"If there is a worse place than Hell, we are in it…" (Part 1)
Jun 05 '04
The Bottom Line Ryan James Field (May 21, 2003-May 20, 2004) In Loving Memory.
Saturday, May 29, 2004, at sunrise: I stand forlornly before the tiny, grave, bedecked with a spectacular array of floral arrangements, in the newest section of our town’s cemetery. Only four graves mar the impeccably groomed, six-acre section where my grandson now lies.
Head bowed, hatless, my eyes nearly blinded by tears, I gaze incomprehensibly at the temporary memorial marker embossed with the stark words: "Ryan James Field 2003-2004." This is the eternal resting place for the earthly remains of our beloved one-year old grandson.
How is it we’ve come to this place at this time? Who could have guessed on that terrible morning of your 363rd day on this earth that it would be your penultimate day of life? That Wednesday was a spectacular day… warm, sunny, breezy, the kind of day the Psalmist must have had in mind when he sang: "The heavens are telling the glory of God, and all Creation is shouting for joy."
And yet…
As the dawn breaks on that day, ten days ago, each of us in our family is busy living within our own compartmentalized world, doing the same things we’ve been doing for countless days on end. At 4:30 a.m., I return home from my night job at the local supermarket, where I clean floors. I lie down and take my three-hour nap before I go to my day job at the Post Office. Despite a nagging feeling of anxiety, a non-specific sense of foreboding, I quickly fall asleep. At 6:30 a.m., my wife gets up and begins getting ready for another day at work. My daughter Cindy calls at 8:30; she and Ryan are going to the local discount variety store to get balloons and crepe paper and other favors for his first birthday party. She and the baby will stop by after lunch; she has some new pictures to show us, and she is excited.
The day progresses. At 8:45 a.m., I drive my son to school. It is his late morning, so he has an extra two hours to sleep before going in. After dropping him off, I head straight for the Post Office.
I am still plagued by that free-floating anxiety that has dogged my footsteps for nearly 24 hours. Fortunately, the mail volume is light on this spectacular Wednesday morning. It takes just 45 minutes to sort it, case it, and load it into my van, and another hour and a half to deliver it to the 145 rural mailboxes on my route. By the end of my run, that sense of foreboding has evaporated. It’s too nice a day to let nagging pessimism nip at my heels.
I return to the Post Office at 11:15 a.m. Ten minutes later, I’ve put all my mail trays away and am ready to walk out when I hear a voice at the customer service window: "I need to speak with Mr. Powers…"
The rest is a blur. The voice of the well dressed, clean cut young man in civilian clothes only occasionally dents the sudden fog into which my mind has been thrust. "I’m from the Lincoln County Sheriff’s Office…" "Your daughter in a very serious traffic accident…" "…Think they’re still alive…" "…Don’t know any details…" "…Medevac to Maine Medical Center…" "…Anything we can do…"
I go out to my vehicle in a daze. Then, suddenly… my mind is crystal clear. I can’t cry. I dare not cry! There’s too much to do. My brain begins running a perversely detailed, well-organized checklist of who it is I must contact, and how I should try to get hold of them. First and foremost is Cindy’s companion, Chris, who is Ryan’s dad. Then my wife. Then my younger daughter. She lives in very close to Maine Medical Center; she can go to the hospital and get information to us faster than anyone else. My son can stay in school and go to our neighbor’s house afterward… no, I better contact him. My intellect tells me not to worry, but my heart fears the very worst. But I can’t give in to the fear. Not now. Not until we get to the hospital and find out how things are.
I leave a message at Chris’ place of work: CALL HOME IMMEDIATELY! THIS IS AN EMERGENCY! Then I begin trying to contact my wife. She runs her own business cleaning houses. God only knows where she is. I only know the name of one of her clients. I call the client; maybe she knows where my wife is.
By some stroke of all that is holy, my wife just happens to be at that client’s house. In what is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, I tell my wife the bad news. She becomes terribly distraught. I call her sister and ask her to go get my wife and bring her home.
Almost immediately after I hang up the phone, it rings again. It is the most terrible call of the day thus far: the investigating police officer from the town’s police department is calling to make initial notification of the accident. The details are sketchy. It seems she was stopped on U.S. Route 1 waiting to make a left hand turn into a variety store parking lot. Her car was struck in the rear end by a fully loaded tractor-trailer truck. Cindy was ejected from the car, but the baby remained in his car seat, and the car seat didn’t budge from its position in the car. For legal reasons, he can’t say what condition my daughter and grandson are in. But he tells me: "hang up the phone and leave right now for the hospital… and pray." The police officer’s message is very clear: this is bad… much worse than bad. Even if we get to the hospital as quickly as humanly possible, we might not see our daughter and grandson alive again…
But I have to wait… wait for my wife and son to get home. And wait for my younger daughter to call from the hospital with some kind of news.
Please, God…
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