Everything Changed

Helena tiring on one of her outfits the night before her brother’s wedding.

Everything Changed

One day, one phone call, and everything changed.

Just days before, I’d been counting my blessings, thinking about my family. Everyone was doing well. My grandson Ethan had just married Natalie, and his sister Helena had enjoyed participating in the events. Earlier, my daughter, Jessica, and her husband, Brad, had taken a trip to their favorite place in South Carolina. And my partner, Dane, was exceeding expectations in his heart recovery.

Life was good—and then the phone rang.

“Helena was killed in a car accident.”

“Oh God. Oh, my God! I’m on my way.”

Time slowed down as I rushed around the house, trying to think of everything I had to do. I needed to call Dane, cancel classes, feed the animals, get in the car. Mostly I needed to be with my daughter, right this minute, but it would take a three-hour drive to get there.

Nothing made sense. Just a week ago all of us had been laughing as Helena balanced her brother’s wedding cake on her lap while her dad maneuvered the expressway to get us to his son’s wedding on time.

Words came out garbled as I spoke to family members on the phone, trying to piece together what had happened while Dane drove. The car couldn’t go fast enough. The family would be there, so Jessica wasn’t alone, but the slowness, the unknown, was painful.

Two weeks ago Helena was trying on outfits for Ethan’s wedding. She was eating dinner with us the evening before the wedding. She slept in her brother's room that night, giving us her bedroom, saying, “It’ll be the last time Ethan sleeps here.”

She sat next to her mom and Dane in the first pew at the wedding. She laughed at my jokes. She looked beautiful, and happy to be there. She clapped when the minister announced Mr. and Mrs. Christensen.

Afterwards Helena was called up to the altar for photos: Her and Ethan. Snap. Her, Natalie, and Ethan. Snap. Helena with Ethan, Jessica, and Brad. Snap. Dane, me, Jessica, Brad, Ethan, Natalie, and Helena. Snap. Snap.

It must be a mistake—she can’t be gone. But when we finally make it to Brad and Jessica’s home, the sound of my daughter’s anguished cries makes it real.

Jessica wants Helena to have “her blanket.” Climbing onto the bed, I spoon with Jessica while Brad lies in front of her.

Today, a year later, here is what I know.

There is no comforting a mother who has lost her child. There is only being present. There is only listening, and reminding her to take her medication (which brings only temporary yet much-needed relief). 

You can wash the dishes, make a healthy breakfast, fold the bedding you used for sleeping on the couch, sort through thousands of photos, and simply hold your daughter's hand when it’s all too much.

You can field phone calls and run interference when someone brings flowers to the door because she doesn’t want to see or talk to anyone.

But there isn’t anything a grandmother can do to change things, despite being willing to do anything for your daughter.

And that hurts. A primal, gut-wrenching tearing is close to the surface, but you can’t give it any oxygen because you need to keep your focus on the mother who lost her precious child.

We bear witness to emotions we’d never have wished to see or hear. A group family hug with tearful words: “We need to stick together now more than ever.” Zoom calls with the doctor: “Is there something that can help with sleep?” A conference between husband and wife while the organ donor folks are on hold, then agreeing and telling them, “Take, use whatever you can.”

For Brad, there’s a trip to the morgue, police calls, funeral home calls, legal calls, a hospital visit, and work calls. For Jessica, there is a void so raw and painful that speaking is difficult. But for a grandmother, there is no time for grieving until after dark when the house is quiet.

Then you lie on the couch, with Preens, the cat that only liked Helena, and wait. You’re waiting to be there if your daughter gets up during the night and needs you. You are praying that your daughter and her husband can get some sleep. You are not even close to comprehending that you’ll never see your granddaughter again. That she won’t be going on the backpacking trip that you’d dreamed of taking her on someday.

She won’t get that chance. And you’ll never get to see her grow older, grow better—but you know she would have.

After all, she had just spent a joyful weekend with her family, the weekend of her brother’s wedding, and she was utterly happy—until everything changed.

The outfit Helena choose for the wedding.