Written by: Peggy Goldtrap aka Mamaw Beach
Reprinted with her permission
It was a glorius day. On the floor, Belle Cat communed with a sunbeam. Atlantic waves sped to the shore like mischievous rascals on the last day of school. My reverie was shattered by the annoying jangle of a phone.
Megan, our first born grandchild, 21 years old, whose idea of the future was morning to afternoon: our ever joyful Megan had skipped over time and into darkness. Megan, whose birthday we had celebrated May 3rd, whose hugs we had enjoyed nine days before, Megan, whose baby son was not yet 2, Megan was gone.
Details are almost meaningless when death is the dominant subject, but I had to know. Maybe it was an error. At that point, no authority had told my daughter that Megan was dead. Was she certain?
Our daughter knew only of an accident. Megan's dad had gone to the hospital to find her. Megan's friends, upset and unaware of all circumstances, came to the house and cried: "We heard Megan didn't make it!" There's no masking the horror
"We'll be there soon", I assured her. "Take Care". "I'm so sorry". "Oh baby I am so sorry!" I hung up the phone and cried. First shock, then dismay, then the agony of feeling my heart ripped out. Alone, I sought comfort at a friend's home while I tried to rein in my thoughts before turning to the rational business of notifying family. Over the years, for whatever reason, I seem to be the designated death messenger for neighbors and friends. I'm the one that gathers the phone numbers, books and addresses to let survivors know a loved one has passed. Usually, my calls are to strangers. This time, the calls would be to our own.
George was playing softball and couldn't be immediately reached. I called Megan's uncles: left messages for relatives and friends, and busied myself with minutiae to dam the flood of emotions.
Finally George made his usual post-game call. I told him that I had horrible news: Pull to the side of the road: Take a deep breath. Lynn called - Megan's dead. She and a friend were running errands when a flatbed wrecker backed across a four-lane thoroughfare. Megan's friend swerved but couldn't avoid a collision. The impact tore off the top of the car. Megan lived only minutes.
Megan was beautiful and blossomed with health. She loved everyone. She never met a stranger. She never judged a person by anything other than the way they treated her. She enjoyed life. She was Happy-go-lucky. She wasn't spoiled. Megan bubbled. If she met you once, you were her friend for life. I can visualize Megan, riding down the road, singing a country song, or cheerfully chattering without a worry in the world. Hopefully, the flatbed was beyond her view, and she felt no fear or pain.
Ironically, Megan had never learned to drive. She was too terrified of trucks.
It is human nature to look for something positive in the midst of tragedy. I am thankful that Megan died quickly; that she didn't suffer years with brain damage. I'm thankful that her baby wasn't with her, and that he is too young to realize the loss. I'm so thankful that so many young people came to say goodbye. I'm thankful that her dad, who normally works out of town, was at home the day of the accident.
I wish we could have enjoyed more time with Megan. We saw her on her birthday, we gave her gifts, we hugged, but we hurried home. Now, naturally, I wish we had stayed longer. Losing her was and is still unimaginable.
When Megan was alive, I fussed at her, laughed with her, worried about her, hoped for her, prayed for her, shopped with her, delighted in her, bragged about her. If time could be altered, the only thing I would change is May 12, 2006 on a road in TN. A few minutes either side of 9:30 and this story would not have been written.
The lesson of loss is this. Everyone and everything in our lives should be valued. Our days, our devotions, our energies are limited and we must carefully weigh decisions and choices. Our circles of family and friends are so precios, so priceless that no thing or no one should be strong enough to break those bonds. Life Ends, But Love Survives