A Script of Grief: A Mother's Healing Begins

No matter how many dead people I've seen in murder mysteries in my lifetime, I wasn't prepared for the day I found my 40 year-old son dead from a massive heart attack.

But I did know the script.

I called 911 and listened as she went through her script designed to keep me calm while the ER battalion were on their way.

I knew from his sunken eyes and cold skin that he had already left his body, but I didn't scream, recoil, or faint. He was my son.

Somehow knowing what to expect made it easier to face.

With speaker phone on, I put my cell phone beside him on the bed and followed 911 operator's instructions.

Placing my hands over his chest and pumping as she instructed, we began together. "One, two, three, four . . .let's keep going."

"You're doing great. . .Five, six, seven, etc." we continued until the sirens and the wave of strangers rushed through the front door I had left unlocked.

Some might think I was dazed or in shock. Others might think I was courageous.

I was stunned, but he was my son.

I called my youngest daughter who lived 20 miles away, all the while keeping a promise I made to myself: Look for the lessons and blessings in any situation.

Thank God he died at home in his own bed and not the victim of police violence, a constant fear of Black mothers from the day they give birth to a son.

Thank God I was the one to discover his body, and not his sisters.

When the paramedics arrived and dismissed me from the room, one of them gasped, "I know him! We went to high school together."

Thank God he was being attended by a former classmate.

While the paramedics took over, the investigation team descended upon me in the living room asking questions and making notes about medications, drug use, medical conditions, his job, the last time I saw him alive and the like, trying to rule out suicide, murder, or foul play.

I recognized the script.

My daughter and I found our way to the couch in the family room as I kept mentally listing blessings.

Thank God my youngest daughter lived nearby and could be with me that night.

Yes, I was stunned. But he was my son.

No parent expects their children to pass before they do. And yet, it happens in many different ways to many parents every day all over the world, to rich and poor.

On January 24, 2016 it happened to me.

Even when waves of grief sweep over me, the blessings that comforted me then, comfort me now.

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