Chapter 26

The darker the night, the brighter the stars. The deeper the grief, the closer the God!

—Fyodor Dostoevsky, Crime and Punishment

I was up throughout the sleepless night. I checked the many voice mails. First, I listened to one from Kellie. She hadn’t checked her phone until hours after I sent the first hysterical text on the way to Shock Trauma. Even then, she didn’t accept the diagnosis that the injury “wasn’t compatible with life.” Not until she got my message after midnight asking her to ask her Russian-speaking friend to translate a message for Liana and Lia did she know that it appeared Roma wasn’t going to live. Even then she couldn’t grasp it. Her quivering voice spoke, “Mom, Roma can’t be dead. God isn’t done using him.”

The hospital called early Monday morning to inform us the doctor had signed Roma’s death certificate. December 7, 2015 at 7:16 a.m. would be the time that Roma officially died.  I didn’t understand how they had signed a certificate of death when he was still alive. He has still connected to life support, and I hadn’t given up on a miracle.

When I was dressed and ready to go to the hospital, I notice a folded piece of paper on the kitchen table. I had forgotten about it. As we were leaving the hospital the night before, a nurse had given it to us with a phone number scrawled on it. I stared at the unfamiliar number.  

“He said he was your son’s boss,” she said to clear my confusion. We had never met this man and only knew his name from Roma’s stories of his workdays. Bobby had called the hospital so many times on Sunday to ask about Roma’s condition, which they were not permitted to share, they requested that he quit calling. They promised they would give us his number, and we would call him if we wished. It was midnight when we left the hospital, too late to call Bobby. I suspect Bobby was sleepless and would have welcomed an update at any hour, had it been good news. Before we left for the hospital, we knew we needed to call Bobby.

Bobby was the last person to have a conversation with my Roma, to share a laugh, to look into Roma’s lively green eyes. And the last memory he would have of Roma was of him falling two stories to the sidewalk below.

Bruce called the number on the paper, on speaker phone. He introduced himself, and Bobby asked quickly and hopefully, “How’s Roma?”

Bruce paused just a moment, as though he needed to shield this man we had yet to meet from the devastating truth. “Roma didn’t make it.”

“Oh my God, Oh God” Bobby’s voice trailed off into broken sobs. He continued, though periodic primal groans, “We were finished with that job. . . I was already down my ladder. We were done . . . Oh my God, I’m so sorry.  I was on the ground waiting and I heard a loud pop. I looked up and Roma was coming down. Oh my God. Oh my God.” Sobs overtook him again. It was devastating for Bruce and me to hear that. We were both crying, and told Bobby we had to go back to the hospital. He asked if he could call us later. We agreed.

On route back to the hospital. I read more texts and emails and listened to voicemail while Bruce drove. One early morning voicemail was from a desperate acquaintance, urging us not to give up. Her own son had been declared “brain dead” in 1994. Doctors discussed organ donation with her. But her son survived. He was doing okay, although he did suffer a traumatic brain injury which had lasting consequences. She gave me this verse to encourage me. “God has not given us a Spirit of fear, but of power and love and self-control.” 2 Timothy 1:7

She added at the end of her message, “Just then when I typed Roma’s name, I sensed the Holy Spirit saying, ‘Spell it backwards.’ Amor! It’s love. Roma is love.”

Somehow that comforted me, although it came as no surprise. Roma was love, would always be love. Maybe the Holy Spirit still talking about Roma made me feel he was not so “dead.”

With Kellie encouraging me not to lose hope, and another mother who had been told her son wouldn’t survive but he did, we headed to the hospital, praying for a miracle, half expecting Roma to be sitting up in bed, laughing when we entered his room, telling me I worry too much. But when we were directed to his new room on a different floor, again in room number seven, we accepted that Roma wasn’t going to rally.  

Little had changed, Roma was still hooked up to machines. Our son’s handsome face was cleaned up a bit from the dirt and blood from the night before, and the swelling was down slightly. He looked better, like he was resting. When the nurses mentioned organ donation, continuing our conversation of the night before, I stopped them abruptly, telling them we weren’t willing to talk about that yet. Maybe God was still going to give us a dramatic miracle.

 A kind and gentle friend who was a nurse met us at the hospital that Monday morning. She told us we didn’t have to hurry, that we should let everyone know we wanted more time. “Maybe it would help if you saw the brain scans,” she suggested. We agreed to meet with his doctor.  

