I can tell you about the last beautiful fall day of the year 2000. It was November 4th. The weather was crisp and beautiful. All of the leaves had fallen off of the trees and lay as crunchy carpet in our yard.

It was Saturday, my day off. I had a prom dress pattern and material sprawled out on the floor. I picked the pattern out myself for my 18-year-old daughter, Cassie. Cassie had an exotic beauty. She had beautiful olive skin, brown eyes with gold flicks, full lips, and flawless features. She had a slim figure and light brown shoulder-length hair. And she was very tall and graceful. She didn’t consider herself beautiful. Like most teenage girls, all she saw were the self-invented flaws.

Today was also busy for Cassie. It was the first day she would start coaching her little sister, Nicki’s, basketball team. Everyone was supposed to meet in the gym at noon. They were getting ready to play in a parochial school basketball tournament in Billings in just a couple of weeks.

At ten o’clock, we started trying to wake Cassie. We called her and called her-finally, she roused, looking pretty haggard. She had missed her curfew by a long shot the night before. I was sure she had been out drinking, although she profusely denied it. I remember thinking to myself that a long, sweaty workout would be good for her.

Her dad had left early that morning for work, but before he left, he and I agreed to talk with her that evening about her behavior the night before. Even though she was 18, we maintained she should follow our midnight curfew. We were surprised she had been drinking the night before. She would hear that lecture later also.

Cassie and Nicki left for basketball practice. They had to pick up another little girl who lived on the way. So off they went, Cassie looked willing and happy to be coaching her little sister’s team. Because of her activities the night before, she looked kind of like working out was the last thing she wanted to be doing. Nicki was full of expectations and pride that her sister was going to be the coach. She worshiped Cassie. You could tell by the way she looked at her.

The girls were 6½ years apart. Cassie was more like a mother to Nicki. She baby-sat her, gave her rides, helped her with her homework, offered advice, and served lectures. She gave her basketball pointers, rides on her shoulders and swimming lessons. This was a big day for Nicki.

While they were gone, I busied myself with my to-do list at home. Time passed quickly. The girls came tumbling in two hours later, exhausted, sweaty, and laughing. They had had a great practice. They said it was lots of fun. Everyone had enjoyed it. Nicki said all the little girls loved Cassie for their coach. She made practice fun and taught them a lot in just a couple of hours. You could tell Nicki was proud of the way things went. She was really looking forward to the tournament now.

Cassie still didn’t look good. She had been sick for the last three weeks. We though she had the same virus that I had had a few weeks before. One of those hang-on viruses that you can’t get rid of. We had her to two different doctors in the past three weeks. The last visit was just two days ago. Both doctors told her she needed to quit smoking. Her lungs were in terrible shape, but all of our well thought out lectures hadn’t deterred her from smoking. We blamed her “bronchitis” on the smoking and the fact that she wasn’t getting well. She told me she would try to quit and she had even asked me to pray with her about it.

Cassie was easy to talk to. She had called me early that morning and apologized for staying out all night. She said she had fallen asleep on her boyfriend’s front room floor. She was supposed to be spending the night at her Grandma’s. Her Grandma thought she had decided to come home instead. Neither of us had realized she hadn’t come home all night until early morning.

As soon as she called, I told her to get right home and that I had figured she had fallen asleep on Levi’s floor. Levi was a boyfriend of three years. I remembered high school when I was dating her dad, that I had fallen asleep watching TV at his house. I believed her until I saw her. She looked horrible-then I assumed, much to my dismay, that she had been drinking.

“Mom, those girls are going to kill me! I’m so out of shape!” She kissed me and hugged me and said, “I love you. I’m sorry I was out all night.” I told her I loved her, too. I kissed her cheek three times and hugged her tight. (I never kissed my girls just once. They knew after the first kiss to leave their cheek out because there were always two more coming).

After we talked, Cassie went into the bathroom. Nicki was in her room playing a computer game. We both heard a loud crash. We met each other in the kitchen. There is a shelf that falls once-in-awhile on the wall outside the bathroom. I went into the dining room to put the shelf back on the wall, but when I saw the shelf still on the wall, I felt panicked and called out to Cassie in the bathroom. She didn’t answer.

