The day of my daughter’s graduation should have been an occasion filled with pride, relief, and the quiet happiness that accompanies such a significant milestone which we worked so diligently to achieve; however, it became the day in which I learned that my husband left behind one final part of his life that would remain until we pulled on that last thread.
Seven years ago, my daughter Nora lost her vision when my husband died in a motor vehicle accident. The crash occurred when another car crossed into our lane with no warning. The guardrail was hit, the vehicle flipped over, and landed into the river below. Nora and I were the only survivors.
Mark’s body was never found. For days, divers, boats, and floodlights searched the area looking for him. The police determined that due to the swift waters, it was likely that his body had washed away from the search area; hence, I had no funeral, grave, or final visitation; only documents to memorialize him and the water where he drowned.
At the time of the accident, Nora was 11 years old.
Nora graduated from high school last spring and I am proud of her achievements during her seven years of rehabilitation. She learned to read and write using Braille, read the labels on her medicine bottles and learn how to identify which cabinet held the dishes and which cabinet contained canned goods. There were also lessons in learning how not to react every time she misjudged the width of a doorframe and how to control my own emotions when she would ask, “Do you think I will ever stop being angry?”
The day before Nora graduated high school, we received the news that a service dog trained for her needs would be available and would be coming home with us. The dog, named Scout, walked with her across the stage at graduation and sat at her side during the ceremony. Nora graduated with her diploma in one hand and holding on to Scout’s harness with the other. At graduation, Nora smiled at the sound of my voice yelling her name. I believe I embarrassed her for life!It’s the kind of moment when you realize that there is a difference between ‘survival’ and ‘living’.
We were taking pictures after the ceremony, near the side of the gym – and Scout was relaxed and calm, while Nora was laughing at something. Suddenly, about thirty feet in front of us was a man on the walkway with a shoulder bag watching us: THAT still kind of look people have when they want to come over but think they shouldn’t. I recognized him because he had been standing there near the bleachers just ten minutes earlier.
And Scout saw him too.
When he caught sight of him, Scout’s entire demeanor changed. He went from relaxed to being stiff. Then he charged toward the man so fast that Nora could not hold onto his leash.
“Nora, hold him,” I yelled.
“I’m holding him!”
Scout let out a bark. It was not a little bark, or a carried-away kind of bark.
It was a real bark. Like he wanted to attack.
When he charged again, Nora lost his leash completely.
“Mom?”,
“Stay there,” I said.