Cover image: Rachel, two years old, in the hospital bed.

The Pediatric ICU of Utah Valley Regional Medical Center is never a place you want to be, especially when on vacation. Rachel was 2 years-old in the summer of 1998 as she lay sleeping in the hospital bed. Earlier, at 11 PM, I had thought she was sound asleep in her makeshift bed on the floor of my Aunt Ima Jean’s house. Rachel had snuck out, found my mom’s purse, opened her pill box, and took two of my mother’s heart blocker medication (Rachel remembers she was looking for candy).

During the critical period as the medication was passing through Rachel’s system, the nurse seeing her blood pressure drop to a dangerous level, left to call the doctor. While she stepped away, Rachel sat up completely alert. “Rachel,” I whispered. “Mommy is right here. You can lay down and go back to sleep.”

When the nurse returned, I told her not to worry. I explained Rachel had just sat up and she would be fine. Sure enough, the next morning, my little, dark-brown eyed toddler was up and running.

Not thinking twice about it, I called my Aunt Priscilla to let her know our plans had changed and we could ride up to Wyoming for a visit. Hearing the commotion in the background, Aunt Priscilla asked me where I was. I explained the events of the night and she quietly said, “You are one lucky girl.”

Silence ensued as my memory, muddled due to no sleep, awoke. Twenty-one years prior to Rachel’s overdose, Aunt Priscilla had lost her precious 2-year-old, Cari, in the same manner. Also, just the summer before (1997), Pricilla’s son’s family had lost their daughter, Lauren, when she apparently drowned just shy of her 2nd birthday. I surely was one lucky mother.

My heart swelled and my eyes filled with tears. I couldn’t even reply. Priscilla continued, “Not a day has passed that I don’t think of Cari. I knew the day she should have gone to kindergarten and the day she would have graduated high school.” Priscilla chuckled when she shared the tale of Cari on Sunday mornings. “We would have to wrestle her in a dress and quickly load her into the car. Before we’d even reach the church’s parking lot, Cari would have stripped down to her diaper.”

Priscilla had previously told me the story of that fatal day so many years ago.  At the time, my cousins lived in South Africa in a rural area outside of Johannesburg. Cari, a lively, blond haired, blued eyed two-year-old, was the youngest of Warren & Priscilla’s eight children. Priscilla explained how she thought nothing of it when she found Cari asleep under a bed that morning since she often fell asleep in unusual places. It was not until Cari crawled into her lap and began to gurgle that Priscilla, who was a nurse, knew her toddler was in trouble. Quickly finding the opened pill container, she immediately phoned the doctor.  “Those pills are lethal!” the doctor cried.

Priscilla grabbed the only other person in the house, her 4-year-old son Nevin. She told him to hold onto Cari tight as she sped to the doctor’s office. Cari died on the way in Nevin’s arms. After they arrived and it was apparent Cari was gone although the doctor tried desperately to revive her, Nevin looked up at his mom and said, “I guess I didn’t hold her tight enough.” His sister and playmate would wake no more.

Cari was flown “home” to Utah. Priscilla said she couldn’t leave her baby in Africa. I was 17 years-old at the time. A few of my siblings and I attended the funeral. I can recall watching Priscilla during the service. Her eyes never left the small, white casket in front of her; not even when everyone bowed their heads for the closing prayer.

 Uncle Warren spoke with me at the wake. He told me his story of Cari’s death:

 “Two weeks before Cari died I was told by the Lord that one of my children would be taken home. I was not told which child but was assured their earthly mission was complete.”

Uncle Warren continued, “I took the medication to prevent Malaria since I traveled in the African Savannah. I always opened the container, took the pill, sealed the container shut and put it in my pocket. I have no memory of leaving the pill container open on the night table by my bed.” Uncle Warren paused for a long moment. “The bright, orange pills would have been enticing to a two-year-old. They looked much like candy.”

In addition to Cari’s story, a friend of mine said something significant to me that impacted my thoughts on accidental deaths. Her daughter Becky had mini-seizures which caused her to drop her head and stutter-step backwards. She feared Becky would one day take a fatal fall down the stairs. My friend expressed that if it did happen, she hoped she would be the person “on duty”. She did not want anyone else carrying the burden of feeling they were not watching Becky close enough when tragedy struck.

As I had sometimes watched Becky and had children of my own, my thoughts were similar. I wouldn’t want a friend, family member, or caregiver to be charged with that burden. Perhaps that is why I was the one to administered the last dose of morphine to my father.

My father was 83 years-old when he stepped through the veil of this life. Suffering from Parkinson’s disease and bone cancer, the prescribed protocol was to administer morphine when he was in pain. No one prepared me for my last moments with him shortly before I administered the final dose to ease his suffering.

My father lay shaking in his bed in visible agony when I entered the room. He gazed at me with a look of desperation and hope. As I prepared the medication, he looked up at me with childlike innocence and trust in his eyes as if I could save him. In nearly a whisper my father asked, “What will this medication do again?” I knew it could suppress his breathing, yet, did not know this would be the last time we’d speak. In a soft, reassuring voice I replied, “Dad, it will help you relax and go to sleep.” I was not thinking it would be the last thing I would do for him. Twenty minutes later he passed away.

My father had received a blessing just a week or so before declaring the end of his mortal mission was nigh. My father feared death and was not ready to leave this life even after this blessing.

Even though this tale is quite a different scenario than the story above, it does bear the similarity to my Uncle Warren’s experience and my friend’s thought, of being the person who was unintentionally connected to the death of a loved one.                

These combined experiences have often led me to contemplate if accidental deaths, especially when a loved one is present, are sometimes a way for a child of God to return home having completed their earthly sojourn, instead of their life’s journey being untimely interrupted. From what my Uncle Warren told me this seems to have been the case with Cari. Although just a toddler, Cari’s mission was “complete”.

Shared Insights

  1. Develop a strong family narrative through passing on family stories; see The Stories That Bind Us by Bruce Feiler
  2. Record both the happy and the tough tales for future generations to show them how your family navigated and survived their trials.
  3. Finding Healing After the Death of a Child – His Grace