I don’t know how you were diverted…

but you, Owen, and others certainly were.

We received Owen’s final (case closed) coroner’s report this afternoon.  I have no energy to write, but am writing anyway.

Dave met me at the coroner’s office, and I had already picked up the report, having arrived a few minutes before him.  He had to make a pitstop inside the office, and while he was absent, I opened the envelope, in spite of my promise to wait until our therapist had reviewed it.  I knew I would.  I think we all knew I would.

I read only the summary page, the first page.  Nothing surprising, everything we already knew.  “Probable drowning” was the phrase that followed “came to his death… by…”  The final cause of death was, indeed, as we all feared…”one of those rare cases where the lack of definitive evidence leads me (the pathologist) to manner his death as “Undetermined”.

Dave and I met at our cars in the parking lot, for we had arrived from different origins.  I got in my car, and looked out the windshield to find a young buck deer, looking straight at me from a few feet away.  Dave got in his car next to mine, and I rolled down my window, he rolled down his adjoining window, and I said, “Look, a deer” and pointed in the direction of the young buck with antlers only about six inches long. 

Dave looked in the deer’s direction, and said, “Hi, Owen.”  We both got out of our cars and followed this living symbol of youth and tenderness, around the parking lot to the place where our family had convened on the sidewalk in front of the coroner’s office on June 4, the day of Owen’s autopsy. 

The deer stood quietly, looking left, right, down, and up - again, and again.  Dave and I stood silently, watching.  Only a minute or two went by, and the young buck raced forward into a line of oncoming traffic, between two cars, one from each direction, and made it to the other side of the road.  He climbed up the hill into the trees, and the last we saw of him was his backside, with head turned to the left.  He climbed the hill without a care, for he had survived the “manimal” cars, and was on his way up into the trees.

Dave and I went to lunch.  A quiet lunch, before I handed Dave the envelope.  He read the summary page, we paid the bill, and drove two blocks away, parked in front of our grief counselor’s office, to read the details.  Dave joined me in the car, and we read.  Again, nothing surprising.  Only a finality.  There was that…at least.

Dave drove himself home, and I spent the next few hours with Nat, Michael, Anna, and Ruby, avoiding the report.  Once Nat read it, things moved forward in a fashion known only to those who get the worst of news.  Done.  Just, done.  Owen was finally dead on paper.  We knew he was dead 16 weeks ago.  His ashes adorn our dining room table.  So our wait was only about clinical aspects, and the fantasy of answers.  Answers were not a part of the report. 

We will always question why this report took 16 weeks to become a tangible document.  And, we will always feel unforgiving of those who delayed the information we so desperately needed.  Shame on you, for making us wait.  The wait is not over with this report.  The Petaluma Police Department has not finalized their investigate report, and we are anxiously awaiting yet another “undetermined” outcome.

When Anna and Ruby went upstairs, Nat, Michael, and I talked about Owen, the songs that make us weep in remembering him, and laughed about nothing at all.  And, everything.  We cried, and shared recent stories of Owen, and his messages to us.

Owen loved George Harrison’s music and his universal messages.  Owen and I watched Harrison’s memorial concert together a few years ago.  The night was somber, and we shared stories of our own family and friends who were gone.

Owen, you staged your play beautifully.  And, we, your audience, applaud your efforts, your performance, your contribution.  Because you sought answers, we have two songs for you tonight – again.  Sometimes, one song can’t do the trick.  You always shared the treats.  (HallOWEeN is coming!)

Songs for the night:  While My Guitar Gently Weeps, by George Harrison.

And, My Sweet Lord, by George Harrison.  Owen loved this song, he didn’t care what his Lord’s name was, nor whether you concurred.  He cared only that there was a greater “knowing”.

~ by Linda on September 28, 2007.