Logan’s Story Part 1: Saturday — We Lose Him

– Posted in: Accidents, Family, Grief, Logan's Story, Personal Insanity

So, where have I been? If only I could say that I took a spontaneous trip to Europe. Truth is, we’ve suffered a terrible family tragedy.

On September 15th, my cousin drowned while swimming up at Lake Almanor in northern California. I think most of us who knew and loved him still feel like we’re living in a bad dream.

There are certain things I need to do to maintain my sanity — one of them is to “write it out.” During that horrible week, I chronicled my experiences because whenever I didn’t, it felt like I was going to explode. I’m sharing them now because, well, that’s what I do. But I also hope this will help some of our family and friends move through the healing process. I know that if I were on the other end of the phone calls and emails at the time, I’d be feeling slightly disconnected.

Maybe this will help fill the space between.

 

Saturday, 7:30 p.m. — My aunt calls. Her son, my 24-year-old cousin, Logan, is “lost.” He was swimming off the side of our boat up at Lake Almanor, and disappeared. She’s having a nervous breakdown. I hear myself barking questions at her incredulously. I’m demanding to talk to my other cousin, Logan’s younger brother, who was in the boat with him. He’s there in her arms. He says the same thing. They sound like they can’t breath.

As luck would have it, the kids are at a friend’s house so my other friend can have time alone to talk to me about her own family drama. I run around the house, closing doors so our puppy won’t get into rooms and tear stuff to pieces when I leave. I grab a sweatshirt and jeans because my friend suggests it. I look in the mirror for a second and realize my whole life has just changed.

In a moment of clarity, I open my bottle of pain meds, grab a handful and stuff them in my pocket. Why I don’t just take the bottle, I’ll never know. I also grab my entire bottle of Xanax, which I never use, but it seems like a good idea at the time.

I leave the house a wreck — two batches of macaroni and cheese hardening in pots and salad wilting in a bowl. Costumes and couch pillows all over the family room. Dirty Kleenexes on the table — remnants of having five kids at the house all day.

My friend drives. It’s the only logical solution since I shouldn’t go alone. Plus I hate driving at night. Plus we needed to talk anyway. As we drive, I call my husband at work — which is so cruel. Logan is. . . gone. I’m going up to find him. They’re searching, but they don’t know where he is. His voice is quiet and pained. My husband is an E.R. doctor. He doesn’t let himself live in La La Land.

I call the kids and tell them I’m on my way to the lake because Logan’s been hurt. This seems to be enough for them.

We talk about my friend’s problems during most of the drive. I pretend I’m a normal person with normal person problems. I pretend we aren’t going where we’re going. I push out every image of Logan that enters my head — the sound of him laughing, his curly hair dropping over his eyes. I stop myself from playing out how life will look for all of us without him. For his mom, his brother, my kids, his friends, me. For my uncle who carries our family’s heart around with him — who remembers the dates when everyone’s been born and died, including dogs. I try not to think about how this could shatter him. I try not to think about calling him and telling him.

I start waxing poetic about being able to see life unfold in front of you when you get older. How certain things occur and you can expect others to follow. I talk about how being a grown-up sucks. I think I know what I’m saying.

I wish the car ride would never end. Because when we arrive, I know my life will never be the same.

10 p.m. — We get to my parents’ cabin. It overlooks the marina. My dad never goes there anymore since my mom died three years ago. The only people who use it are my aunt, cousins, and us (my husband, the kids, and me). When my friend and I get to the door, my aunt is there, not hysterical, not crying. She looks tired. My cousin is asleep in the bedroom. The three other kids (they’re in their early twenties, but now I call this age group “kids”) are curled up together in fetal position on the couch. I can hardly tell how many of them there are because they’re so tightly meshed. Later when they get up, I’m shocked to see how big they are. Apparently grief and trauma make you small.

We hear the story. The five “kids” arrived around 5 o’clock and went right out to the boat. Didn’t even want dinner. It was choppy so my aunt didn’t want to go. They were swimming. My aunt could see them from the deck. They were that close. Suddenly someone noticed Logan was gone. My aunt saw fire engines and ambulances pulling into the marina and looked over, wondering what was going on. Then she saw our boat. Counted the people. Didn’t see Logan. Oh god.

She drove over to the other side, found them all sitting on the grass. And called me.

Logan wasn’t even supposed to be up here. How many times have I heard this song? His client didn’t show up for her hair appointment and his friends convinced him to come. He thought he should stay and study. He thought he should stay and work on his car. He didn’t.

We watch as the blue lights from sheriff’s boats move through the water. Could he be out there? Could he have made it to shore? Was he pulling a prank? He’s such a good swimmer. He did swim team, works out, is only 24. I stand on the deck. It’s so cold. I’m imagining him on the shore of the lake. And it’s so cold.

My aunt periodically breaks into fits of crying and moaning. It’s as if someone is stabbing her from the inside. It reminds me of labor, the way it comes in waves, gripping her and then letting her go.

My cousin wakes up. We hold each other. It’s the first of many times when I’ll feel like I’m hanging onto him for dear life.

We ask questions. We talk about the possibility of him being okay. Whenever we do this, I see my cousin’s head shake ever so slightly. It’s as if he’s the only one in the room who isn’t in denial.

I cry with my aunt. I keep saying, “I know, I know,” over and over. I let myself believe that I’m crying for real. That this is as bad as it will get.

We stare out into the darkness. And sit. And stare. And feel stupid. And useless. We feel like we should do something. Make tea. But finally we decide everyone should go to bed.

My friend and I sleep in our clothes because we didn’t bring anything. Nothing at all. Not a toothbrush. Not an extra pair of underwear. Why? Because we thought he’d be found in an hour? Because we thought we’d be coming straight back home? Denial, the first stage of grief, has officially begun.

I lie in bed, not sleeping because clearly half of my brain knows the truth. But the other half is happily convinced that this is all a mistake. After all, shouldn’t we all approach life like The Amazing Race? You can never give up hope because you just never know what the outcome is going to be until you get to the finish line. I keep this in mind until I fall asleep.

 

Read the next chapter: Sunday — We Stop Hoping

4 Comments… add one

Kelly DeBie October 3, 2012, 7:31 am

Oh Tammy, this is so heartbreaking. There are few things as terrible as feeling completely powerless to help. I’m so very sorry.

I am glad though that you’ve still been able to find comfort in writing. xoxo
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Tammy October 12, 2012, 5:09 pm

Thanks Kelly. How do I even start to thank you for being there for me during all of this? xo

Alexandra October 9, 2012, 5:21 am

How are you able to write something so beautiful from this?

You capture everything, including Denial: the first stage.

This was amazing, and I am so sorry for your loss, so very sorry, but you had me right there, with your aunt, and I heard her sobs.

I am so sorry, and will offer prayer in my heart for Logan.
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Tammy October 12, 2012, 7:36 pm

Thank you my friend. For all of that.

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