ADAM DAVID TOOMBS

NOVEMBER 24, 1989 - APRIL 5, 2005

It has been five years since Adam passed away in a drowning accident. As you will read, his life had an impact on many.

The greatest privelege and honor ever in my life is to be his and Cheyenne's father. The following story is one of over a dozen stories from men that have experienced the loss of a child. The book is not only about honoring our children but it is also about how together we have found strength and recovery through our sharing and comeraderie

A friend and I were pulling up in front of her house after an evening of dinner and conversation. My cell phone rang. A frantic voice screamed, “Dave! We are on our way to St. John’s Hospital. Adam has quit breathing!!” I could hear the wail of an ambulance clearly.

As we left the Broad Ripple area of Indianapolis on our thirty-five mile mission to Anderson, we eventually gathered our wits and tried to rationalize and project. “Perhaps he had choked on food....” “...Don’t think the worst, it might be just another fluke trip to the emergency room.” It then dawned on me that my daughter, Cheyenne, was having a pool party that evening at a local natatorium.

In my heart of hearts, I sensed that the worst had happened.

The drive seemed a thousand miles long. I cried, prayed, grasped for hope, yelled, reasoned, rationalized … seemingly all at the same time. Over and over I kept saying, “This is not my call.”

Cheyenne phoned. She was naturally distraught and crying. “Daddy, where are you?! They are taking Adam to the hospital!” I assured her that I was on my way and did my best to comfort her.

Only three days before, Adam and I had gone to Conseco Fieldhouse to see the rookie sensation LeBron James and the Cleveland Cavaliers play the Indiana Pacers. This was also one of the last games we would have the opportunity to see Reggie Miller as he was retiring after the season.

Every six months or so, Adam and I would find ourselves in a position and in the mood to have a good heart to heart talk about things that matter in life. That evening had begun with some light bantering between he and I over whether 58 percent is an acceptable free throw percentage. I asked him who was guarding him while he shot free throws. This argument usually ended with me playing the age, maturity and experience card.

Besides, you gotta hit your free throws.

We talked about his college and career plans that evening. His plans would change from time to time, as normal with human beings. At one point in his life he had wanted to be a United Nations ambassador. At his core was a genuine and sincere desire for serving. On this particular night he was leaning toward being a lawyer and attending Indiana University. His plans included rooming with his best friend, Sam, so Adam could do his homework and help him make it through school                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       Upon approaching the Anderson exit, a phone call came from my sister, who was frantic and wanting to know where I was. At this point I was starting to get emotional and asked if he was alive. She handed the phone to a nurse who assured me he was alive. I asked if he was brain dead … by my calculations it had been about thirty-five minutes since the initial call. April 9, 2005, was about one week subsequent the passing of Terry Schiavo. Terry was the the woman whose “right-to-life” was taken to task when they quit feeding her after years of being in a coma. This whole ordeal was fresh in my mind … especially now.

The nurse relayed that she could not confirm any condition report. He was being prepped to be lifelined by helicopter to an Indianapolis hospital. My heart sank. When we pulled up to the emergency room, I jumped out of the car and was ushered to the emergency room. As I walked back, I noticed that both sides of the hall were lined with young people, Adam’s classmates.

 I was escorted to the cubicle and the curtain was drawn. There laid Adam, with a ventilator on—and a policeman on top of him frantically giving him compressions. Two or three doctors, a family friend, Cheyenne and Adam’s mother, Pat, were all around the gurney. Pat looked at me and said, “It doesn’t look good Dave.” Shock had set in with all of us. Her tone and demeanor was almost “matter of fact.”

A place was cleared for me beside the gurney. The policeman was a husky man probably about forty-five years old. I could sense the tremendous duress, both physically and emotionally as the doctor directed his compressions. I said quietly to the officer, “God bless you.”

The whole room seemed charged with 1000 volts of electricity.

As I stood by Adam’s left side, commotion and controlled mayhem around me, Adam’s limp hand kept falling off the table. I took hold of it and held it. His half-opened eyes had lost their light. Periodically, the doctor directed the compressions to cease so that he could calibrate any vital signs. The monitor next to me would blip and then flat-line. The clock showed that it was 9:05 … one hour since I had been phoned. He was gone, but heroic measures continued .

It is odd how the whole incident, painful as it is, registered in my psyche, details that imprint the memory. I just stared at Adam’s face, a beautiful young man who only three short years ago was short, rotund and rather slow afoot. He had used his savvy and determination to train himself into a competitive and competent soccer and basketball player.Two weeks before, we had had Easter dinner at my brother’s house and played our last one-on-one basketball game. He beat me mercilessly. This year he had come into his own physically and at last had come to the place where he consistently was beating me. He was 5’9” … my height.

