Thursday evening, I was walking a route that I normally walk, just before the pond in the center of my subdivision. My route was delayed as I ran into a friend who needed to vent about a current struggle at work. I resumed listening to an encouraging sermon on hard times and was contemplating my experiences with death and how they have made me somewhat of an oddball to some. I was reflecting on Flannery O'Connor and how her grasp of death made her unique in a way that her audience considered a gift, and perhaps I ought to view myself not only as gifted but honored that I somehow find myself the comforter at the point of a person's greatest despair or final moments. I was letting that notion wash over me, when about a hundred yards ahead, I saw a young lady dart out from a gravel path that connected a neighboring subdivision. She borrowed the phone of an elderly lady and as I approached, I saw a young man on the ground in the high brush.
I sat down beside him as she was speaking to 911 dispatch and heard that his name was Garrett. He was smiling as he intermittently clutched his chest, and initially his smiling made me think this was a practical joke. But his lips were turning blue and bluer with each moment and I looked for any visible reason he should be on the ground. I pulled leaves off his face and grabbed his hand. "Can you tell me how old you are, Garrett?" He mustered out that he was 19 during conscious moments. "Okay, so you must be in college, can you tell me about your school, what are you studying?" He didn't respond. "Garrett, can you tell me what you are feeling?" His eyes opened, "I feel sick in my chest." His eyes closed again, "I feel so tired." I tried to keep his attention as his friend detailed our location. She was calm and descriptive. She returned and obeyed as the dispatch instructed her to say "now" every time his chest rose with a breath.
I began to pray out loud so that Garrett could hear me and perhaps glean some comfort from that. Then a sensation came over me, through his hand. I cannot describe it, but that it reminded me of the sensation I felt as life left my sister a decade prior. It is something of a wave that is gentle, emanating from a body. It is so subtle. Something in me knew that he was dying, and yet, he was 19. He was healthy and looked to be a football player, fit and a kind face with friendly eyes. I thought that I must be wrong. His responsiveness waned and Nataliana, as I would later learn was her name, for the first time became fearful. "Stay with me, Garrett! Open your eyes!" She plead with him, and in a moment of strength, he opened his eyes clearly, grabbed her arm, and smiled at her, "it's okay, Nataliana. It's going to be okay." I had stopped praying as something in me said that he was dying, I was terrified to scare her more, or him, should I be wrong. But he was smiling. She turned to me and frantically cried out, "Please don't stop praying!"
I continued to pray over them, for comfort, for discernment for the EMS that would soon arrive and whatever else, I cannot recall. When they did arrive and shooed us away, she expressed guilt at having been a nursing student and that she should have known what to do. I had to hold this sweet girl with beautiful brown eyes and a heart for this young man that fixated her on him. "Does he have a phone on him? Should we call his parents?" She found his phone and knew where to look for emergency contacts and found that he was allergic to penicillin. Calling his dad, I heard the animated words, "Hey buddy!" before she described that it was not Garrett and what was happening, and that yes, RDU was the closest airport. She was calm, poised, and centered on the wellbeing on this sweet young man. I felt for his father, who was in Colorado and would not get to say goodbye to his beautiful son. Garrett had flown in two hours prior, to see Nataliana, whom he knew from college.
I went home to an empty house and sat, numb. Perhaps he'd had a severe fever. I showered and disinfected, thinking that perhaps it was a reaction to Covid. I remained hopeful that my gut had been wrong and resolved to tell Nataliana's mom the next day how brave she had been and that as a mom, she should be so proud of her daughter. When I did so, the response was one of gratitude and sadness, that shortly after Garrett was carried away, he was pronounced dead. He, at the age of 19 had a heart attack.
I wept. I wept for Nataliana and the weight she will carry. I wept for Garrett's family who lost a beautiful soul at an unjust age. I wept, because I regretted not holding him better, not trusting my gut and being more maternal in his last moments. I wept, because I knew this was a good boy. And yet, it was God ordained that I was there, and I felt a deep sense of honor. Had my walk not been delayed or delayed much longer, had I not been sad myself and seeking the last moments of sunlight, I would have missed this immense opportunity to love a stranger in their last moments. But he was not a stranger, not purely. I believe that he knew Jesus, and perhaps that was the peace that he had, and why he was smiling. He was my brother in Christ, washed in the blood of a perfect savior.
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