Dancing with Grief Plus One Month

Today is the one month anniversary of the official date of Jolene's death, the day the coroner pronounced. Is it possible to live a hundred lifetimes in thirty days?

Before I revisit those days when our hopes were slowly stripped until the impossible became the only possibility left, let me say this:

God is Faithful. He is good. He is loving. He has carried us in His hands through the last thirty horrible days. Those of you who have read my blog before have read of the many ways He has comforted us.

May His light shine all the brighter against the darkness of what happened.

Sunday, March 16th, Jolene's birthday, served up a mixed bag of emotions. We made it to Sunday school (sometimes we miss it because of the early hour.) I asked my class to pray for Jolene. I signed up to sing on the upcoming "Fifth Sunday Sing" scheduled for March 30th and talked with someone about the church's summer mission VBS in Alaska (Yes! I could go, in spite of my disabilities!) I went home much encouraged. I wondered where Jolene was, but I was at peace about it.

That afternoon, Jolene's boyfriend called. "Do you know where Jolene is?"

She isn't with Marius. Our first, best hope died with the news. That left two possibilities—jail or the hospital. In either case, she was safe. We spent an anxious night, though, hoping to get a quick answer from her "case manager" (with the Mental Health Corp of Denver) on Monday.

Monday is my "long day" at work, so Mom took on the task of reaching the case manager. She was at a conference. Mom figured out how to contact the hospital, and then, the jail. Jolene was not in either place.

Next, Mom called the police. They went by her apartment, but Jolene didn't answer the door. By then it was late afternoon, we were both worried, and Mom couldn't take any more. I took over the phone calls, while still at work.

The police said I couldn't file a missing persons report over the phone; I had to go to the city where Jolene lived. I told my boss that I had a family emergency, left the office, and headed for the McDonalds where we had agreed to meet. I waited for an hour for the officer to show up. By that point the probability in my mind had slipped to suicide.

His first words? "Ninety percent of adults who are missing have chosen to disappear." Not very comforting. I explained about Jolene's illness; that the people Jolene might have gone to see were asking where she was. I explained that the police had gone by her apartment earlier in the day, and no one answered.

Whatever I said, I convinced him that something was seriously wrong. He asked for a physical description, got her address, and explained the procedure. First they had to send officers to the apartment again; if she still didn't answer, they would obtain a warrant for a forced entry.

Three hours later, about five minutes after Mom and I decided to try to sleep, the phone rang. (The police never came to visit us.) The caller identified himself from the coroner's office.

Just in case there was some possibility that the obvious was not true, I asked, "That means--"

"Your daughter killed herself."

Mom says she heard me cry, a high, keening wail. She came in and put her arms around me.

I buried my head against her shoulder. "She's dead!"

The nightmare had become reality.

Dancing with Grief Plus 4 weeks

Today it's been a month since we had the first inkling that something might have gone wrong with Jolene.

Why am I revisiting the events of those days?

I want to get them in writing before the details slip away from me. I am sharing them, because when they were happening, we told no one. We saw no need to; we had no idea that tragedy had struck.

March 14th is my son's birthday. (Yes, and March 16th was Jolene's birthday.) One month ago today, my thoughts were with Jaran. If I thought about Jolene at all, I wondered when she would call to arrange the time for us to pick her up on Saturday. I may have tried calling her before I went to work; I don’t remember.

Late that afternoon, Jolene's new friend called, concerned. She told us about the scene with the police on Thursday afternoon. She also informed us that Jolene had broken her phone into small pieces, so we couldn't call her.

That didn't ring any alarms for me, not beyond the usual concern that Jolene was having a bad time, and always around holidays and birthdays. Jolene had destroyed phones before; she would get angry and throw things around.

I confess that my feelings at that point consisted of frustration and anger. We can't call her, and she can't call us. That means we'll have to show up at her apartment unannounced tomorrow, and hope she's ready to leave. We went to bed, steeling ourselves for another tough birthday.

By the time we received that phone call—Jolene was already dead.