What happened?

November 12, 2020

“Jill, what's wrong?"

It was 7:27 pm when my daughter called. She was crying. My heart was heavy for her when I asked, "Jill, what's wrong?".

"Mark died this afternoon" she stated. Simply and sadly through her tears. That's all I remember at that moment. Her words were soft, sorrowful and like a sword to my heart. My husband said I dropped the phone and I only know that for the next several minutes I was on the floor with an indescribable pain in my chest and sobbing like I have never cried before. My husband took the phone to find out what happened. There was an accident.

Mark was killed in a head-on collision just a few hours before this call. He was alone In the car. The other driver survived. This 57 second call changed me for good. I wanted my mother. I wanted my other kids and grandkids, I wanted my son back.

I asked my husband to call my mom and he did. It was almost instinctual to want my mom when I was hurting like this. I can't really explain it because my mom and I don't talk everyday and when we do, it's usually to be updated on family news or events like this. It wasn't much of a conversation that I remember. But I do know that she comforted me - just like when I was a kid. She told me to try to relax and to allow my husband to console me. But I was inconsolable at that time. It was, after all, only minutes after I got the news.

Then, I talked to my son Louie. Mark looked up to Louie his older brother his whole life. I just wanted to know that Lou was ok. He told me he was as good as could be expected. His voice was sad and he sounded strong. I could hear his own pain which made me want to hold him. He was the one to let me know of a tragedy Mark experienced in his final hours. My head was spinning and I felt physically sick.

I talked to my daughter Diana. She spoke without emotion and sounded empty. Remarkably calm actually. She was the last family member to see him. He was over earlier that day and borrowed her car. This was the car he was driving when he died. I knew that the magnitude of what just happened hadn't hit her yet. I longed to hold her.

For years I had feared that I might get a call like this. Here is was. Now what?