The date of the memorial service; and the very next date is his sister’s birthday—her day of celebration forever woven next to her brother’s day of mourning. 

The date of the 15-hour marathon settlement conference that ended our lawsuit.  Did we do the right thing?  Better to settle or go to trial?

The date of our anniversary; and 37 years later that same date I picked up his ashes at the morgue. 

The date we moved to Springfield, Oregon.  Remind me again, why did we do that?  Maybe we should have stayed in Virginia.

So. Many. Dates.

Names—what is in a name?  Patrick.  Stacy.  Both.  And.  He wants the family to know Patrick; she wants the public to know Stacy.  What gender do you want on the death certificate, they ask me.  Wait, why is there a death certificate?  There must be a mistake.

Confusion-- Who do we believe?  What really happened?  There is the District Attorney’s version: a press conference with sanitized events, strategic omissions, red herrings, and intent to mislead.  So divorced from reality that she refused to put it in writing. Then there is our attorneys’ version—a meticulously documented, blow-by-blow, taser-by-taser, bullet-by-bullet description, correlated to the time-stamped 911 audio recording.  A slow dawning of what truly happened, what didn’t have to happen, what shouldn’t have happened.  The added trauma of finally realizing we’d been duped and feeling so stupid for believing the lies.

Depositions. Surreal. One by one we are across the conference table from the four men who took my son’s life, and the Chief who allowed it.  They are answering questions.  We are excused each time the pictures come out.

The largest police wrongful death settlement in Oregon history. Eight demanded changes in police policies and procedures.  Our story on the front page of the Washington Post.  A podcast about it, integrated with the 911 audio.  “MotherF***er” the officer says before he shoots him.  The last words my son hears.  Finally, an accurate representation of what happened.  But suddenly I’m on the floor, curled in a ball. Somehow it makes the listening easier.

Trauma—I didn’t understand that at first.  Everyone kept talking to me about grief.  What is grief?  I know Patrick is gone.  That’s not the problem, that’s not helping!  The problem is the violence he experienced, the violence that was not acknowledged, the violence that is acceptable in this society.  The problem is everything I thought I knew about the world is wrong. 

Harm.  I want them to acknowledge the harm. The irresponsible, irrevocable, inconceivable harm to Patrick. The harm to his younger cousins, who now wonder if the police will kill them.  The harm to his grandmother, who was already reeling from the recent loss of her husband.  Even the psychological harm to the shooting officer, who ended a life that day.  How is this public safety? 

Justice. Why are the bereaved in charge of ensuring accountability and forcing change?  Will our settlement fix a broken system?  Or did we only contribute band-aids, continuing to hold together a fundamentally flawed construct?  Did we negotiate hard enough for the right things?

Healing—how do we heal? 

I heal with Kindness: Meals from neighbors for a month. A candlelight vigil in my neighbor’s living room.  Visits, phone calls, and genuine compassion.  “I’ll take care of Patrick’s car for you,” he says. This is important; Patrick was shot in his car.  And new friends whose support means more than they could know. 

I heal with Empathy: People telling me they cried when they heard my legislative testimony.  My seasoned attorney choking up when he tells me he has read my journal.  An email from the shooter: “I am sorry,” he says. A phone call from the new police chief on his first day: “My condolences on the loss of your child,” he says. Thank goodness the old Chief is gone.

I heal with Nature: Floating down the McKenzie in the solitude of the river and the birds.  The beauty of the mountains and the forests.   

I heal with Service: Helping other mothers who suddenly find themselves like me. Working for change so there won’t be so many other mothers like me. 

Am I healed?  I don’t know.  I just know I’m learning to live with the scars, and I have to keep trying to make things better.