Grief Part 4: Later That Night

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From The Twilight Zone, "One For The Angels"

On the way home from Roman’s mother’s house, the flood gates opened for the first of many times to come.  Sobs streamed down my face with such ferocity that I could barely see the road ahead of me.  As I drove, my cluttered mind raced with random flashes of images from the night I was returning home from, and with snapshots from my memory of the night before when I last saw Roman.  What's more, disturbing images of Roman’s lifeless body  in the coroner’s office also intruded into my mind, as did memories of his scraped face from the last time he collapsed.  Imagery which cycled frantically in between countless preponderances of how something like this could have actually happened.  My mind bounced around like a random number generator on speed - and all I could do in response was cry. 

Shuffling through the chaos in my mind, I again reached for the cell phone to call my mom as I drove.  I abruptly ended the previous call initiated with her on the drive to the scene, once I saw the flashing lights that Stu described.  Now I again was calling my mom for comfort.  But this time, I knew it was real, and there was nothing anyone could do or say that could change it.  And yet, powerless to change the sad reality, she comforted me nonetheless, in a way only my mom can.  Never mind that I was an adult...32 years old at the time.

I have a hazy memory of sobbing while uttering something to my mom about Roman not wanting to die.

 

Her response, I remember clearly though, “nobody does, Babe…he was called home.”

“He was an atheist,” I wept.  “He didn’t believe in that…”

“I know he didn’t.”


But again, she said assuringly, “He was called home…”

My mom’s faith in God’s plan for Roman was calming in the moment, but was not particularly reassuring in my deeper consciousness, as I had far less faith that Roman’s death was the result of God’s will.  As I said, he was an atheist; but not just any atheist – he was a proud, staunch, card carrying, rigid atheist, who loved to argue theology with absolute believers - considered by Roman to be stupid. 

As for myself, I was far less concerned with proof, facts, or logic of the five senses in the way Roman was.  Nor was I exactly convinced to the contrary that God truly existed.  Content to live and let live, I never saw the point of arguing over something so deeply personal and profound.  I respected Roman's point of view, but personally did not feel that prayer was beneath me.  Conversely, I also had not particularly felt heard by the Great Creator when I prayed and definitely felt no connection to other people's literal religious notions of God.  Therefore, the concept of Roman now existing in a spiritual realm, in the hands of God, sounded strange and unconvincing to me on many levels.  Maybe his spirit was on the other side…but if it was, it was not the Roman once I knew. 

As I drove, I quickly envisioned Roman in the spirit realm kicking it with the likes of God, Jesus, Abraham, George Washington, Martin Luther King, Jimmy Hendrix, my guardian angel, my childhood dog Loretta, Roman's father, the countless family pets he had lost, or whom ever popped in my head at that time.  I reasoned that if such a scenario were something close to the truth, then it was definitely not the same Roman I once knew in life, in his physical being.  Desperate for something – anything - to cling to however, I accepted that he had been ‘called home,’ at least for that night, so that I could focus on what needed to be done.

  

That brief exchange is all I remember from that conversation with my mom during my emotional drive home, though I know we talked for at least ten minutes.  And as I think about it now, I may as well have been driving drunk at the time, given my tear obstructed vision, my cloudy, erratic state of mind, and the added distraction of talking on a cell phone during the short commute - which by the way was legal at that time.  I am lucky I made it home safely from Roman’s mother’s house without adding to the damage by hurting myself or anyone else along the way.  So score one for my guardian angel…

While thankfully, I made it home safely, my heart was heavy and my thoughts were not mine to control.  Like something out of an episode of The Twilight Zone, within the space of a few hours, my life's circumstances did an abrupt roundhouse and kicked me senseless.  Initially, I came home from work that evening happy to have the place to myself, but I was now moving into dark new territory.  Moving at warp speed, without a map.  Hence, the thought of being home by myself now absolutely terrified me as I was afraid of the depths of despair I might sink to if left alone.

Not wanting me to be alone, my mom called my stepbrother and asked him to come to my apartment for the night.  Plans were underway for my mom, step dad, and sisters to fly in from out of state for the funeral, but it would take a few days for them to get to me.  So instead, in the meantime, my stepbrother kindly agreed to keep me company that night in the stunned, saddened, spinning, and all around whacked state I was in at the time.  And he sat patiently, watching TV – biding his time, while I made phone calls and began the first of my responsibilities as a widow; deciding whether or not to donate Roman’s tissue and salvageable ‘parts.'

Sometime after midnight, the phone rang.  On the other end was a man from a tissue and organ donation organization.  Using a somber, empathetic tone, he introduced himself and explained that he was made aware of Roman’s recent death by the coroner.  He then began his pitch to convince me to help others by donating Roman’s skin, tissue, and retinas; explaining that Roman's organs could not be salvaged due to the length of time he was deceased before being found on the grass. 

The representative answered my millions of questions with ease, as they were probably routine to him.  Yet I still could not give him permission with confidence, because truth be told, I actually had no idea if Roman wanted to be a donor.  I knew Roman was mindful about recycling… Maybe he would think of harvesting his tissue in practical terms, in the same way he did recycling plastic bottles.  After all, Roman was a logical thinker.  It stood to reason that he would be willing to make use of something he no longer needed. 

Equally plausible though, was the prospect of him disapproving with condescension, as he was decidedly NOT much of a people person.  Moreover, I had no clue if his family would approve, if this type of agency was legitimate, or if I was even willing to let him be “harvested.”  Each tense and participle of the word "harvest" being extremely unnerving to me as its implication was one that further compounded my internal horror at envisioning Roman in a stainless steel morgue...In a place that did not seem true to life.  I had only seen pretend morgues in movies and on television shows like CSI.  Never a place I imagined Roman to be in real life, or in my worst nightmare.

 

Nonetheless, I understood the urgency to decide quickly, so I called Roman’s mom and asked for her input.  Being true to practical form, she saw no problem with making good use of Roman’s tissue and gave her blessing without hesitation.  Ultimately, I also agreed, and called the man back to give my consent.