Written by: Silas Kohl
Edited by: Manda Jones, Editor in Chief and CEO of Manda & Friends
I always thought I knew what loss was. I’ve seen it, felt it, saw what it could do to people, I was so sure I knew death. I didn’t, not really. I first met death when I was six years old. I do not remember much of that day other than what I was doing right before the chaos began.
My three older brothers went on a hunting trip with their friends, of course at that age all I really knew was that they were going somewhere. I remember my mom and dad decided to take me on a walk in our pasture, like we would randomly do sometimes. I remember walking with them through more than half of the pasture before we came to a good place to rest. There used to be a little creek that went through our pasture but had since dried up. We sat on the edge for a while before making our way back to the house. I do not even remember getting back to the house or the drive into town. What I do remember; the Chaos.
People were everywhere and they kept talking to me; distracting me. My mom was just in utter pain. The worst kind of pain. The pain that changes the way a person is. Who they are, how they act, even the way their breath smells. The loss of a child. My brother was 13 years old when he and my oldest brothers’ friend were killed in a car accident. My family was never the same again after that day.
I remember as a child always drawing my mom sad crying faces and giving them to her. At that time, I thought I was helping. Really, I was not. I still remember the day I drew the last one for her. I remember my dad coming out of their bedroom and coming up to me, telling me that I needed to stop drawing them. I felt awful and I did not even really know why. I remember seeing my brother in the funeral home after he was prepared. I was too scared to even look too closely at him or say anything; then before I knew it, my dad had picked me up and started to carry me out. As he did, I waved goodbye to my brother for one of the last times. I remember he was wearing a Nebraska Husker’s outfit.
Then the service. I remember the church being so crowded that they had to use the overflow section. Churches are always overcrowded when it comes to the death of a child I have learned. I can only seem to recall small flash backs. Bits and pieces at a time. Flashbacks of when they read out loud the card from the little stuffed bear my kindergarten class had gotten me, or how I looked over and saw Marci sitting in the overflow section. She was one of my mom’s oldest friends and used to babysit me. I remember the comfort of seeing her. This event would span into a lifetime. Like I said, my family was never the same after that day.
The next time death and I came together was five years later. December of 2001. It was a Sunday morning; I had not been up for very long when the house phone wrung. I of course ran to look at who was calling. It was my Aunt, so I answered the phone, jokingly like I usually did with her, “Pizza Hut. Will this be dine-in or carryout?” I expected her to place a fake order like she always did. Little did I know my Aunt and I would never play that game again. That was the last time I tried to trick her into thinking she called the wrong number. What I got instead was “Put your mother on the phone now!” So, I did as she instructed me.
I remember the call didn’t last long, 30 seconds to a minute. Mom hung up the phone and went straight into panic mode. She was running in and out of the bathroom talking to my dad in a very upset tone. All I can remember her saying is, “He’s dead. Oh God he's dead". Of course, I did not know who, or what, or why? My mom took off with my dad and I not too far behind her. When my dad and I got to my Aunts house I saw the police officer and my mom with my Aunt. Then I knew. I had seen this before. That look, that panic, that scream, that smell. My Cousin, my Aunts only living son, was killed in a car wreck. He was 16 years old. There I was, going through this again. Watching my dad having to pin my Aunt up against a wall because she was in such distress. Hearing her scream and sink down as my father helped her to the floor.
I remember seeing the police officer and going up to him to ask. I knew, but I had to ask. It could not be real, right? Just a bad joke someone was playing, or at least that’s what I tried to convince myself it was. I asked the officer what happened. He told me my cousin was in a bad car accident with another kid. I didn't know what to say, I just stood there like an 11-year-old would in a situation like that. My uncle I believe, I can’t remember for sure, was talking to the police officer, I can only remember moments of the conversation. The officer had said that one kid went to the hospital and I decided to ask where my cousin was. The officer responded with “He is at the funeral home.” I remember saying, "So, he's okay?" I can still hear him telling me, “He's dead.” So blunt looking back on it, but what was he supposed to say?
Another sad story had begun. Another week of strangers consoling us and offering their support, help, sympathy. I remember seeing my cousin in his casket as well; the cut on his face right above his eyebrow. I would watch my mom grab his hand and lean in for a last kiss on his forehead. I was still afraid to look for too long or to touch him. I so badly wanted all of it to not be real, to wake up from this nightmare.
I had just seen him a couple days before the accident. He picked me up from boy scouts and took me cruising around town. That was the last thing I ever got to do with him and all I can remember of it, is looking over at him while he was driving, and being happy.
