A Mother's Reckoning: Living in the Aftermath of Tragedy(21)

Years earlier, I had served on a committee advising the mortuary science program at a local college on creating opportunities in that field for students with disabilities, and had worked closely with the head of the program. We had not spoken in years, but desperate and unsure where else to turn, I reached out to her for guidance.

When we connected on the phone, Martha’s tone was warm and filled with concern: I’d already been in her thoughts, she told me, and she’d been wondering if there was anything she could do to help, but she’d had no way of getting in touch. As soon as we got off the phone, she immediately contacted one of the most respected funeral directors in Denver. Martha and John would show an extraordinary measure of generosity and compassion toward us over those next few days.

Initially, Tom and I didn’t want a funeral of any kind for Dylan. It simply felt too disrespectful to his victims. I will be forever grateful to Martha and John, though, for convincing us to reconsider. They promised we would be able to keep the ceremony private both from the media and from enraged community members. Together, we planned a simple service, attended only by a few friends and family members. Byron would be there, of course, as would Ruth and Don, and the parents of Dylan’s two best friends, Nate and Zack. The pastor of the church we’d belonged to when Dylan and Byron were small agreed to officiate for us.

Tom and I understood cremation was our only option. The likelihood that a gravesite would be vandalized was too great, and we might not be able to stay in the area; if we buried Dylan and then moved, we’d be forced to leave him behind. I explained I needed to see my son one last time, and Martha and John told me the technicians would do everything they could to cover the bullet wounds in his head so we could see him as we’d known him.

I hardly remember making the arrangements. I do remember being amazed to hear myself speaking calmly about practical matters when the only sound I could hear in my own head was a continuous, endless screech of agony and disbelief. This was my son, the person I had nurtured, protected, and loved with all my heart. The thought that I would never hear his voice or touch his face again took my breath away. It took every ounce of strength I could summon to make preparations for our final separation. My parenting of Dylan was over. The love and work that had gone into the creation of this human being had ended—and in the most disastrous way.

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Amid the nightmarish covert planning sessions for Dylan’s funeral, it became clear that our old cat Rocky’s health was worsening rapidly, and I became obsessed with getting him medical attention.

Ruth later admitted that my hysteria over the ailing cat seemed evidence to her I had totally snapped under the pressure. We’d been in their home for three days, and I’d been so weak I had to prop my head up with my arm at the table to prevent myself from collapsing under the weight of my exhaustion and grief. I could barely shower or feed myself, let alone care for my family—but I would not stop fretting about Rocky.

Driving myself to the vet was out of the question: even I was self-aware enough to realize I was in no shape to get behind the wheel of a car. With resignation, and simply because they had no idea what else to do, Ruth and Don packed Rocky into their car and drove us to the veterinary clinic in our neighborhood.

I am unapologetically tenderhearted where animals are concerned, but I can see now there was obviously more going on that day with Rocky than merely responsible pet ownership. There was so much suffering in Littleton for which I felt responsible, and nothing I could do about it. Caring for this one suffering animal was something I could do, a situation still salvageable.

Terrified of being recognized, I entered the clinic through a side door. When it came time to hand Rocky over to the vet, I found I couldn’t do it. Rocky was Dylan’s cat. He’d chosen him from a neighbor’s litter of kittens when he was in third grade. The big white cat had stretched out with us for all those family nights on the couch as we watched the Pink Panther movies together in the den. Letting go of Rocky felt like letting go of Dylan. I struggled to communicate to the doctors without sobbing and asked them to do what they could for him, and to keep him until I was able to come back. Finally, I allowed a vet to take the frightened cat from my arms.

As I made my way across the parking lot, heading for the sanctuary of Don and Ruth’s car, I heard someone running after me, calling my name. I turned to see one of the clinic’s staff members heading toward me, and for a moment I wasn’t sure whether to walk toward her or run away. Gary had warned us repeatedly we would need to be careful for our safety: there were many people in Colorado and around the world who held us responsible for the shootings, and who would be happy to see us dead. The day before, a large delivery of hot food had arrived for us at his office—a gesture of sympathy and goodwill from a stranger, like the boxes of mail we were beginning to receive there. Gary wouldn’t allow us to eat a bite of the food for fear it was poisoned. Even years afterward, I would find myself on heightened alert whenever I had to give my full name to schedule a delivery, or to a teller at the bank. But that moment in the vet clinic’s parking lot was the first time I had ever recoiled in fear from an interaction with anyone in the place where we lived.

As it happened, I had nothing to worry about. The petite woman threw her arms around me. She told me she’d raised boys, and knew how unbelievably stupid they could be. It was a sentiment many, many mothers would share with me over the years. Though I towered over her, I let her hold me while I sobbed, soaking both of us with my tears. Later I realized I didn’t even know her name.