A compassionate doctor met with us in a private room and went slowly, image by image, over Roma’s brain scan. Even though I don’t know much about brains, even I could tell Roma’s scan wasn’t normal. We were told he had first been electrocuted by low hanging wires, and had fallen from a two-story roof, unconscious, to the sidewalk below, landing on his head. It was impossible to say which had ultimately caused his death: either one alone would have been enough. I lay across Roma’s warm chest, still rising and falling with the help of the machines, and I sobbed uncontrollably. My dear husband finally broke down. I realized the depth of his own grief. Tears streamed down his cheeks. Bruce is a scientist, and he knew Roma wasn’t going to make it. He had indulged the unrealistic hopes of a miracle of his grieving wife. Poor Bruce. He had driven almost four hours the night before, mostly in silence, having to be mindful of us arriving safely, as I sobbed and wailed, texted friends, made some phone calls, and sobbed and wailed.

I can only write about my emotions. I knew Bruce was no less devastated. I do not know what went on in my husband’s head and heart. I do know this experience was every bit as excruciating for him as it was for me. He had to be strong for the rest of us. And Bruce is the strongest man I know. Finally, we came to the hard realization that Roma had to be freed from a broken-beyond-repair brain. There would be no miraculous recovery. Roma had requested his organs be donated, as noted on his driver’s license. We confirmed his wishes.

It was still surreal. How could Roma be “dead”? I leaned one last time onto his warm chest, rising and falling with even breaths, made possible by the noisy machine. I spoke my eternal love into his ear. I told him I would see him soon, and I would miss him every day of my life. I was thankful I wasn’t a young mother and wouldn’t have to endure many years or decades before our reunion.

As if our driveway was being observed, when we arrived home that Monday afternoon, the doorbell started ringing. Friends and neighbors began arriving. Tear-stained faces mirrored my own as I opened the door, welcoming well-wishers bearing food, flowers, and open arms for hugs, trying the best they knew how to assist the living in dealing with the dead. The next morning, the steady stream of visitors continued.

There is a bubble that surrounds people during grief. At least that was the case with me. It was nice to have all the people there, talking to each other, as I felt out-of-body, witnessing, and not having to participate in all the conversations. I’m sure I did take part, but the “bubble” experience prevented it all from being too real.  

I remember at one point the night of the fall, waking up in the dream-world of hoping-this-is-a-nightmare. I had a sudden thought that Roma got on that train that we all will board one day. How like impulsive Roma to rush to the front of the line. But somehow thinking of Roma on that train, bound for glory, gave me some comfort. It was a visual to which I could cling.

In the afternoon, one of our visiting friends who directed conversation in my direction as I zoned out, said, “Roma just got on an earlier train than we did.”

I turned and stared at her. Was she here earlier when I had that exact same thought? No, that was in the wee hours. I think. Did I say it aloud and she heard me?  I wish I could think clearly, but I just responded.  “I have had that same thought. About the train.”

All these people. I had gotten a notebook out to record the food coming in. All these neighbors and people from the community who knew Roma better than they knew me. Roma, who never met a stranger, loved everyone, the boy who needed no last name. He always had a kind word and always made people feel important, like he really cared about them, because he did.

Our visitors cleared out temporarily near 2 p.m. when we had an appointment with the funeral home. Our assignment for Roma’s service was to select 75 photos for Roma’s slide show and select music to accompany it. We chose to have a Celebration of Life a week later, so we had some time to plan, and our family in other states had time to arrive. But there were so many visitors, I hardly had time to be alone to go through photos. At my request, Roma’s friends started sharing photos of Roma, many of which I had never seen. The woman at the funeral home talked to us at length about Roma, getting to know him. When we saw the completed slide show days later, I knew Roma would be pleased.

When we returned home from the funeral home appointment, the house was empty and quiet. I sat in my sunroom, where I like to read, and picked up a book by my chair. It was a devotional by Louie Giglio. Roma had brought it home a year earlier when he returned from Atlanta. He was proud of his gift to me, which was probably a gift from our Nancy in Atlanta. I hadn’t read much of it over the past year, as I had my favorite devotions already. But, for some reason, I decided to go to the back, wondering what was written on the day Roma “died.” (Oh, how I hate that word!)

December 7 began “Be still and know that I am God.” That verse had become a sacred echo for me in the past two years. When I go to my prayer closet, my goal is to get to that place where I could let the world fall away, be still, and listen to God. I suffer from acute distraction syndrome (if that’s a thing) and maybe a little, or more than a little, ADD. 

So that Psalm beginning the devotion awakened me, and I read with anticipation of something divine. 

There was much in that passage I could hang on to.

Then I turned the page. That’s when I saw it. Photos didn’t accompany every daily devotion, but on December 7, a very encouraging photo had been added: an empty train track with a cross in the background.

Then I turned the page. That’s when I saw it. Photos didn’t accompany every daily devotion, but on December 7, a very encouraging photo donned the next page. An empty train track with a cross in the background.

Roma’s train had left the station. He was Bound for Glory. And, in a day of many tears, that image made me smile. 

Continue with Chapter 27