                              

Oddly enough, a sense of gratitude came over me. I am a recovering alcoholic and there were some really hard years for him prior to my decision to live a life of sobriety in 1999. There was a period of over a year where we had very little contact. When I chose a path of recovery, our relationship was restored. He and Cheyenne had been with me every anniversary that I received a token for sobriety. I was so grateful to God that I had good years with him. I could not have stood up against the adversity if it had not been for the tremendous gift of sobriety.

Nearly a thousand people paid respects and the funeral home had to turn people away at the door eventually. It still took two and a half hours to clear the line. The funeral was held the next day at a local church. Once again nearly a thousand people came to pay their respects.

As Adam’s life was memorialized by the preacher, it brought many emotions and events to mind. His friends, family gatherings, his athletic endeavors and his own personal walk with God. The thought occurred to me, I am a blessed man to have been his father, a truly blessed man.

Toward the end of the service, the preacher shared my major issue with Adam … his free-throw shooting. The mourners laughed.

To close the service, I chose to sing. If no other reason it is all I had to offer Adam. When a friend asked me if it would be pressure, I simply told him, “You gotta hit your free throws.”

I lead the congregation in a song that I had sung on the Sunday morning we went to pick him up at the adoption agency when he was two days old—the old hymn “Great is Thy Faithfulness.” I shared my thoughts that I was honored to have been his father and that I would do it all again.

Playing at his funeral was such an blessing. I am so thankful that I was able to do that.

As the shock wore off and reality set in, I knew that, as a recovering alcoholic, I had to face life on life’s terms with the tools that had been given me. I stepped up attendance at recovery group meetings, shared openly and freely. It was helpful in dealing with some of the emotions. Few had experienced the death of a child, even fewer in sobriety. There was a certain reluctance by people to want to talk about it.

At times things were okay, but other times, waves of grief would overwhelm me, to the point of physical pain, like a deep aching in my bones. Added to the pressure of his death was the questionable circumstances.

As the story of the events leading up to the drowning had unfolded during the week of his funeral, issues were being raised that called for answers and accountability. Two days after his death, a long and painful process in search of those answers began.

The ongoing investigation produced an intense anger that demands resolve and knows it will find none. My first reaction used to be to drink, but the process of recovery had equipped me to deal with that situation. However, I had to find a way to deal with the anger.

It was nearly impossible to convey what was happening inside.

It was hard for those who had children, especially young children, to think about the situation. There were also well-meaning yet misdirected remarks about God’s will or that Adam “was in a better place.” Sometimes these situations were bearable, but at other times they were really useless and painful.

Terri Coe, an Associate Pastor at St. Luke’s United Methodist Church approached me on a Sunday morning after services, and in the course of conversation, mentioned that there was a men’s grief support group on Tuesday mornings at a local restaurant. One of the church’s senior pastors, Adolf Hansen, had been instrumental in starting and maintaining the group.

Again, my experience with recovery support groups had taught me to reach out for any available help. This seemed like a rather simple and helpful way to contribute to my own recovery from Adam’s death.

You gotta hit your free throws.

The following Tuesday found me sitting in the hotel restaurant with a handful of men who had shared the experience of the loss of a child. None of these men knew me, none knew I was coming. Immediately, though, I knew I was in the right place.

This was the first time I could tell my story to people who could understand and empathize with my situation, who offered not contrived rhetoric, but genuine caring and concern. The meeting was an informal breakfast setting with no format. We just talked. They took the time to go around the table and each shared their own story. It occurred to me that as horrible as the situation was for me, that others’ experiences were as painful and tragic, some even more so.

Through the next several weeks, I found relief and comfort among men I barely knew. Though tragedy brought us here, it truly felt as though God had handpicked this group to travel this path together. Some weeks we individually shared our experiences with grief. Other weeks we just talked sports, music or simply enjoyed each other’s company.

Perhaps the most significant lesson I have learned from this group is that it is acceptable and, in some cases, necessary, to give myself plenty of room for personal expression of grief … that there are no written rules, no mandates, no obligation to defend or justify feelings. It had become clear that explanations to those who hadn’t experienced what we had were futile.

The Tuesday morning men’s grief support group became a lifeline to me. There was a period of time when I was unable to make the meeting regularly, but they made an effort to extend themselves and reach out their hands to me. In my mind I have always known that there is a group of men who are willing to take time out of their lives for sharing and caring with each other in a truly and unexplainably genuine and healing way.

I truly am a blessed man.