All On A Summer's Day
Written Summer 1998 (25th Anniversary),
referring to July 16, 1973
Today, I heard
someone say we mourn a father for six months, a mother for a year,
and a child forever.
Those
words triggered a shot sending me back twenty-five years to a
hot and humid July 16, 1973. I saw myself lying on the floor of
the den floor, arms under my head, watching television as the
Watergate hearings droned on and on.
The
older six children were out and about the neighborhood enjoying
a suburban summer, doing what kids do during their wonder years.
I had eased onto the floor, hoping the baby would sleep long enough
for me to rest and watch the proceedings.
Suddenly,
gasping, I bolted upright when handsome and mild mannered Alexander
Butterfield revealed the White House Oval Office was equipped
with recording devices. "What!" I said aloud. When the phone rang
I just stayed where I was.
It
rang again and the baby stirred. The senators were staring in
disbelief. The roomful of reporters and spectators was abuzz as
a senator's question came, asking for a clarification. Just then,
the phone rang a third time.
"Hello,"
I said brusquely.
"Mrs.
Daley, Mrs. Daley, Jack was hit by a car," the voice of a young
boy said.
I
went into sensory overload as my left ear lingered with Butterfied
and my right one held a phone screaming words I could hear but
not comprehend. I immediately went into cool and collected but
before I tell you what I said next, I must ask that you understand
the times.
This
was the summer when pranksters called wives to tell them their
husbands died in an accident at the mill. It was the summer of
kidnappings, real and hoaxes. And, believe it or not, I was determined
I was not going to be taken in by such cruelty. In spite of blind
panic echoing in my head, I spoke calmly.
"What
is your phone number? I'll call you right back to verify this
call." Unbelievable, now, that I should have said that, I know.
Yes, I do know. Yet, experts gave us scripts for dealing with
the rash of telephone terrorists. I called back. Either he gave
it wrong or I got it wrong. The number didn't answer. Perhaps
he had run back to the street, where his friend lay fatally injured.
To a teenager, the death of a friend is devastating. It is beyond
belief.
Strong,
robust Jack -- without a mark on him -- lived two hours without
ever knowing what hit him. The neurologist working to mend the
severed stem of his brain said: "If it's any consolation, it was
a massive blow," meaning, of course, that had he lived, he would
have been a vegetable. Two consolations: he never knew what hit
him, and he didn't live to wish he had died.
The
promised graces allowed us to function through this heart-breaking
ceremony of life. Calls and letters of condolence came. Among
them, a letter from an aunt I'd never met now living in far western
Canada gave me both solace and concern.
"I
lost a son his age many years ago," she wrote. "Sometimes at night
I believe I can still hear his footsteps."
It
was consoling to know I'd never forget my firstborn, yet alarming
to think I might not be able to free my mind for tasks among the
living. Was I going to deny our other children a childhood? In
the first stage of grief, made threefold worse by the suddenness
of his death, I simply pretended Jack was at camp, or over at
a friend's house, perhaps away for the summer. I pretended day
after day just to get through them.
Six
children under age 11 need a fully-focused mother, and yet I needed
to take it one day at a time. We kept Jack alive in our conversations,
recalling his antics and humor, playing his favorite "Smoke on
the Water" until it warped, just moving along through the glorious
days of childhood for the sake of the younger ones.
It
was not until they each passed 15 that I dared exhale. Then each
in turn had graduations, went to college, became engaged, married,
and had children of their own. They all had individual days of
celebration, their own day in the sun, their spot at center stage.
Today
we're proud when we see who they've become. It's a joy to know
them. They're nice people. But, where are the children they were?
Gone.
Gone
in a way just as final as Jack's going. We miss them ... all seven
of them.
So,
I guess it is true. We mourn a father for six months, a mother
for a year and children forever.
This
is not to say my every day is given to thoughts of a child who
died, or of those who merely grew up. No, of course not. Our memories
don't rely on days of remembering and mourning. There are days,
even weeks, given over to other pursuits. In fact, most days we
don't think of any of them at all.
Nights,
though, are another story ... what with the footsteps.
|
