It was the sort of news headline you see every day on
Facebook. The type of story that piques the curiosity and evokes sympathy for
suffering fellowmen. I’ve clicked on many headlines similar to this one. But
when the face smiling through the headline's photo is my beloved
brother and life-long ally, the sight of it becomes unbearable. Those six words
are a cruel reminder that this isn’t just a nightmare to wake from; it’s a new
reality.
“Highland School District
teacher collapes, dies”
The last word elicits uncontrollable sobs and renders me
incapable of reading the article’s contents. Not yet, anyway. Instead I let the
tears consume me, tears that would seem endless in the hours and days that
would follow that awful headline.
Thursday, June 8, 2017 started like any other weekday. I’d
been for a morning run, seen the girls off to school and was in the bathroom
applying my make-up. Jon was also about his daily routine; playing Candy Crush
on the downstairs computer while awaiting his ride to the bus stop that I
typically give him on my way to work. At 7:45 am, I got a text from my mom:
“Family prayers needed. They found your brother outside his
classroom. Doing CPR transporting by ambulance now.”
The shock of her words stole my breath while a tension gripped my heart. Silent prayers were instantly sent heavenward, but
they felt insufficient. So I ran to my bedside, fell to my knees and prayed
fervently in a breathless panic for a peace that would not come. I suspect my
spirit already knew what my heart and
mind couldn’t accept.
“Jon!” I yelled, the distress in my voice immediately
alerting him to the urgency of the moment. We met at the bottom of the stairs,
where I handed him my phone, unable to speak. Not knowing what he was looking
for, he started swiping. “What is it?” he pressed. “It’s Chad!” I hollered in grief, panic and exasperation (why did he swipe?) When Jon finally found the
text my mom had sent, he suggested we kneel to pray.
“Please bring Chad back to his sweet wife, Amy” are the
words I remember most. Bring him back?
Was he already gone? The situation was serious, regardless. Jon decided he
should work from home “just in case.” He asked if I could call the school and
stay home as well, but unfortunately, I don’t have that kind of job. I had
students needing to be taught and no plans for a sub. Besides, I continued to
tell myself that Chad might be facing a hospital stay or maybe even a
heart surgery, but he’s my 45-year-old brother, he wasn’t going to die. That was
simply unfathomable! So I composed myself and went to work, though I was
present only physically.
After arriving at the school, I texted my mom for an update.
She and my dad had arrived at the hospital, but Chad was not yet there. Knowing my parents had beaten Chad to the ER amplified my panic and made feelings of peace all the more elusive, but I was minutes from greeting kindergarteners so I went about setting up my
classroom in a zombie-like state, avoiding all other people whenever possible.
“Call me when you get a chance” were Mom’s words that
scrolled across my Apple watch at 8:34. I rushed back to my office to hear the
words I’d never be able to prepare myself to hear. Words that play again and
again in a relentless, haunting obsession: “Tara, he didn’t make it.”
“What?!” I yelled, doubled over by those gut-punching words.
The volume, pitch and emotion in my voice made all subsequent questions
unintelligible.
“Honey, I can’t understand you. Do you have someone to be
with you?” Mom asked calmly, though the sadness and seriousness of her voice
reached through the phone and melted me.
“Sudden cardiac arrest” are the only other words I recall from
that horrible, brief conversation. I hung up quickly so I
could tell my principal that I needed to go home. I no longer cared that I’d be
leaving my students without a teacher or adding an extra burden on my fellow
teachers. I couldn’t stay at school. No way.
Within minutes, my school’s counselor and principal were
driving me home. From the passenger seat of my own car, simply giving
directions to my house a ½ mile away proved challenging. So was breathing or
eating or knowing what to do next. Calls and texts were made and received while
I paced the floor. We took the girls out of school and watched them crumple under
the devastating news. Not Uncle Chad. How
could this be? We felt an urgency to get to
Yakima as soon as possible.
News spread instantly and condolences and
tributes to my remarkable brother covered Facebook. Friends multiple states
away began messaging me. And that’s when I saw that headline, the headline that
reduced me to mush and reminded me that my life would never be the same.
Due to work, semester finals and other end-of-year testing,
our kids felt like they needed to stay home for now. Making arrangements with
friends to help with the girls, emailing teachers, coworkers, covering church
callings and handling glitches in missionary papers would delay the departure
for Jon and me. It was late evening when we finally arrived in Yakima and could
wrap our arms around my parents and Chad’s dear wife.
The next morning we would begin in earnest the excruciating
process of planning memorial services for one of the greatest human beings I have ever known.
1 comment:
Two months to the day and I read this...it's amazing Tara. I was, and have been in my own grief bubble. Thank you for sharing your feelings. Love you.
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