Every Fifteen Minutes

About two months ago, Andrew was chosen to participate in a program at his school called Every Fifteen Minutes.  Andrew was excited and enthusiastic about his selection.  He called his father to ask permission to participate in this program. I think he already knew that I would object.  When Larry called to tell me what our baby boy wanted to do, I felt my heart sink into my stomach.  I immediately said “no.”  I was not going to deal with the idea of my son dying in a car crash.

Andrew met with the rest of the “Living Dead” every Friday morning where he was fed (and fed well I might add) furthering his enthusiasm for this project. I remained skeptical. Then I learned that Larry and I had to attend a meeting at the school for the parents of the “Living Dead.”  At this meeting, we learned that we, the parents, also had to participate.  In other words, we had our roles to play, and we did.

On April 16, 2002, the Concord Police came to our house. We knew they were coming.  After all, this was part of the program. There were three officers. They came to the door and asked to speak to Dianne Smith. They then asked if they could come in. They were very somber.  I was told to sit, and I did. Then one officer told me that my son, Andrew, had left school at lunchtime with three other friends and as they were driving down Treat Blvd., a drunk driver broadsided them.  Andrew did not make it. OK.  They had told me. They could leave my house now. But the officer asked if he could call someone, a friend or a family member to help me through this.  I said no thank you.  And again I thought, you’ve told me. You can leave my house now.  But the officer asked if I needed a drink of water. I told him no. I really thought that I was doing this great imitation of a stone.  The officer then told me that he would write down the Coroner’s telephone number, as there were arrangements to be made. By this time my head was screaming, “Get out of my house. You’ve told me.  Just go away.”  But the officer continued. He told me that I needed to contact the Coroner to make funeral arrangements.  Then it hit me. I couldn’t breathe.  My son had died in an accident. It seemed so real.  I was so frightened.  I remembered that even though I had intended to tell my son I loved him when I dropped him off at school that morning, I had forgotten to tell him. What if this really were true? What if he had died? Guilt! Big time guilt!! The police left. I was shaking.

That evening, Larry and I went to a parents’ meeting.  There were ninety plus people at this meeting.  We went around the room and each parent talked about what it had felt like to have the police come to the door to tell them their child had died.  Some of the parents complained that their child was perfect. They have no trouble with their child. Their child would never drink and drive. They did not know why the school had chosen their child. Others talked about how real it had seemed when the police came to their home or to their business to tell them their child had died in a drunk driving related accident.  I must have been the fiftieth plus person to stand up and tell the rest of the room about my feelings.  I told them about the police, my head screaming at the officers to leave my home, and how real it had seemed.  But I also said that I do not have a perfect son and that it was possible for my son to be killed in a drunk driving accident.  The last thing I said to this group was “I love Andrew.  I love him dearly.” I had to sit quickly as I was afraid I would start crying.

But this meeting was far from over!

Our next project was to write a letter to our dead child.  Andrew was staying overnight at Centre Concord as he was attending a retreat also. These letters were going to be read to or read by our children.  Then two parent’s letters would be read by the parent at the assembly to be held the following day. The children were writing letters to their parents at the same time.  Two of the “Living Dead” letters would also be read at the assembly.  At this point, I felt that I was doing the hardest thing I would ever do in my life. I wrote a letter to my dead son and cried as I was writing it. I could no longer maintain my perfect imitation of a stone.  Our letters were placed in a basket to be taken to our children.

On Wednesday, April 17, 2002, a funeral was held for my son and thirty-five other children in the gymnasium of Clayton Valley High School. A casket was wheeled in followed by the “Living Dead,” each of whom were carrying a single red rose. They were dressed in black with special t-shirts that had been given to them. Everyone in the gym stood as the casket and the “Living Dead” came in. I strained my neck to see Andrew.  I finally spotted his black hat towering over the other children. The parents read their letters.  The children read their letters.  A student stood to read a poem. I lost it.  I wept quietly. I felt I could not bear nor live with the pain, loss, and sadness. All I could think of was what if this were real. Does Andrew know how much I truly love him and the hole that would be left in my life and my soul if he were gone? 

Jason Barber spoke.  He told a story of a young man named Aaron who had just turned seventeen. Aaron went out with some friends and was talked into drinking beer with these friends. Aaron got into a car with a drunk driver.  The driver pulled to the left to pass a car.  He had pulled the car too far.  He lost control of the car. The car rolled several times down the embankment. The drunk driver walked out of the car.  Aaron was thrown from the car. Aaron was dead.  Jason was the drunk driver.  He had killed his baby brother.  Jason went to prison for this.  But he will never lose the guilt that he feels over killing his brother. 

I was so moved by Jason’s story. I felt a huge knot in my chest and I had difficulty breathing as I thought about living with the guilt of killing someone by driving drunk.  I thought about my Andrew, my wild one, who has to do everything the hard way. I hoped and prayed that he “got it.” That everyone in that gymnasium “got it.”  Of the fourteen hundred students crammed into that gym, ninety percent of them were crying. Did they “get it?”  Would this program make a difference?

This was a profound and moving experience for me.  I have never openly allowed these emotions to show in the past.  But I could not control them. It all seemed so real. I had to keep reminding myself that it wasn’t real.  But it felt real.

I got it.  I hope and pray everyone involved in this and everyone observing this got it.

Dianne Smith
April 20, 2002

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