How can a life so big be snuffed out just like that..... as it would seem very, very easily. I have now heard the desperate screams of two mothers who had just endured the loss of a child. There is no scream more bloodcurdling than that of a grieving parent. So, I thought I knew death.
The third time death and I came face to face was when another of my big cousins died. He was 22 and no one saw it coming. They later found out that he had a fatal blood clot. Father’s Day 2008. It was a Sunday, a nice day, not too hot or cold. My brother was home for the weekend when someone got a call. Our cousin had collapsed at his parent’s house and was struggling to breath. They took him to the hospital. He was blue. I kept hearing he was blue. My family took off to town. I can’t remember why but I stayed behind, until my grandma called. After talking to her I knew I needed to be there, so I headed in as well.
I remember thinking the whole time that this cannot be right. I’ll show up and everything will be better than I thought it was going to be. It wasn’t. As I parked in front of the hospital, it was still. Hope! I thought, but as I walked closer to the entrance, I saw my cousins Aunt burst out of the doors and just break down in tears. I stood and watched her as I knew what had just happened. I’ve seen that look. I’ve watched the way a person’s face contorts in such shock and absolute pain. My cousin was gone. It was real. It was serious.
Little did I know, because I was older this time, I would remember more of this. My childhood defense mechanism of forgetting it, was not cutting it, it was gone. This was real, this was life. Not as it should be, but as it was. Awful. I remember my mom coming out the front. She was preparing to make the necessary calls. She had seen this before as well and instinctively jumped into action, setting her own grief aside for a moment to say what needed said. Something that needed to be done but something no one likes to do. She started while I stood there watching. The first call was to my dad’s other brother. I could hear his voice on the other end of the phone as my mom told him what had just happened. I heard the, “What? You’re kidding? I’ll be there as soon as I can!” and that was it. One of the great things about my dad’s side of the family. They might be big and spread out, but when disaster strikes one of their own, you know they are coming as fast as they can. 100% prepared to do whatever they can to help. Even if it is just being there.
I had the honor of going to my cousin’s house to help collect his clothes with my sister-in-law. That is a very hard thing to do. His immediate family knew what they wanted to bury him in, so it was our goal to go and find those clothes. I remember getting the call. I was at my grandma’s house when my phone rang, I saw it was my sister-in-law and answered. It was a pretty fast conversation just a simple “hey, I need your help with something. I’ll be out front in a minute you will need to come with me.” So off I went, giving the only explanation I had to my grandma. I had to go help her with something, I’ll be back.
When she showed up and I got in the car I asked what was going on. She explained to me that she needed to go get his clothes for the funeral home, that she couldn't go into his house and downstairs into his room alone. So, we went together. I remember it being very eerie and dark. Neither of us wanted to disturb to much of his stuff. We were afraid to. It was his, it was all his and we felt as though we were disturbing his privacy. We did what we went there to do. With his clothes in hand we left, she took me back to my grandma’s house so she could go about what she had to do. Viewing this cousin was different. I was older and more aware of what was going on and why. He didn’t have any injuries; as far as I could tell he had no reason whatsoever to be in that casket. Yet, he was, and he was never going to leave that casket in this system of things; same with my brother and other cousin. They were just gone.
The fourth time I met death was another cousin on my dad’s side in 2012. Another young man of just 28 years, except this time we saw death coming. Cancer. I knew he had been battling it for a while, but this cousin and I were not as close. I loved him and he loved me; he was my family. He just fell into the group of my older brothers. It was in the evening when my phone had wrung, my girlfriend at the time was at work and wasn’t going to get home for another hour or two. I answered the phone; it was my mom. She and dad were on their way to Denver, it was my cousin, he was losing the battle. I asked if I needed to go up there, mom told me that it was my choice, but she was not even sure they would make it in time, and they were over two hours closer. So, I decided to stay home. I will always regret that. Even though I would not have made it in time, at least I would have been there. Can’t change any of that now. I got the call later telling me he had passed, I was shocked by my visceral reaction when I completely lost it, tears uncontrollable.
I thought that I had to know death at this point. How could each experience still be so shocking after what I had witnessed my whole life? Sadly, my story with death does not end here. I wish it did; wish it ended before it began. Some of us do not have that luxury. All of us will experience death and grief and that is why I am sharing my experiences. Maybe they will help someone else.
Part two is in progress. These are not easy words to write so I must take my time telling these stories of my love and my loss.
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