What the Worst Day Looks Like

A quiet house

April 20, 2016, started differently. I woke up around 6:45 to a silent house. My husband, Patrick, either ran or rode his bicycle every morning before work. He left while I was still sleeping. I would occasionally wake up briefly, but sometimes I slept through it entirely. He usually left around 5:45 and returned by 6:30 or a little after. I thought it was odd, but I had a conference call at 7:00, and I needed to get ready for it.

I quickly changed into my day-pajamas — Capri-length sweat pants with a stripe down the side, sports bra, and a t-shirt. I ran into the loft, turned my computer on, and then asked my 17-yr-old daughter, Camille, to check the garage to see if her dad’s bike was in there. And then I dialed into my call.

Camille went downstairs and came back a few minutes later to tell me the bike was gone. Uggghh. He was very proud of his old, beat-up bike. I don’t remember when he bought it, but it could have been in the mid to late ’90s. I was pretty sure I was going to have to get off my call and rescue him. My customer would probably be okay with my absence, but I worried the sales team would be annoyed. I could ask Camille, but she needed to get to school.

I waited until 7:10 and then sent an IM to my account manager to tell her I had a family emergency and needed to step away. I got in my car, which luckily already had the bike rack on it, and headed out to his usual route. I imagined him walking along the side of the road. He probably didn’t have his phone.

He was invincible. Why would he need a phone or any identification?

Patrick

Patrick was 49 and one week. We had celebrated his birthday exactly one week before at the Paul McCartney concert. I had surprised him with tickets and then decided the girls should go too and bought two additional seats in another part of the arena. We had a fabulous time, and I was thrilled I had splurged on the tickets!

Patrick was a physical therapist and was devoted to fitness. He ran or rode his bike every weekday, played floor hockey, and lifted weights 3–4 times per week. I always wished I could be as devoted as he was.

He was also frugal and stubborn. His bike was ancient, and he considered himself an anti-cyclist, refusing to wear the usual cycling gear. He did carry a saddle bag with tools and was usually able to repair a flat, but who knew what kind of mechanical trouble the bike might have?

The search

I knew the main route Patrick would have taken. There were a couple of streets he might have taken to get to the main road, Shaw Avenue, so I guessed and chose Locan Avenue. I didn’t see him there, or when I got to Shaw, so I headed east and scanned the side of a road for a man walking a bike. A fire truck passed me going the opposite direction with its lights off. I wasn’t anxious at this point, and I felt the truck would not be driving away if there was an emergency.

We live in Clovis, CA, a constantly growing suburb of Fresno, CA. There are always new developments popping up, and usually, one or two roads are closed on any given day. I saw the usual flashing signs ahead and assumed the road had been closed due to the new development on the street’s south side. But there was a small truck parked there and someone standing next to it. I should investigate.

I pulled over, got out, and walked over to the person, who was a Community Service Officer. I asked her what had happened, and she said there was an accident. I told her my husband was riding his bicycle and asked if I could see if he was there. She told me the crash involved a motorcycle. She even added the sound effect “vroom, vroom” to reassure me. She wouldn’t let me pass.

Coincidence?

Suddenly I realized this was too big of a coincidence.

I got back to my car and then drove past Shaw, trying to think of a way to get closer. Patrick had CPR and first aid certification, and he definitely would have stopped to render aid. Patrick wasn’t home, hadn’t contacted me, AND there was an accident. An inner voice told me I needed to go home.

As I drove, I called my nephew, a police officer. He said he wasn’t working but agreed to try and get information. A few minutes later, he called back to ask me to describe Patrick’s bike. He mentioned there was an accident and the rider did not have ID. I told him my husband refused to wear the Road ID I had made for him. I told him I would send him a picture of the bike.

