Requiem

Working as a chaplain at the hospital, I was regularly summoned to be present for traumatic events: removing someone from life support; delivering news to waiting family that a loved one did not survive a surgery; responding to a multiple-car wreck ambulance call... and the worst kind of all: fetal demise.

Just thinking about having to endure any part of those situations is emotionally difficult for many people.  Medical staff, emergency responders, and law officers are trained to deal with them, but most folks just crumble when they think about it.  Of course, those situations are devastating for the families and individuals who have endured them.  Many times, a family member would comment to me, as everyone was leaving to mourn in their own way, "Chaplain, I don't know how you do your job."  It is easy, in a way, to remain compartmentalized in my thinking, my feeling about grief and loss.  Today, however, there was no way I could keep from feeling the enormous sense of sadness and emptiness that accompanies the death of a child.

This morning, we learned that the daughter of one of Amelia's lifelong friends died in her sleep, likely of hypoglycemic shock, or low blood sugar, and complications with her Type 1 Diabetes.  I was stricken with grief on several levels.  First, my heart broke as a parent, for our friend and her family.  Second, anxiety and fear for my own children, two of whom have T1D, gripped me and wouldn't let me go.  I shifted into crisis mode to make it through the day.  I went to my wife, to offer comfort and to be with her in joint grief as partners/parents/friends and we wept together.  Amelia took the rest of the day off work to tend to her grief and her friend.  I went to see my mom, because that is what moms are for.  Where I felt I needed to be strong for my wife, I felt I could just be a scared boy with my mom, so I got some more of my anxiety out.  Then I went to work, where I tried to be productive.  While I was helping other families deal with their dysfunctions and crises, I was fine, but I couldn't focus to do any of my paperwork.

I spent the evening with my kids, going to a play practice and then a homecoming football game, but now, as we get ready to put kids to bed, I'm faced with doing battle with a wicked team: Diabetes and Anxiety.  Although we live daily in the shadow of the specter of Diabetes, we are protected by an illusion of normalcy that allows us to believe that we have things under control.  Tonight, the veil we rely on to help us function has been ripped away by the death of our friend's daughter.  Tonight, we can't ignore or pretend that this reality doesn't exist for us: Death is always at our doorstep.  No matter our vigilance, our precautions, our education, our habits... Diabetes stands ready to claim the lives of our son and our daughter.

Earlier today, I asked a dear friend and fellow T1 sufferer, Sarah Ray, for some advice.  She has lived with the same issue, the same disease for many years.  She helped me to be able to come to terms with today:

"...Sarah, just wanted to let you know that _________'s little girl, _____, died in her sleep last night. I am not sure if you know them or not, but ____ was Type 1 and she had difficulty with seizures and such from her lows. _______ and Amelia have been friends since they were little girls. We are all pretty sad right now. Haven't told the kids yet, as they are at school, but would appreciate prayers and maybe even some pointers on how to help MH and Ethan not have anxiety over going to sleep.
love you,
jeff..." 

Sarah Ray
"... I am praying and very sad as well I had seen posts on Amelia's wall about her but had never gotten to meet her and I believe u guys have talked about her to me. Not sure how I did not connect with her. I am sorry its so close to home and I will try to think of some thing for MH and Ethan but I am just as scared some nights all I can have is faith that God is not done with me yet. I know having the Cgms will maybe help for MH and Ethan to feel safe sleeping. It scares me too,
Love Sarah..."

Sarah reminded me, helped me remember what my grief and fear caused me to lose sight of... God is in control.  He is in control not only of the life and death of my children, but of everyone's life, including my own.  I am not saying I believe that God caused the death of this precious child, rather, that God is ruler of life and death.  I agree with his servants the prophets who declared that his ways are higher than our ways and his thoughts, our thoughts.  I take comfort knowing that despite the tragedy we experience living in this broken world, God is a god of redemption.  He works to redeem not only people, but situations.  Tragic, awful, devastating situations.  Nothing is beyond God's ability to redeem for His glory.  So, while I mourn for my friend's loss, I rejoice knowing God is at work.  While I grieve for our sadness, I also sacrifice my anxiety on the altar of faith.  I think tonight, as I struggle to sleep, I hear God's voice whispering to me, "Dear child, things will never be the same, but trust me... it will be alright."  Come, Lord Jesus.  I'm ready for some tear wiping...