I felt a cold chill run through my body and I stiffened. I tried to get the bathroom door open. Her legs were blocking the door. All I could see were her feet. When I pushed my way in she was bluish and her head was cocked against the tub. Right away I thought she fainted and then hit her head on the edge of the tub. I suspected a severe concussion. I grew panicky and realized seconds later that something else was terribly wrong. I started screaming to Nicki. I asked what was wrong with Cassie. I drug her out into the dining room and called 911. I instructed Nicki to take the car and drive over to Shannon’s house. Shannon is a nurse who lives across the country road. She did as I asked.

Imagine sending a twelve-year-old with a vehicle all by herself to look for help. She had learned to drive over the last two years with Grandma, Dad, and myself on the country roads. She was a good driver, but driving alone she could have been injured or injured someone else. At the time I wasn’t thinking all of those possibilities because my oldest child was dying. I ran over to Cassie and stared down at her blue, still body. I remember thinking, “My God, I have to start CPR!” I used to work in a hospital. We were all trained in CPR, but that’s when I was pregnant with Cassie. I couldn’t remember how to start. I begged God to help me. I screamed at Cassie to come back, and I started CPR. Her lips were getting tight and cold and her hands and feet were turning inward.

At one point it dawned on me that she could have some poison or chemical in her system. I remember yelling at her and slapping her face to wake her. “Cassie, wake up and tell me, did someone give you something last night?” I checked her jean pockets for drugs. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I know then that something was in her body.

Nicki came back. Shannon wasn’t home. Nicki saw I was doing CPR and started screaming. I told Grandma to take her outside. It was forever before the paramedics came. I was sure they would push me out of the way and do CPR the right way. But they told me to, “Keep going.” They were setting up their equipment. I was counting one and two and three and four out loud, shouting it-knowing that wasn’t right. I desperately wanted someone else to take over. I felt like I was trembling so much I was losing control of my body. Cassie was still cold and purple. The noise coming from her stomach was eerily hollow, like I was blowing into emptiness. I was begging God not to take her and I was begging her not to leave.

CPR is very painful for the person receiving it. Done correctly, it breaks ribs and causes bruising. It was hard to push hard enough into my child’s chest to do any good. I knew I was deliberately hurting her. Finally the paramedics took over. They hurriedly surrounded my daughter with small machines and tubes. One machine was attached to her chest. I remember being so surprised and afraid when the machine started talking out loud and it was telling them to shock her. I remember asking a friend, a sheriff’s deputy, who was standing in the kitchen, if she was dead.

I don’t remember him answering me, but looking right at me and then at Cassie. He had a drained, panicked look on his face. The kind of look you might have if you were watching someone drown. We had known them for years. His wife had taught Nicki at the country school, just two doors down. He had helped Greg chase bulls when they got out of the fence. He knew us. This doesn’t happen to people you know. Mostly it doesn’t happen to you.

_______

All I could think of was how much time I had wasted doing improper technique and not having the right equipment when I needed it. I wanted to get her to the hospital as fast as possible. Surely they could make a miracle happen there.

One of the deputies called dispatch to send a patrol car to find Greg. (Greg shared with me months later that he did not know why the sheriff had come to get him, except for the fact that someone in the family was in the emergency room.) He thought maybe his Mom was having trouble breathing because she has asthma or maybe one of us had broken our leg. Nicki and I drove to the hospital together. I had my left hand on the steering wheel and was pulling on the top of her shirt. We were praying fervent, loud prayers. Every memorized prayer we knew. The ambulance seemed to be driving so slowly. I kept thinking, don’t let her die-just get her to the hospital. Go faster. Oh my God, why are they going so slowly? “She must be dead,” I warned Nicki,“Otherwise, they would be going faster.”

We only had to drive two to three miles to reach the hospital. I parked the car and jumped out while it was still stopping. Nicki and I walked hesitantly toward the sliding Emergency room doors. I wandered dumbly toward the room where they had Cassie, but I was sent to the registration desk to sign permission forms and give our insurance information. When I went to sign the form, my hand wouldn’t hold the pen. I told the lady I couldn’t sign the forms, because I couldn’t control my hands. They were violently shaking. I kept trying, but wasn’t able to write and I kept looking past her into the emergency room. I was pleading with that woman to let me go. She kindly told me just to make a squiggle line. I did.

