Parent's Worst Nightmare...

A couple months ago as I pulled into space 304 at the train station to head into the city when a vivid memory rolled over me like a movie preview starring a neighbor family.

Their younger son Evan was three months older than Alex but a year ahead of him in school, split because of the birthday admissions deadline.  He lived two houses away but further in actuality, split by a creek that divided the street. The boys caught turtles in that stream of the fork of the Chicago River, rode bikes to the park at the corner and hung out in our basement rec rooms. When they were too little to stay by themselves, Andrew, Evan’s older brother babysat the younger boys. A year or so out of high school, long after the family moved and the boys no longer socialized, we heard Evan died of a drug over dose, followed only a couple years later by Andrew. Tragic. Every parent’s nightmare… my nightmare.

As I turned off the engine and gathered my briefcase I wondered how his parents were doing. I wondered whether they were still together. I wondered whether they were alive. I wondered whether they were broken. I wondered if they could ever disagree without using guilt. I wondered what it must be like for them when reminded of a son.  I wondered whether they changed jobs or moved out of state. I wondered whether it was possible to ever feel... I couldn't find a word that ended that thought... I couldn’t even find the word. 

Locking the car, my mind moved on to counting change for the parking fee and crossing the tracks in time to catch the southbound commuter. Downtown, I waited for the traffic light to cross the street into my office building. I felt a tap on my right shoulder. There stood Evan’s mother, smiling at me. Looking as I remembered her. “Mary. I can’t stop to talk, I’m still working out in Vernon Hills and I’m on my way to get a passport, we’re heading on vacation.  It’s nice to see you.” I took a gulp of air. “Have a good one.” They hadn't moved out of state. She smiled when she saw the mother of one of her son's friend. She was taking a vacation. 

Fifty steps into the building. I needed another breath. Did I conjure that meeting?

I’ve stewed about seeing Betsy for weeks. In moments of hard facts, I view it as coincidence. In moments of ethereal, I see it as synchronicity… still coincidental but with meaning. 

Figuring out the meaning continues. That morning, the thoughts and mind-pictures of their family, especially Evan appeared clear and in focus. My brain ran through the questions about the wellbeing of his parents like a litany of my own fears. Would I kill myself? Could I face a spouse without blaming? How would I feel to see my son’s friend’s or even their parents? Work… how could I even think? Vacation… for what? Seeing her, her smile, her demeanor, her act of moving forward simply verified her existence, but did not answer my questions.

In the time since seeing Betsy, I read Joan Didion’s, The Year of Magical Thinking and learned how she got through the year after her husband dropped dead as they sat down to dinner. I am in awe of such clear writing when the death of her beloved touched and muffled every aspect of her existence.

Today, I’ve been able to connect dots to a point of understanding that there may be a choice in how to act in the face of the worst of worst experiences. I didn’t know that.

Now, if I could figure out, how I conjured up that meeting, that would be a cool outcome of this experience. Synchronicity happens frequently to me. I am still working on it.

p.s. I’ve read many books and articles about death, but The Year of Magical Thinking is by far the best description of someone’s experience of the first year after. Here is the review from the NYT The Year of Magical Thinking