The Knowing

My first experience with death was when I was around 6 or 7 years old. There was an elderly woman from our church, Josie Blackwell, who had passed away and my parents took me to the service. I still find it strange that I remember her name… I rarely remember things from childhood. I’m not exactly sure why my parents chose to take a young child to a funeral, but I can remember being excited at the time. In my mind, I thought it was a “party” and we didn’t go to many parties. I was raised as a Jehovah’s Witness where celebrating birthdays and traditional holidays, i.e. Halloween, Christmas, etc., was not allowed because they are historically based on Pagan custom. I’m not interested in debating religious practices, but merely giving you the background to why a gathering of people was such an exciting experience for me. I will speak more on belief systems later.

It was a vey “traditional” funeral held at a funeral home, people were gathered around talking and there was an open casket at the front of the room. I had never seen a casket and was very curious. My mother took me up to see Josie, but I didn’t really understand what was going on. She looked like she was sleeping with her arms rested at her side. I’m not sure what made me do it, but I reached out and touched her hand. It was cold and hard and I remember thinking, “That’s not Josie!” Josie’s hands were soft, warm, and full of life. I had a lot of questions but when I was growing up children were meant to be seen and not heard so I was hushed and left to figure it out on my own. Not a good experience with death. It’s sad that we get conditioned to think of death as hard, cold, scary with no explanation. 

Fast forward to my Father in Laws funeral with my own children and I’m not sure I did any better than my parents. I remember struggling to explain to them what had happened. I resorted to “Grandpa’s gone to Heaven” excuse because I didn’t know what else to say. We didn’t talk about death and it was easier to make up some story than to actually have THAT conversation. I knew I was taking the easy out and it felt like I was lying, kind of like telling them Santa was real and knowing he’s not. It’s the lie that has become acceptable because death seems too deep to discuss, not just with children, but with everyone. 

When Dillon died, I remember people trying to comfort me by saying, “He’s in heaven with God now.” I know now they were just trying to comfort me and didn’t know what else to say, but my first reaction was, “Fuck God!”. I wanted nothing to do with a God that allowed my son to die so tragically. I wasn’t interested in having any kind of relationship with God. Today, I’m still trying to figure out that relationship… Is there really a God? 

I would consider myself more of a spiritual person than a religious person. My parents divorced when I was around 10 years old, and we were excommunicated from the church because divorce wasn’t allowed in our religion. I think that is when I decided that organized religion wasn’t for me. I do believe in a “Higher Power” and know there is more at work than meets the eye. There is a beauty and an energy in this world that can’t be explained and I’m not sure it’s meant to. Some people call it God, I call it the Knowing. 

There are certain moments that have called to me, that I can’t explain, and I don’t need to… I just KNOW. One of these moments happened just minutes after learning Dillon had died and another just a few days later. 

I got the call when I was in Africa. My husband and I were on safari in the middle of the Maasai Mara. The cell service was extremely limited and that particular day we were transitioning from one camp to another. It wasn’t until we arrived at the second camp we were able to connect to wi-fi calling. My husband’s phone rang and he stepped away to take the call. A few minutes later, he motioned me to meet him outside the chaos of the welcome lunch that had been prepared. He had a serious look on his face and he handed me the phone without speaking a word. I saw the call was from my son Kyle, Dillon’s brother, and knew that something was off but nothing could have prepared me for the words I was about to hear. I will never forget them, they still ring in my ears…. “Mom, I love you Mom. I love you. Dillon was in a motorcycle accident and he passed away.” He said it so gently and with such love. I will forever be grateful to Kyle for the thought he put into that phone call and to the words that he chose knowing they would be difficult to hear.

Immediate preparations started to get us home. We had to take a truck back over the pitted, dirt road to the grass airstrip we had just arrived on an hour earlier. There was a series of “mini-miracles” that occurred to get us back to civilization. There happened to be an FAA employee who had stopped by the camp to inspect a hot air balloon and heard of our situation. He took action to call ahead and have a smaller plane wait to take us back to Nairobi so we could find a fight home. This particular plane wasn’t supposed to have any civilians as it was a test flight for the first female pilot in their fleet. My husband is a pilot himself and zoned into what was happening. I think this was his way of dealing with his grief as he had no idea what to do to help me with mine.

This is when the first “Knowing” took place for me. This small plane had taken off and all of a sudden I was struck by the scene that was surrounding us below. The tall grass blowing in the breeze while gazelle and warthogs scurried back onto the field to graze on the grass. It’s as if my eyes were being held wide open and forced to take in this raw, indescribable moment. I remember thinking, “How can I experience such beauty when I have just learned of my son’s death?”. I’m not sure what empowered me to take out my phone and snap the picture below, but I’m grateful that I did. My life had taken a sharp left turn and I had no idea how I was going to navigate this, but I KNEW Dillon was still with me guiding me home.

The next several days were a blur. Phone calls, questions, family, friends, flowers, cards… it’s all I could do just to breathe. My mind didn’t know how to process this. I wasn’t supposed to bury my son, it wasn’t the natural order of things. And then there were the arrangements. The decisions to be made about what to do with Dillon’s body. 

I had to see him. I had to know this was my son. I didn’t care that they had matched his finger prints, or they had his driver’s license, or that his girlfriend was with him at the time of the accident and knew it was him. I HAD to see Dillon with my own eyes, to touch him, to hold him, to kiss him. Unfortunately, because of the way Dillon was killed, I wasn’t able to see and kiss his face, but I did see him. Dillon was fully covered by a blanket except for his right arm and his right rib cage. This was the first time I was truly grateful for all his tattoos. He had beautiful artwork on his body that was unique. A full sleeve on both his arms, and his father’s portrait tattooed on his left rib cage… a tribute to his dad that had passed just two years earlier. He surprised me a year later with my portrait on his right rib cage. It was surreal to see my own face staring back at me as I looked at my son’s lifeless body lying on the table.

I sat beside Dillon’s body for a moment afraid to touch him, afraid my experience would be like that of Josie Blackwell… a cold shell that I didn’t recognize. I reached out and stroked his arm, running my fingers over the lines of his tattoos and wrapping my hand in his. I can’t fully describe what happened next, but there was a wail that bellowed from my soul. I knew this was my son and there was no more hope left. I rubbed and kissed his arm, telling him how sorry I was and asking him to forgive me for not being there to hold him as he took his last breath. I held his arm so long that it actually became warm to the touch. I kissed his hand one last time and then stood by his side and laid my right hand on his chest and my left hand on the crown of his head. After a few seconds I felt a snap on my left palm. As if someone had snapped a rubber band that was wrapped around my hand. It wasn’t a little snap, it was a BIG snap. So big that I lifted my hands, looked over my shoulder at my husband, and said, “Ok, we can leave now. He’s going to be ok.” I still can’t explain exactly what happened and I don’t need to. I just KNOW.

It’s these experiences and so many more with “knowing” that has changed my understanding of death and dying. I have discovered that death isn’t just scary and sad, but it’s also eye opening and wakes us up to being more alive than ever. It is a part of life that I want to know more about. I want to connect and discover it’s deeper meaning. 

I would love to hear about your journey, your pain, your discoveries, your process. Join me in this open conversation about death, loss, grief, and knowing. All my love, Mary