We stood outside the room where they had Cassie. They wouldn’t let me in. I saw Greg pull up and I ran outside. Before I could greet him, I had to bend over and grab my knees to catch my breath. I felt like I was going to pass out. Up until now, nothing had seemed real, but seeing his form move toward me made me realize I would have to recount the last half hour to him. That made it real. I told him briefly what had happened. His face drained. We leaned on each other and walked inside.

He pushed his way into the room where Cassie was. Nothing was going to keep him from her. He had his hand on her leg when they went to shock her, he said he could feel the shock, but did not move his hand. The priest was in there to give her the Last Rights. It was at that time they got a pulse. We thought this was a sign that she was going to pull through.

They finally got her stabilized enough to put her into an ICU room. She was in a deep coma. Doctors went in and out. Finally, her doctor came out to talk with us. He searched our faces as he told us our daughter had tested positive for meth. His words bounced off me. I felt cold. We all stood in a numb row. This wasn’t happening. There had to be some mistake. I talked to her about drugs every day from the time she was in junior high. We did not use drugs. We were adamant about drug use. We went to drug talks together and attended church every Sunday. People like us don’t have kids who use drugs. Country towns like ours don’t have drugs! He left us to our numb disbelief to digest what we couldn’t even chew. I knew he would be back to tell us he was mistaken. Wait a minute, I thought; someone must have slipped Cassie the drugs.

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The waiting rooms and hallways started to fill with Cassie’s friends. They slapped us with the truth that we wanted to deny. Cassie had been using meth for a year and a half. I was cold to their tears and their apologies and even though they kept vigil outside of the intensive care unit both in Miles City and Billings, I remained in a disbelieving, angry distance from all of her friends. The very ones who I welcomed into my home, the ones who sat on my bed and visited for hours at a time, the ones who ate meals with us and had been like one of my own, the ones I trusted, had used drugs with my daughter. The others standing there had known the truth, but could not tell us.

The heart specialist came out halfway through the night. His face was very strained. He wanted to shock Cassie’s heart to stop it because it was beating too rapidly. (We had never heard of such a thing. Deliberately shocking a heart to slow it down and maybe stop it.) Later, when things quieted down, the doctor explained that Cas had blown out the bottom of her heart and that the damage couldn’t be repaired. He said if she recovered she would always be weak. She would never be able to go up a flight of steps, workout, and run or exert herself. The other doctors told us if she came out of the coma she would need months and months of rehabilitation. We asked, “What would you do if it was your daughter?”

Hastily he replied, “I would shock her.” He urged us to hurry with our decision. Reluctantly, we agreed to let him do the procedure. We paced the halls, passing each other, but not speaking. It felt like my nerves were hanging on the outside of my body. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t stand people’s touch. He came out a half hour later; looking strained but satisfied with his work and said the procedure was successful. Again, I thought this was a sign she would survive.

The next morning, I felt rescued when the emergency flight team came and started preparing to take her to Billings. They had to change a million tubes, and transfer all of the equipment to their portable system. It was a great effort between two teams. I felt relief to know we were going to a bigger hospital.

I was ready to face months of rehabilitation with Cassie. I didn’t care what parts of her were left. I only cared that she didn’t die. As I stared out at the huge flakes, I started making mental notes of what we could do to speed her recovery. We could sell our house and get a small apartment somewhere. Of course, I would quit my job and help her with her therapy. I would read up on whatever condition she was left in. We would make it as a family, I decided.

We were only in the air a half hour. An ambulance was there to meet us. We went to St. Vincent’s Hospital, where they whisked Cassie away. People started filling the waiting room. The first one there was a good friend of Cassie’s and her mom. They had started country school together in third grade. When the girl moved, the two friends took turns over the years spending weekends and vacations at each other’s house. At some point, when the mother discovered Cassie used drugs, she confronted her about her drug use. Cas told her she would quit. The daughter told Cassie they couldn’t be friends anymore if she did drugs. She even wrote her a letter. She told me later that she thought she had that kind of leverage because they were such good friends. She shared a year later that until she did a report on meth in college, she did not realize how it controlled the mind and how powerful and addictive it was. In the waiting room the mother was crying. She told me she knew of Cassie’s drug use. She apologized for not calling me. It was like she hit me with a two-by-four. I found out a lot of adults knew, kids, too. No one picked up the phone. I had to work on forgiveness of this. I blamed myself too, for not knowing.