In Memoriam: processing the death of a friend.

Meagan Len Holder, 1991-2009, 17 yrs

Last Thursday morning, I was making breakfast for the kids when I got the phone call. One of my kids from Gorman (a youth group I'd worked with)had been in a car wreck. She'd died en route to the hospital, in a medi-flight helicopter. I was not able to really process the information. I thanked Mr. Laminack for calling and letting me know and then I went back to cooking eggs.

Shock

That is the process by which your brain protects you from emotions that threaten to overwhelm you. Learning of the death of a loved ones typically triggers it. Over the course of the day, I began to absorb the enormity of the information. Meagan is dead. I began to go over memories I had of her. To be quite honest, I hadn't seen her for a few years. My contact with her had been limited to a few online chats or instant messages on MySpace. I knew she was excited to be a senior and was looking forward to graduating. To learned she'd been killed in a car accident... wow...

Later that morning, I got a call from her father. Despite the past 4 years of working as a chaplain at the hospital and the hundreds of families I had walked with during the final hours of a loved one's life... I didn't have any words for him. Our conversation was short, he asked me if I would be willing to speak for her at the funeral. I agreed and he said he'd let me know the details as soon as they got her body back from Ft. Worth.

In the midst of all of this, I looked to my oldest daughter, Mary Hannah. 7 years old (almost 8!). In 10 years, she will be 17, on the cusp of adulthood, ready to strike out and blaze her own trail. The following day, Friday, I was sending her with her grandparents to California. They were going to meet up with their cousins for a day at the beach and a few days at Disneyland, the ultimate memory making trip. Nana and Poppa had been planning this for months and although we were initially reluctant (a bit jealous, maybe) to let her know, we knew she would have the time of her life. This day, though, my thoughts were only on picking her up from school and holding on to her with all my strength.

I think losing a child to illness or to some random tragedy is perhaps one of the most difficult things a parent can experience. It feels more acute if you lose a child when they are young, but losing a child at any age, infant to adulthood, just feels wrong.

The funeral was very well attended. It seemed like most of the town of Desdemona, where Meagan was born and grew up, and De Leon, where she attended high school, had turned out. Many of Meagan's friends honored her by duplicating one of her trademarks: boots with the leg of the pants tucked in. Stories were shared and memories affirmed. Meagan will be missed by her friends. She'll be mourned by her family. Nothing will ever be the same for them, but in time, it will be okay again. Death does that. Here are links to her obit: CLICK HERE and to the Eulogy I delivered: CLICK HERE.

After the interment, I was waiting patiently as people came by to shake my hand and thank me for speaking for Meagan on behalf of her family. My phone rang, vibrating impatiently in my pocket. Stepping away from the funeral crowd, I saw it was my daughter calling on Poppa's phone. "DADDY! I'M IN THE OCEAN!" Without waiting for me to say more than, "hi", she shouted at me over the roar of the surf. She's never been to a beach, much less the Pacific. She told me about seaweed as big as she was and sand castles and waves and getting saltwater in her mouth. I managed to get in a few questions and exclamations before she signed off, "I gotta go, Daddy. I can't hold the phone because I'm all WET!" And then she was gone. I was smiling again. Until I turned around and saw the coffin, waiting for the crowd to leave so it could deliver it's lone passenger to her grave.

I walked back over to the Holders and asked, "Are y'all about exhausted? I'll bet you're tired of everyone telling you how sorry they are. No matter how sincere and well meaning they are, there comes a point in your grief where you really just wish everyone would love you from over there." Donald Wayne nodded. Stephanie thanked me for the eulogy and I gave Jeremy a hug. Then I took my own advice and took my leave of the family.

The drive home took an hour or so and I listened to music on my iPod. I called a girl from my Enid youth group who is also 17 and about to graduate because I felt melancholy. We chatted for a few minutes until I lost the cell signal. When I got home, Ethan and Eleanor ran to greet me at the door. "Daddy! You're home!" I wrapped them up in a big bear hug and smiled.

Meagan is still dead.

I'll be okay again soon.