drama at midnight

I think about death a lot.

I can picture myself as a little girl tucked in bed at night, speaking aloud to the Universe—not knowing exactly what was out there, but needing to believe in a higher power. “Please protect my mommy and my daddy and my sister and my brother.” I still make these nightly prayers, but the blanket of protection has grown larger. “Please protect my parents, my spouse, my children…”

Funnily enough, I am completely at peace with the idea of my own death. If I were to die tomorrow, I know for sure that people have felt my love and my loyalty. I have been fortunate enough to experience passionate love, traveled a bit, done my best to raise excellent humans, and made an impact professionally. I can go at any time and feel nothing but gratitude for the time I was given here on Earth.

What terrifies me is the thought of someone I love passing away and leaving me in the dark wake of loss and despair.

I’m sharing this with you to set the scene for the drama that played out in my home last night.

I was jarred awake by the sound of my doorbell and an aggressive pounding on the front door. As my eyeballs adjusted and read 11:49 on the clock, I noticed a white light flashing through my bedroom window. Jumping out of bed, I peeked through the blinds to see two police cars parked in front of my house.

What the fuck?

Immediately, my mind took inventory of my family. Husband? Still in bed, totally oblivious to the chaos. (Men could sleep through an apocalypse! The sky could be falling and the ground caving in around us and they would remain blissfully in Dreamland. My husband would wake up to the end of the world and be like, “Dude, what did I miss?) I digress.

My youngest son? Asleep in bed. Stepson? Asleep on the bottom bunk. Oldest son? Not home.

Fuck.

With my heart pounding in my chest, I threw a blanket around my shoulders (because nobody wants to have the door opened by a panicky middle-aged woman in her nighttime panties.) and sprinted down the stairs.

I paused for a moment before opening the door. Breathe, Kel. Brace yourself.

Two very large police men were standing on my porch. I turned to look at my husband as he lazily made his way down the stairs, hair askew and brain not fully turned on yet. Why didn’t he feel the weight of the moment, oppressed by the stillness of the air as our lives were about to change?

“Sorry to bother you so late,” Policeman #1 apologized.

Policeman #2 explained, “An electric scooter has been stolen and the app is tracking it directly to your house.”

My constriction in my chest relaxed as I exhaled audibly. Thank all the Gods! And also, seriously??!!!

“Do you have children?” #1 inquired. “We’d like to talk to them.”

Knowing full well that the boys weren’t involved, but not wanting to be the mom who immediately went on the defense with, “Well, my child would never…” I asked the police to wait as I rousted my teenage children out of bed.

(If I’m being fully truthful, a wicked little part of me was entertained by the boys’ stunned faces as I announced, “The police are here. They want to talk to you.” Cruel, I know.)

Long story short, the scooter was not hidden in my garage, nor in my backyard. Thankfully my children did not turn out to be thieves. This time.

As I closed the door to my bedroom following this midnight drama, relief flooded my body like a tidal wave and I sobbed. The nocturnal knock on my door was not the news I was dreading—that my child had died in the night while I slept comfortably in my home. He was safe. We were all safe.

The stress-tears which leaked from my eyeballs were soon replaced by tears of deep sorrow. Death was not part of my story that night, but for many people, that midnight doorbell ushers in a heart stopping new reality. Their lives are forever divided by the moments before and after they open the door.

Earlier in the week, news of a car accident which occurred on the highway near my home spread within our community. A mother and child killed upon impact. The second child airlifted to hospital in critical condition. That father would have opened the door to utter despair. My heart ached for him as I cried.

Bless the police who have to share the news of death and tragedy. Bless them for sitting with families and witnessing the worse moment of their lives. Bless them for honouring the families with grace, and holding space for grief and shock.
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It took me a long time to fall asleep last night. I added to my prayers. “Please protect my parents, my spouse, my children and care for those who did not get as lucky as I did tonight.”