been a struggle, but our last year of conversations was filled with upbeat news, progress, improvements, and positive change. He had even gotten gum from his doctor to help him quit smoking. “How’s that going?” I asked. Nate replied, “My jaw muscles are getting really buff.”
He had promised me that he was on the right track, was free of anything that could addict or harm him, and was making solid plans for a productive life. He’d engaged my assistance for the umpteenth time lining up resources and services for now and later on “when you and Dad aren’t here to help me anymore,” and I was gladly doing so. We talked often and openly. We laughed loudly and long. It was a wonderful time.
And, then there was a police officer delivering the news that our son — our much-loved boy — would no longer pick up the phone when I called. Whatever lists and notes we had made together had ceased to have any usefulness for him. He was gone, and his aging mother and father were left to wonder why, and what we could have done to prolong his life.
Finally, the medical examiner contacted me and emailed me an extensive document with plainly spoken details that contained data no parent ever wants to read about their child. However, I went through each page line by line. And what I discovered was this: Nate had told me the truth.
He had been free of everything that might have caused him harm – except for his own body. He had died from an intracranial hemorrhage – a “brain bleed” – and the only foreign substance found was a trace of nicotine from the gum that he had been prescribed to help him quit smoking cigarettes. If the truth sets you free, his truth certainly did that for me.
My comfort, my peace of mind, lay in an autopsy report provided by a bureaucracy that is set up to decipher the starkest realities known to humankind, and to deliver the most graphic possible news to next of kin. Yet because of the content of my son’s autopsy, I was given the gift of grief devoid of second guessing as to what could have been done to prevent Nate’s death, and how things could have been different. Nothing could have changed the outcome of his final moments on this earth.
Psalm 34:18 tells us, “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” The word “saves” is powerful, plain, and clear. The Lord saves us from the emotional destruction that loss can bring. I believe that the Lord also uses whatever is available to Him to reach us. He meets us where we are, and raises us up – if we will permit Him to do so. He saves us from whatever leaves us gasping.
It was not a bright star or a swell of angel voices that lifted my eyes. It was a report spelled out in the black and white print of a state agency that saved me from regret. No amount of heroic measures would have made a difference to Nate. There was nothing that I could have done – nor any other human being could have done – that would have kept him on this earth an instant longer.
David and I know that someday we will be reunited with our son. We will look into the eyes of a soul completely healed, whole and happy. Nate, whose first word was “light,” is now part of the radiance of perfect love. And whatever darkness may have threatened to overtake us here below has been left far, far behind.
Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God. (2 Corinthians 1:3-4)