My Children's Grandparents Killed by Drunk Driver

A small black velvet sign with white plastic letters read "Warren and Patricia Norris." That funeral home sign provided the 1st visible proof that my husband's parents had died. I studied each letter separately and then the words as a whole while trying to comprehend the ruthless tragedy forced upon our family just 24-hours earlier.

At about 11 p.m. the night before, my husband received the dreaded late night phone call informing him that a drunk driver had smashed head-on into his parents' car and they instantly passed away. At first I believed it was a crazy mix-up. "We need more facts," I told my husband. "They aren't dead." As the hours of the night moved towards day, I realized it had to be true.

I couldn't believe my husband's family had been victimized by a drunk driver 1 more time. Pat's mother died 20-years earlier, in a similar collision at the hands of a drunk driver. Pat's father survived the crash. His inability to reconcile his survival with her loss led him to drink. Addiction consumed the rest of his life.

My husband and I had listened many times to Pat's warnings about alcohol. Sometimes she seemed intrusive. We were independent young adults who didn't think her warnings were necessary. Their deaths refined our judgments of her. She'd spoken from love. She didn't want her children victimized any further by alcohol and drunk drivers.

An attendant greeted us in the foyer of the funeral home and escorted us to the room where they lay. We walked down a short hall and stopped at the door to the room where they lay. My heart pounded; I felt like I'd be sick. I knew my feelings were minimal to my husband's. I wished I could spare him this awful visit.

Just 2 weeks earlier we traveled to their home, in another state, to spend 10-days with them. This trip felt especially meaningful. They had never seen our 9-month-old daughter, Megan. We couldn't wait to introduce our baby to her grandparents.

My husband and his father spent hours fishing and catching up with each others' lives. Pat and I went out to eat and to shop, but most of the time we stayed home and talked. She told me about insurance policies and where they were "just in case anything happened to them." I didn't like the topic of conversation. Warren and Pat were only in their 50's. Besides that, I didn't understand why she'd tell me about the policies instead of her son. I tried to change the subject. She laughed and told me not to worry. " I always thought I'd die young," she said, "but since I'm about to turn 51, I guess I'll give up that fear!" They died one day after her birthday.

I will never forget our last night with them. We had to catch a train at 3 the next morning. My father-in-law chose to get some rest before our departure. Pat, my husband, and I stayed up.

Their kitchen and dining room, divided by a breakfast bar and stools, were open to each other. I sat at the bar while my husband and his mother sat at the table. A framed print, by Dennis Schmidt, hung on one wall. The print depicts a desert scene, with a small pool of water and an old, over-turned wagon off to one side. Pat asked her son if he'd nail the brass title plate to the frame of the picture. She took the picture off the wall. They sat on the floor and together centered and nailed the plate to the wooden frame. The prints title, now hanging in our home, is "Shadowing Memories."

It occurred to me that I should give mother and son some private time. I had read a Dear Abby column, just weeks before, about married sons and mothers and how little private time they share. I went to the bedroom to finish packing and to curl my hair.

When I rejoined them, Pat took us on a tour of their home. She showed us things most significant to her. From her china cabinet, she lifted a lead crystal bowl and pitcher from Poland. She described the pleasure she derived from these pieces: the reflection of light on the crystal flowers, the intricate craftsmanship, and the fact that Polish crystal was becoming more rare.

Next, she showed us 3 porcelain figurines of wild birds. She explained that children should be encouraged to touch as well as look at beautiful things. She said the cherry wood end tables and coffee table, where the birds sat, were the 1st quality pieces that she'd ever owned. That's why she treasured them. She valued 2 oil paintings because they were oil and not reproductions.

I'd never heard Pat express herself so intimately. I had to hold back tears. I liked this reflective side of her. I looked forward to many more years with them. Just 2 weeks later, a drunk driver robbed us of those years and robbed our children of their beloved PoPo and MoMo.

The memory of our last visit with Pat and Warren flashed through my mind while standing outside the viewing room. I wished I could tell them how much I loved them; I wished I could tell her how well I understood her love for her children. Instead, my husband and I turned a corner and faced with the stark reality of their deaths.