Former Blackout Artist

Life’s not the breath you take, the breathing in and out
That gets you through the day, ain’t what it’s all about
You just might miss the point, trying to win the race
Life’s not the breath you take,
But the moments that take your breath away.
– George Strait

Growing up, I lived in a rural coal mining community in southeastern Kentucky. My father was a coal miner, and all of my friends’ fathers were also coal miners. This was back in the 1970’s, when mining was incredibly dangerous. It’s still a dangerous occupation today, but back in those days there were very few federal safety regulations like there are today.

One afternoon I came home from school and my mother was in tears. I immediately became concerned. And when I saw my father home from work early, I knew something wasn’t right. I asked them what was wrong, and they told me that there had been an accident at the coal mine earlier that afternoon. It involved the father of my friend, Jimmy. And although I was young, I wasn’t too young to begin putting together the pieces of this horrible puzzle.

The school principal had come to our room that afternoon and asked Jimmy to gather his things, he was needed at home. Jimmy would learn shortly thereafter that his father had died that afternoon in the mining accident.

I never saw Jimmy again after that day. His mother took him and his siblings and moved away shortly after his father’s funeral. And from that day on, I lived with this real fear of losing my dad, just like Jimmy did.

Nothing prepares a child for the death of a parent. Not even when they become adults with kids of their own. The Lord allowed me to have my father around for another 40 years. He lost his battle with cancer back in 2018. As his battle was over, my battle with active alcoholism was also coming to an end. Interestingly enough, and in a way that only God could work, my father’s death ended up saving my life. The day my father died was the day that I decided to get the help I needed to quit drinking.

The last week of April in 2021, I received a frantic phone call from my aunt. She was in tears. “Your mom wasn’t feeling well. I brought her to the hospital. While she was in the waiting room, she became unconscious and stopped breathing. They have her in the ER working on her now to bring her back. Pray for your mommy, Scott! Pray!”

They were able to revive her, but they had to sedate and intubate her. She had been dealing with a host of major medical issues the last few years of her life, and everything seemed to be unraveling. I left early the next morning to make my way to the hospital 10 hours away.

Fourteen days later, I was left with no other option but to take her off of life support. She wasn’t going to recover. When she came out of sedation, she was weak but she could whisper. A smile came on her face the moment she saw me. I grabbed her hand and I squeezed. She squeezed back. She began whispering something, but I couldn’t understand what she was trying to say. Finally, I figured it out. “I want to go home. Let me go home.”

She knew it was time for her to leave. She wasn’t talking about her home in this life. She was talking about her home in heaven. She asked for some water and I went to see the nurse about getting her some. “I’m so sorry. But your mother cannot have water. She will probably choke to death if she drinks anything.”

I have never felt more helpless in my entire life. My mother had this tube in her throat for 2 weeks. The skin on her lips was raw and peeling away. She was thirsty. The cold water would’ve certainly soothed her throat and eased her pain. But I had to tell her there was nothing I could do for her. But I grabbed a cup and got some ice chips and fed her small pieces of ice as I caressed her hair and kissed her forehead.

That evening they administered morphine. We talked until it took effect. And I watched her slowly go to sleep. And as I sat there by her bed in the wee hours of the morning, I watched her breathing become shallower and shallower. And I couldn’t help but count the number of seconds between breaths. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Breathe. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Breathe. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Breathe. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Breathe. As the hours passed, the more time elapsed between breaths. And it was obviously getting near the end, as it was getting harder for her to take a breath.

All of my childhood memories of her were relived that evening. My mom. My beautiful mom who loved me more than life itself… One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Breathe. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Breathe.

At 5am that morning on June 3rd, my mom finally went home to Jesus.

I still go back to that evening sometimes and ask myself, “Was there anything else I could’ve possibly done? Maybe taken her to a different hospital to see if there was anything they could do?” I still think about that decision. And although I know in my heart that there was nothing else I could’ve done, it doesn’t remove the pain of being the one to have made that decision.

I still have one of her voicemails I’ve yet to delete. I still catch myself sometimes instinctively reaching for my phone as I’m leaving a meeting to call her for a quick chat. I still hear her voice sometimes as I’m drifting off to sleep, from a casual conversation of some sort that we shared many years ago.

My wife and my mom share the same birthday. So back in September of 2021, roughly 3 months after my mom passed, I was picking up a birthday card for my wife. And it just so happens that the birthday cards for mothers were right next to the ones for wives. I just picked a few up and started reading them, thinking about which one I would get her if she was still around. And there I am, in the middle of the Hallmark section of the grocery, bawling my eyes out, like I’m sure little Jimmy Lewis did that day when he got home from school. And it felt so weird, so wrong, to go to the checkout with only one birthday card.

And so… the checkout lines are packed… but this one young lady turned her sign on and said, “I can take you here, sir.”

I looked at her name tag and it read, “Linda.” That was my mom’s name. And that was a God moment. She was just dropping in and telling me hello. And I could hear her voice. “Don’t you worry about me, child. I’m doing awesome! You keep staying sober and trusting the good Lord, and everything will be just fine.”

I’m still sober today, and the reason I’m still sober today is because I’m still trusting the Lord. During the easy days, the hard days, and the in between days. He’s always here with me, no matter what’s going on in my life. And one day, I’m gonna get to see Him too.