| This is a survivor's description of a home notification she endured. It has been modified and used with permission. 13 The survivor was woken in the night by a police officer and a chaplain, who began to ask her questions: |
| “You start wondering who is in trouble. Your mind begins to race down the checklist of family members: your husband is at work; your son has been staying out too late recently; your daughter is expecting her first child, and she and her husband have been arguing a lot recently. |
| As this stranger, these `intruders,' continues asking questions, your own questions start flashing though your mind. Your world begins crumbling in on you. You are brought back to the present moment by an insistent voice gently but firmly calling your name. `Are you all right?' You look at the speaker's face, trying to read what is being said. You hear your own voice, as from a distant point saying, `Yes, I'm all right.' Those probing, insistent voices then ask, `Is your husband at home?' You feel yourself beginning to feel faint. The voices urge you to go inside and sit down. As you sit, they ask about your husband again. You take a deep breath, trying to clear some of the cobwebs from your thoughts. Finally, you realize your husband is at home. He traded nights off with a friend and is sleeping. You call him several times before he answers, and you ask him to come downstairs. |
| Taking the stairs 2 at a time, he hurries to your side. `Who are you?' he asks them, as he puts his arm protectively around your shoulder. You introduce your husband to these strangers who are obviously bringing bad news, although they radiate a calmness and a genuine friendliness that help you feel a little less anxious. Icy fingers of fear clutch your throat as you hear the question, `Do you have a son named Tom? He has wavy blond hair and a moustache?' Your hands move to your throat as though to seek release from that stranglehold of fear. The questions continue. `Is your son about 18 years old? Does he drive a blue antique pickup truck?' |
| Almost at the same instant as you say `Yes,' the pent-up fear erupts as you cry out in anguish, `Oh my God, what has happened?' It seems an eternity before you hear those dreaded, but not unexpected words, `I'm sorry, your son has been involved in an accident.' The words, even though spoken softly and compassionately, shatter your world. Though dazed by this news, you feel compelled to strike out against its reality. With your heart pounding and aching, blinded by the tears that gush uncontrollably from your eyes, you jump up from the chair to vent your anguish by beating on these people who have torn your little world asunder. Your husband, stunned by the news, now moves to your side. One of the intruders gently but firmly has been holding your wrists, saying, `It's all right, go ahead and vent your anger and hurt.' You feel your husband's arm around you, and he leads you back to your chair. As you sit, your husband asks, `How bad is it? Is he hurt bad?' `Yes,' comes the reply, `it is very serious.' Looking at the intruders and wanting them to deny the next question, you and your husband ask in a single voice, `Is he... dead?' Stepping closer to where they can touch both of your shoulders, the intruders answer very softly, `Yes.' |
| The dam of restraint can no longer hold back the deluge of tear-filled anguish. The intruders silently, and understandingly, wait with patience until the sobbing subsides. After a while, you and your husband look at them as sources of guidance, strength, and information. You ask `What happened?' The intruders, now companions in this sorrow, review the incident with sufficient detail for you to understand what happened. They answer, to your satisfaction, the questions of who was involved, where it happened, how it happened, and where your son's body is now. They ask if they can contact your own clergy. As you look at your husband, he nods his head and says, `Yes, we would appreciate that.' ” |
