CHAPTER NINE
(This is Chapter Nine of my book, Living, Loving and Losing a Son)
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I walked back into the room and got down on the floor to do some sit-ups and stretches. Bob had gone into the bathroom to clean up. The book on empowerment came into my mind and I remember how glad I was I had read it. As I lay there on the floor, I was also feeling a bit concerned that something could be happening to one of my sons, Robb or Jeff. Bob had mentioned before going into the bathroom that Leslie had left a message on the voice mail. “That was strange,” he said. “It sounded as if she’d been crying. She said to call back.” That worried me, so I was killing time exercising until I could get through to her. Every few minutes I got up and dialed the number, but the line rang busy every time. I was growing more concerned. Unless Robb was out of the country, he was always the one to call us. And I knew that he was home; I’d talked to him after he came back from his most recent trip to Africa, two weeks before Bob and I left for Naples. Robb had been in Uganda and Namibia, a four-week trip. Could something have happened to Jeff, who lived in Washington near Robb and Leslie? But if something had happened to Jeff, wouldn’t Robb be the one to call?
Eventually Leslie answered the phone. “Leslie,” I said, my voice hesitant, “it’s Marilyn.”
There was a moment of silence before she began, “I hoped I’d never have to call with news like this.” I knew then it was going to be the worst of news. “What’s wrong?” I asked, barely able to speak.
“Robb died this morning,” she said it right out, her voice choking. Every fiber in my being froze. “How can that be?” I managed to ask, steeling myself to hear, unable to imagine what could have befallen Robb—he who was so young, so vital, so full of life.
“He was sitting at the kitchen table, reading the Washington Post and eating his corn flakes,” she told me. “I was upstairs in the bedroom getting ready for church. I heard him scream. I went running and found him collapsed on the kitchen floor. I called EMS. It took them six minutes to get here. They tried to bring him back to life but they weren’t able to save him,” she continued describing how they’d made her wait outside while they worked on him. After working on him for what seemed like an eternity, they raced him to the hospital where the doctors worked on him longer to no avail. I imagined Leslie going through that hell, the fear she must have felt, the dread. “They’re saying his heart stopped and they just couldn’t get it going again,” she said, her voice breaking.
As I listened, I thought my own heart might stop. My beautiful baby boy, I thought. My mind refused to accept what she was telling me; it was too impossible, he hadn’t even been sick, he had no vices to speak of, he was trim, watched what he ate; and my God, he was only thirty-seven. This had to be a mistake. I felt myself growing numb, cold, almost as if I’d stepped outside myself, to distance myself from the horror of the news. I remember being concerned about not upsetting Leslie. I didn’t want her to suffer anymore, didn’t want to say anything that she might take as a criticism of what she could have done to save or help my son. She’d had to go through it with him and I couldn’t even imagine how difficult that must have been.