I don’t remember panicking or wondering why they would need ID. Maybe shock had set in? All I knew was Camille would be leaving for school, and I needed to get home before she did. As I walked into the house, I got a breaking news text reading, “Fatal bicycle vs. vehicle accident closes Shaw.” And I knew. I can remember thinking this is what happens when you follow the news too closely. I received notification of death by a news alert. My brain refused to process the news.

What now?

I walked inside and told Camille there had been an accident, but I didn’t have any information. I explained her cousin was checking into it. We sat on the couch, wondering what to do. Camille, so much like her dad, was a rock. She may have sniffled a bit, but she didn’t fall apart, and I didn’t either.

After a short time, I realized I probably needed to call people. I figured my nephew had told his mom, my sister, Denise. But she hadn’t called. Then I remembered he took after his dad and probably didn’t realize or care to activate the phone chain. I called Denise and told her what I knew. And I knew, without even asking, she would alert the rest of our family. It’s just what we do, and she is the best at it.

Patrick’s family was a little different. His parents lived across town, and I was not calling them on the phone. His oldest brother, Daniel, lived in Nebraska. His younger brother Gabriel lived nearby, but he would be at the high school teaching the class Camille would have been in if she was in school. His sister, Dina, was running errands and was planning to come to my house when she finished. I didn’t want to call her either. The youngest, Matthew, also a physical therapist, was at work, so I texted him.

Our little brother’s

Although Matthew was the youngest, he was a physical therapy manager at a large hospital. He was a lot like his brother and very calm under pressure. I knew I could count on him. We texted and called a few times before he finally decided to leave work and go to his parent’s house. We still had no final confirmation.

In the meantime, my little brother, Denny, showed up with three of his four children. They helped me tidy up my house. I knew it was about to be filled with people. Camille was still calm but looked ashen, and I was glad her cousins were there now.

Sierra

Sierra was at school in Long Beach, 4 hours away. Fortunately, Denise was also living in the Los Angeles area, but not close to Sierra. We made plans for her to pick up Sierra. Denise would call me when she got there so I could tell Sierra what was going on. She called her and told her something had happened, and she needed to come to get her. Sierra did not call or text anyone, not even her sister. She had no idea what had happened. I have to think she had a guardian angel watching over her. I think he was with all of us.

In the meantime, we got the official notification. Patrick’s cousin, Carlo, was an assistant superintendent for the school district. They were involved since this happened about 1/2 mile from the high school. Carlo went to the scene and was with the deputy to notify me and hand me Patrick’s watch and wedding band. I thought I was prepared for this news, but I wasn’t. I walked inside and gathered Camille and Patrick’s family. We all hugged and cried. I slipped Patrick’s ring on my finger, and Camille put his watch on.

This phone call was the worst moment of the day for me.

Shortly after, Denise reached Sierra’s apartment and called me. When Sierra answered the door, she handed her the phone, and I told Sierra her dad was in an accident, and he didn’t survive. This phone call was the worst moment of the day for me. I knew she was four hours away and had a long car ride before I could wrap my arms around her and love on her. Her cries of “Nooooo, nooooo, and whyyyyy?” are forever etched in my memory.

My mini-family

After what seemed like forever, Denise and Sierra arrived. She texted with Camille on the way home and talked to other friends and relatives. There was a large contingent of friends and relatives waiting for them. But first Camille and I ran out, and the three of us hugged and cried. I looked at the watch on Camille’s wrist and then took Patrick’s ring off and handed it to Sierra. She now wears it on a chain around her neck, close to her heart.

Surviving

For the rest of the day and many days to follow, family and friends surrounded us and gave us love. During the next few days, I would walk into my bedroom and look longingly at the bed. I wanted to collapse into the fetal position and stay there forever. But I knew I couldn’t. And I knew I didn’t need to. I had more love in the house with me than anyone deserves to have.

Most of all, I had Patrick’s love. He would want me to survive.

I am blessed more than I can detail in a short story. I’ve written the same story many times, and each version is different. Eventually, it will be a book. I have been through the worst thing I could ever imagine.

I survived.

We survived.