It's the things left unsaid that mean a lot

Ethan Smith

Editor

I've been thinking a lot this week about those West Virginia miners, and the families they left behind. The entire tragedy has made reporters think about how, where and who they get their information from, after the families of the 12 miners were inadvertently told by various media outlets that their husbands, brothers and sons were alive, only to find out a few hours later they had been misinformed.

Although that was a tragedy that should never have happened — and apparently some blame falls on mining company and state officials — more than the tragedy of the misinformation, I keep going back to the miners' last words.

As the hours kept ticking away, some of the miners scrawled their last words on paper or whatever else was available. According to families who decided to share the last words, many of the miners chose to console family members by explaining that their oxygen deprivation, which is what killed them, was akin to falling asleep, and that they weren't suffering. Many of them, I'm sure, took steps to say good-bye.

I had a similar experience in 2004, but this time I was the one saying good-bye to a dying person, my mother. Those few minutes will stick with me for the rest of my life, and I hope nobody reading this will ever have to say good-bye — forever — to a loved one.

We had just spent a week together as a family reunion, ironically to celebrate her successful bone marrow transplant and recovery from leukemia. I flew home on a Sunday, and on Monday my mother became very ill with an infection and was admitted to the emergency room.

The doctors were honest with us — if she could make it through the next 72 hours, she had a fighting chance, but with no immune system because of the transplant, it was going to be tough.

At that point I was used to Mom being in and out of the hospital, and I figured she'd pull through. After all, the worst was behind us.

Wednesday morning we put the paper to bed, and I received a phone call from my dad. Mom had gone into full cardiac arrest, and they had revived her, but it was going to happen again and we knew she didn't want to be kept on life support.

It was time to say good-bye.

What do you say to a loved one that is the final good-bye? I had a couple of minutes to prepare my thoughts — thoughts too precious to share with you — and while my family gathered around her 2,400 miles away, my dad held his cell phone up to her ear, and with tears streaming down my face, I said my good-byes before collapsing in a heap of sobs.

Although I was frustrated that it had to be done by cell phone, it was only because I had a cell phone that my family was able to contact me in time. I shudder to think how I would have felt to this day if I'd gone hiking that day, as planned, and returned to an "Ethan, please call home" voicemail a few hours too late.

(My siblings have told me I was the lucky one. My last memories of Mom are of her healthy and in good spirits.

Although they got to say good-bye in person, their last memory is of her lying on the hospital bed, with tubes and respirator equipment all around her. I don't know who had it worse.)

At least I got to say good-bye, which brings me back to those poor miners as they sat there scribbling out their last words. What do you say to your family at a time like that? I have a small inkling, and whatever it is, I urge you to tell your loved ones the next time you see them. Take it from me — whatever it is, you probably haven't told them enough.