Shelley Ramsey, grief, son

Taking Leave of Our Son

The morning after seventeen-year-old Joseph’s fatal car wreck my husband, two younger sons, and I went to the hospital to view his body. Emergency and hospital personnel wouldn’t allow us to see him that life-shattering Saturday afternoon, so we were up and prepared to leave early Sunday morning, desperately needing to see and touch our Joseph.

I don’t remember who showed us where to go once we arrived. I don’t even know which floor we were on. It might have been the morgue; I really have no idea. I only know that with every step, the reality was beginning to settle in. My stomach churned as I anticipated seeing the cold, lifeless body of my seventeen-year-old as we rounded each corner and darkened each doorway. As we approached the final door, a lady cautioned us to be prepared for the bruising.

Once we entered my twelve-year-old became ill and needed to leave the room. I was torn. I wanted to comfort my baby boy who was sick with death and grief, but I also needed time to see and feel the deadness of Joseph. I needed to take leave of him. Friends were waiting outside for us so I took my youngest to them, entrusting God to love and comfort him through them.

As we stood over the body of our lifeless son, my husband wept. He then cradled his son, head to his left and feet to his right; the same position he held him in ten years prior when he lowered him into baptism. And then he slipped Joseph’s hand out from under the covers, wanting to hold it one last time.  My middle son became overwhelmed as he witnessed his dad hug his brother’s lifeless body.

I pulled the hospital gown back from my son’s chest a bit and noticed the purple bruise caused by his seatbelt. There was also a tiny bruise on his cheek and a couple of tiny cuts on his face. I was expecting much worse and did not understand why the officials wouldn’t let us see him sooner. I’m his mama. I needed to see him immediately.

I slid his other hand out from under the covers and looked at his long fingers. One was still wrapped with a Band-Aid that he’d placed on it a couple of days earlier. I stroked his hair then kissed his face, so cold, so empty—so unlike the soft, warm, pink bouncing baby boy I gave birth to.

I knew that was only the shell of Joseph and that he was no longer present. I knew he was in Heaven and I wanted to be happy for him. But the throbbing ache of seeing my boy now lifeless wouldn’t let me. I wanted to shake life into Joseph; shake the softness, warmth, and color back into my sweet boy. But he just lay there—stiff, motionless, unable to speak … gone.