Everybody has a story: Small last gift a painful reminder of love

It began like any other Tuesday morning. Little did I dream what Jan. 9, 2001, would unleash, events that would explode the rest of my life.

We were almost two weeks past Christmas, gift giving tucked away, and into a bright new year rich with promise as our daughter leaned toward earning her master’s degree at Oregon State University in the spring. She and I wandered some of the shops around town after the holidays, hunting for bargain-priced leftovers, when she casually mentioned how she had spotted a pair of earrings in a local jewelry store. She didn’t really need them, yet since they were reasonably priced, she might add them to her odd pieces of jewelry for the heck of it. A mental note to pursue, next time she was home.

So I slipped back into that shop, picked up the pair she talked about and mailed them to her at school as a happy new-term surprise she’d love. I included a note and eagerly anticipated sharing the afterglow those earrings would ignite.

At 10 a.m. Jan. 9, my husband unexpectedly appeared in my office with the most horrible look on his face, telling me we had to get to Corvallis immediately, because something was very wrong. I will never forget how horror gripped his every movement.

Unbeknownst to us at that instant, Corvallis’ Good Samaritan Hospital was confirming our daughter had suffered a pulmonary embolism, a blood clot in her lungs, at 9:13 a.m. in her dorm before her classes had begun. She was dialing 911 for help but collapsed before she could complete the call. She died within seconds.

All too soon, we stepped into that horror-ridden reality that any parent knows is the worst nightmare conceivable. Because it came out of the blue, without a hint of what a pulmonary embolism meant, I went into total denial. My husband had spoken over the phone with the first responder who found her and tried to revive her. We knew enough to scare us both beyond acceptance. My husband found the information unacceptable, given her health history.

How could this have happened to a 26-year-old with a mounting list of accomplishments, ready to step into the world and affect many other lives? How could someone so brightly infected with magnetism beyond her years suddenly be extinguished? We drove the miles in wicked confusion, shock and insidious grief, suspended in waves of agony.

When we finally reached the hospital’s ER, there had been enough time to prepare her for us to see her. Lying on a gurney, swaddled in blankets, she looked like she was simply asleep — but the pools of ice-blue dots on her usually rosy cheeks revealed the undeniable truth. I reached to brush aside a lonely curl from her cotton-candy blonde hair and realized how cold she was. I could still smell the shampoo that she’d used earlier.

Then I saw them, the tiny rhinestone earrings. She was wearing those simple gestures of love, the last ones I would ever give her. There was no stopping the tears slipping down my cheeks. Both of us kissed her longingly, knowing this would be our last chance to ever be near her again.

Once we got back to her dorm room and were trying to pack up the life she so innocently left behind, I caught sight of her desk. She obviously had been paying bills the last time she sat there, but on one side was that note I had tucked in with the earrings, wishing her a happy new term at school. For whatever reason, she had scribbled “Thanks, Mom, love you too!” next to my own wishes, not realizing those were the last words she’d ever write to me. As though she sensed I would find them there.

She was never content with a simple “thanks,” but had the knack of always sharing her appreciation with a handwritten note. She knew the significance of the written word. As I picked up the note and kissed her handwriting, my overwhelming sense of grief was softened just a little bit, knowing she knew how much she was loved and that she loved us in return very much.

It’s been almost 17 years, and I’m still discovering tiny notes she placed inside books, old shoe boxes or drawers where she folded them away. Tiny treasures of contact, as though she knew she’d not get the chance to say goodbye in person, but left us reminders of love to discover instead.

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