The Worst Day

Photo by Mathias P.R. Reding on Unsplash

Originally published Mar 29 2021

October 15, 2020 The day my daughter died. For the last several weeks, we had been arguing, bumping heads about her desire to have some more freedom and our desire to try to keep her safe from drugs and the mental illness she'd dealt with for years. She knew we loved her, I know she did, but she was hurt - or frustrated, pressured, whatever - that we set some limits that she didn't like. At age 19, it's only normal to want more independence. But the mental illness was so tricky. It was extremely difficult to get just the right mix of medications and therapy to help her to manage it. Hell, I'm 51 and it took me until I was at least in my 40's to understand the chronic cycle of depression and anxiety in my own life. It doesn't surprise me that she turned to drugs. That's not to say I approved at all, but I can understand because she dealt with a hellish level of anxiety for most of her life. Who wouldn't want to try whatever they could to deal with that and to try to live a "normal" life? She had overdosed in July and luckily, we found her in time. She was sufficiently scared and promised that she was never using hard drugs again. I believed her and I know she was sincere. But that's not how addiction works. She was in deeper than any of us knew. We put some guidelines in place to try to keep her safe until we all agreed on the best treatment alternative, both for addiction and the mental crap that plagues more of us than any of us would like to admit. When she used our vehicle, she had to tell us where she was going, how long she would be there, and who she was going to see. I often asked her to send pictures of herself and the friends she was meeting. I still do the same thing with her siblings. She didn't like some of the other rules, which I won't necessarily expound on right now, in order to protect some of her dignity and privacy, but things that we didn't allow in our house, for any reason. And the rules were the same for everyone, not just her. During what was probably our worst argument, she said it was my fault that she was addicted to drugs. And you know what? That might be partly true. I've had my own issues with addiction to prescription drugs and plenty of my own struggles with mental illness. Our home was not the most peaceful place for several years after Al's stroke because I had no idea how to take charge of our family, working, raising our kids, and overseeing his therapy. Depression got me good, and I was down in the depths for several years. But in the face of my daughter's accusation (I knew she didn't mean it, and I forgave her before she even asked), I did some soul-searching and I was able to tell myself the truth. I had been her advocate through all the problems with anxiety and stress and school and drugs. Sure, I had introduced some dysfunction into our family - we all do - but it wasn't my fault.

That was a tremendous gift to me. It had to be the grace of God because just a few years ago, maybe even just six months before her death, I would have accepted that it was all my fault and I would have never been able to forgive myself. But God allowed me to deal with that notion before she died, and it was truly a gift.

Noah found her. He came over to get something from her and he found her in bed. Not breathing. Stiff. Purple. He yelled for help, and then he came to find me. He tried to revive her and I slapped her anywhere I could to try to wake her up. I vaguely remember yelling at the 911 operator, asking where the hell ambulances were. We live within walking distance of the nearest hospital, fire station, and Mercy ambulance service, but it took an eternity for them to arrive.

And when they got here, they didn't even work on her. They came into the room and one quietly said to another, "Go get the monitor." I remembered that later and realized they knew she was already gone, but of course, they had to be sure by connecting her to a heart monitor. I was standing near the doorway and a paramedic or a police officer started asking me questions. I went into my daughter's room, next door to Joy's. He was asking questions like, "When did you last see her alive?" I climbed over everything on the floor and onto my daughter's bed, getting as far away from him as I could. "Aren't they going to work on her?" I asked.

His answer delivered a sickening shock to my gut. "I'm sorry but she's already been gone a while." I asked him this two or three times, and each time his answer was gentle yet insistent. She was already gone.

How had our daughter died?

See, the previous night, she'd been doing really well. She had found a place to live, with a friend who lived nearby. She was going to move in at the end of the month, just when she was planning to start working again, so she'd have money for rent. She took Fido, her bearded dragon, out of his tank and fed him lettuce and watermelon while we talked. She was smiling and optimistic and we talked about trying to make sure things were good between us before she moved out. We hugged and she sat on the stairs, like she always did and she happily murmured something about making amends. I knew she was wanting to make things right with her life, with us.

And now she was dead.

It was such a long, odd day. I mean, that's an understatement obviously. But at the same time, it was a day filled with blessings.

After we had a few moments to breathe - when the coroner was upstairs doing his examination and the police were processing the scene - I called our priest, Father Steve. If you don't know Father Steve Mattson, you are missing out. He is the kindest, gentlest, most loving person I've ever met, and still he preaches truth with passion. He is anointed, that's the only way I can describe his gift for living, loving and speaking like I believe Jesus would. I picked up my cell phone to find Father Steve's number, assuming I'd have to leave a voicemail. He is a very busy man because he is always pouring himself out in ministry to others. But blessed be God, he answered. I told him what had happened and he said, "I'll be right there."

I knew the neighbors had to be catching wind of something serious going on by then. It was late morning and I'm sure people were outside waiting for word of what had happened. We practically know everyone on our street and many of them are our good friends. I called my friend Debbie who lives just down the street. By the way she answered, I knew that she already knew.

"Can I come over right now?" She asked and she was here in a heartbeat. She's a licensed social worker, so she just stepped into a place where she kept communication going between us and the various people in our home.

I had told Evan to call his sisters to come over/come home at once, but that he should simply tell them it's a family emergency. Hope was at her apartment, Faith was at work. They both arrived in much the same way, walking into our kitchen filled with people, seeing our priest already standing there, with absolute panic in their eyes. Hope came first and when I told her, she had the same reaction I'd had with the paramedic. She pulled away in denial and ran out the door. Faith's reaction was to yell, "You're lying! You're lying, Mom!" She finally sat on the floor and Noah sat down next to her and just hugged her.

Al was holding me and I was pretty sure I'd never been more comforted by his arms than right then. Warm, strong, steady, even as we cried together.

We went upstairs with Father Steve, where they had already covered her with a white sheet, and he prayed for her soul and for our comfort.

The police and firemen and paramedics were all wonderful. They told us every step of the process, and soon another team of paramedics arrived to take Joy's body. At that point, Debbie stepped in and told them to wait as we hadn't had a chance to say good-bye yet.

I went up to her room, laid next to her on the floor and just held her arm. I just laid there and wept.

My baby.

My chunky little chubby-cheeked baby with legs like fat sausages and eyes like chocolate.

My sassy little toddler who always had eyes of mischief.

My baker and artist and poet and actor and dreamer.

She was gone forever.

And then they asked us to wait in the living room at the front of the house. They said it would be less upsetting for us if we didn't see her being carried out of the back door. But we still saw the stretcher as they wheeled it down the driveway towards the ambulance, her body covered in a white sheet.

Now anyone who was watching knew...

...one of the Yarringtons died.

Yet amidst it all, I had an odd sense of relief. Relief that she wouldn’t struggle anymore with addiction, depression, anxiety, mental illness and drugs.

For as much as she wrestled those earthly demons and tried her hardest to cling to her faith, she had to know now that Jesus was real. He was holding her close and his love for her was real and profound. Now she had no more doubt. How amazing and wonderful for her.

In all those terrible moments that day, God was there. That's another huge understatement but there is no other way to say it. God was there, he was real, he was holding us up and filling us with comfort and hope that although we were facing the worst pain that any parent or family can imagine, Joy was at peace.

For whatever you've heard about God, I want to say only this, because it is enough: God is love.