| ANATOMY OF LOSS |
The phone rings at six p.m. as we relax on a warm summer evening on our patio. Nothing prepares us for the solemn voice at the other end of this call. “Are you Mrs. Stephen Hillman?” the man asks. Unalarmed, I reply, “Yes.” “This is the Snohomish County Coroner in Everett.” I feel my body stiffen in reaction as to what may follow… “Are you next of kin to Stacey Sean Hillman?” Reality sets in abruptly, and I drop the phone—screaming shrilly. My husband finishes the call hearing the words I cannot endure. I continue to scream my son’s name, and curse God for taking him from me. A zombie-like state overtakes me—I am standing outside my body. My husband’s tear-streaked face comes slowly into focus. “We must call the family and notify them of this tragedy,” he says. I nod my head in agreement then call our daughter, Stacey’s sister— I hear the same distant screams that came from my own throat just an hour ago— “No! No! It can’t be!” I do not cry, I do not feel anything—numbed by sorrow. We call other family members almost in a stupor. Barren of feeling, giving solace and comfort, secluded in our own thoughts— We hold tight our memories. By ten p.m., summer’s night shadow has crept over a blue sky. We take an evening stroll to escape this house of hollow emptiness. Darkness is not our friend. Streetlights remind us of “life out there” as we stroll the neighborhood. Sudden shock seems to be subsiding into brief waves of misery. Agony spills over in gasps and sobs every few yards. We search for answers, trying to shoo away feelings of “what ifs” and guilt. Holding hands, we creep along like the aged—not people barely fifty. Our steps are heavy with the weight of bad news. Our hearts and minds—aching, weary. In our room upstairs, open windows allow a breeze to cool us. We lie sleepless, praying to find understanding. Exhaustion overtakes us in the wee hours, and fitful sleep comes in spasms. The light of day startles us back into reality. Today, we’ll surely die of pain. The weight of our bodies has somehow tripled in the night. Raising weary heads from tear-soaked pillows, we pray it was just a nightmare. Too soon we are proven wrong in that assumption… The phone begins ringing non-stop by eight a.m. We do not want to answer. Our brains are numb—mechanically we move forward. There is a police investigation… Our youngest child, our son—muscular, blonde, and beautiful— Was found crashed on the floor of a drug house. His car and possessions are missing—stolen by another junkie— The same junkie Stacey shot heroin with the night of his death. We may never retrieve those personal items only we would hold dear. There is no hate or blame for this thief—only pity. He’s just another drug-addicted child lacking pangs of conscience. We must forgive. Funeral arrangements have to be made, an autopsy performed— Choices are taken from us because of the police investigation. Suspended in limbo, we wait to hear from the detective handling Stacey’s case. When he calls, he somehow seems connected—sensitive to our pain. We thank God for this man answering our questions with Herculean patience. We bond in agreement in his helplessness to stop the scourge of drugs. He knows the addict well who last shared a needle with our son. He acknowledges “the law” is not a cure for drug abuse. There is no use in pressing charges for the car theft, possessions lost. No proof, no punishment, no peace… We struggle with our son’s desire to be cremated. This disintegration of what’s left of the boy we raised to manhood— Can it be too final to have nothing but ash left of his remains? We relent to his wishes… We drag ourselves to the funeral home to do the business of death— Agonize in making decisions we’d rather not make. We shop the store of the deceased. An urn is chosen, a headstone… Papers are signed, agreements made. We pay for merchandise we never wished to purchase. On the day of the Funeral, we rise early with no sleep the night before. We dress slowly, and start the two hundred mile drive home— Beaver Creek Cemetery—place of rest for several generations. Arriving at my parent’s house—most of the family is already posted there. They greet us with hugs and tears. Food, flowers, and small children oblivious to the occasion are everywhere. We gain strength in reminiscing about Stacey— Even smile at the fun and sense of humor he brought into our lives. He seems to be reincarnated thru’ memories. I feel soothed by his presence. Leaving relatives behind, we go to the cemetery alone. The urn and flowers are arranged on a green cloth laid over the grave. The minister arrives—his southern drawl and warm friendliness ease our pain. Family and friends silently filter in. At five-thirty p.m., graveside services—Tears flow, prayers begin. I give comfort to others—too numb to react to the sad happenings myself. It all seems unreal, impossible, a bad dream… Our oldest son gives a heartfelt eulogy of “Peter Pan,” his brother. The pastor closes with a fitting prayer— His voice cracks with emotion saying goodbye to one so young. Mourners begin to disperse. We four immediate family members linger for final goodbyes. Pictures are taken to preserve the memory. His six-year-old son, now fatherless, could not attend— For him, we’ll save this moment in time on celluloid. We embrace, not wanting to walk away. Our feelings flood out in tears and lost hope— A future ended forever. Drugs the valiant winner—the Devil’s lie. But “Death be not proud!” is my burning cry. The next day, we drive home to an emptier house—an emptier existence. Messages are lined up on our phone, flowers and sympathy cards. Life minus one begins… Each day blends into the next. Sleep becomes easier as exhaustion overtakes our nights. Mornings are cruel—jerked into reality each daybreak. We stay busy racing against the agony of memories. Days turn into weeks, weeks into months— The open wound still bleeds when we least expect it. Will a scab ever form against a spoken word, a song on the radio? Life will go on… The world will keep revolving. Somehow we will be dragged kicking and screaming back into it. At times we’ll want to turn back and let the grave swallow us up. We’ll wish for just one more day, one more hug, a quick smile. We’ll hear his voice, and see his face in every crowd. He’ll tiptoe into our private thoughts in the silence of our room at night. We’ll grow old remembering our child—our handsome son. We’ll always love you Stacey… Forever, Mom ©1997 |