MARY ANN FITZMORRIS / L’Observateur / July 17, 1999

Fathom. A word used by scientists and people who drag it out of theirvocabulary closet and dust it off when they have no other way to express their feelings about a surreal horror. They say they can’t fathom it; it’sunfathomable. It’s a word I’ve heard many times in the last week, and it’sbecause something indeed unfathomable has occurred in my sphere.

Perhaps it is appropriate to offer a disclaimer on this particular piece, because by now you have become accustomed to reading this column to look at life from the lighter side. But life can be heavy, too, and sad, andbeautiful. This is a piece about tragic personal loss, the importance ofcommunity, and the brotherhood of man.

Today I attended the funeral of a 3-year-old child, a child I had only seen a few times. His parents are not personal friends, more likeacquaintances through our parish church. I have to believe thethousand-plus people that were at the services, with long lines spilling out all the doors, were there as I was. We needed to be there. We are allpart of the larger family of community.

When I got the call about the accident that claimed this young life, it was as though someone had punched me in the stomach. We were not close, butwe are connected, connected by the commonality of having children, connected by our community, and, finally, connected by the brotherhood of man.

I saw many other people there today. People who were no longer part ofthis particular community, but came to collectively grieve. Everyone hadthe same stunned expression. There were an extraordinary number ofchildren there. They attended as friends of the children whose lives andfamily dynamics would be forever altered by the missing piece. I saw asmall gift sitting by one with a card written in black marker, children’s writing, “I’m sorry it happened.” The child looked like she didn’t understandit all.

Neither did mine. My daughter asked when I got the call. “Is it Joseph,Mom? What happened to him?” “He drowned, honey.” “Well, is he all right?””No, sweetie, he’s dead.” “Well, where is he?”She persisted, trying tocomprehend.

A friend’s older child had a double dose of horror by incredibly knowing another 22-year-old who drowned in the Mediterranean the same day! “Mom,” she said, “how does God pick these kids? Will he pick me?” Ironically, this particular child WHO was picked descended from a family that was sort of legendary in swimming circles back in the sixties. I knewthem because we swam for competing swim clubs, but they were far better than I. On many an occasion I watched their triumphs from theperiphery. We have not crossed paths in 30 years, and today I watchedtheir tremendous sorrow from that same periphery. I recognized thechampion swimmers in the tired and much aged faces of people I knew so long ago. I thought about 30 years; how much time it was, how quickly itpassed. I thought about life.Everyone filed out of the church and looked around for the people they knew. We smiled and squeezed each other’s hands, but there was nochatting as usual after church. There just wasn’t anything to say.One mom took the rest of the day off from work because she needed to be with her children. Another told her children there would be no morewatching them in the pool from inside for even a minute. When I left mychildren with a friend, a very responsible friend, I was nervous the whole time. All of us felt the unease that comes when the unfathomable haspassed over us and touched someone we knew.

That evening I phoned my parents to arrange lunch with them. I was morepatient and more energetic with my children. It was a haunting reminder Ihope I don’t soon forget.

You just never know.

Back to Top

Back to Leisure Headlines

Copyright © 1998, Wick Communications, Inc.

Internet services provided by NeoSoft.

Best viewed with 3.0 or higher