One of the many specialists told us that Cassie was in a deep coma. He was careful not to use the word vegetative; he wanted to give us hope. I think he wanted to allow himself that hope. He said if the brain did not respond in 10 days, it would not respond at all. We asked about her heart and the heart doctor carefully explained that if she recovered, he would take care of the heart. But the greatest problem was the brain. The brain waves had decreased and continued to decrease with every test. He said, “We need a miracle.”

Cassie’s boyfriend of three years was there. He was a tall, handsome boy with blue eyes and blond hair. We told him he could not sit with Cassie unless he got himself some help. He agreed and sought a youth minister, who was there every day to counsel him. We saw amazing transformation in him. He spent nights with Cassie. We hoped that hearing his familiar voice and feeling his presence would rally Cassie to our world again. We were sure that if we exercised forgiveness and love that the Lord would give us back our daughter.

Eventually, our situation started to sink in. We read to Cassie from the Bible. We read her emails. We talked to her and made many promises. We hugged her, cried, kissed her, bought her things and surrounded her with pictures, flowers, anointed her with holy water and poured tenderness into her care.

We agreed early on to let all the teens there take turns and visit her as much as they wanted. We asked them to talk to her, sing, read, and joke around and to be sure to pray with her before they left the room. They did. They cried. Some told us of their own drug use and we talked to them of resources and recovery. We called parents to tell them their children were using meth with our daughter. Denial is an amazing thing. We cling to it. Denial allows us not to condone what we cannot morally accept. Parents have this trait mastered.

At some point, we could not force ourselves onto the families. Only give them the precious information to keep them from being in our shoes. One father in particular, who loved his child very much, stood with me down the hall from the waiting room. We were friends. He loved Cassie. At one point in the conversation, I remember grabbing him by the coat and begging him to listen to what I was telling him. His child was in trouble. He began sobbing and walked away.

We came to the acceptance of our daughter’s fate at different times throughout those days, as we continued to pray for a miracle. By the 6th or 7th day, we were fully aware that we were not going to get one. At that point, my husband and I knew we had to make a decision about taking Cassie off of the life support. We asked Nicki, our daughter, what she needed to survive this. She said she needed the truth. She needed her dad to gather everyone in the waiting room and get everyone to the same place we were. Greg gathered everyone together, explained the medical aspects of Cassie’s condition and asked for questions. One of our friends was a medical technician and she was able to explain things that Greg could not. It satisfied Nicki. During that time that we were sitting with many people in the waiting room, Cassie was suddenly in front of me. She had on her jeans and a white t-shirt. Her hair was in a ponytail. She was walking down a long tunnel. There was a light at the end of it. She had an aura of soft light around her. She turned to me, cocked her head to one side, smiled and waved, “See you in a little bit, Mom.” My face must have dropped because my husband looked at me in alarm and said, “Do you think something is wrong with Cassie?” I nodded my head yes but could not get up. He shot up and into her room. He came back and spoke softly, “She’s the same.”

During the last days, it was hard to go into her room because she was having such bad tremors and sweats. Her body was contorting so badly that she would stiffen and then she would sweat profusely. They told us our mere presence could be triggering the attacks. I would tiptoe quietly into her room and mindfully tie my arms to my side so as not to touch her. I studied her contorted form. She was still so beautiful. But I could no longer feel the presence of her spirit. I knew she was gone.

A week before she was a perfect 18-year-old, looking forward to graduation and college, volunteering, coaching, and getting good grades. She had room in her heart for everyone. She never judged. She was always gentle. She was such an easy child to raise. Cassie was the most loving person I have ever met. She loved to joke around. She was a Christian. She attended church regularly with us and sometimes brought her boyfriend. Now, she was laying here in a hospital bed, awaiting death, because she used drugs.

We all came to realize Cassie’s fate at different times during those ten days. Nicki waited until the end. Nicki’s request was that we wait the full ten days, and then do one more test on the brain. She said, “Remember, Mom, the doctor said there was a one-in-a-million chance she could come out of this if we wait the ten days.” What parent could resist such a hopeful heart? Of course, we agreed. On the tenth day, after the final test revealed that there were no brain waves, we were faced with having the decision of unplugging the machines. Nicki and I stood at the end of Cassie’s bed. “Nicki,” I said, “When I look at your sister, I see sleeping Cassie.” 

Nicki shook her head adamantly from side to side. With solemn eyes she responded, “No, Mom, I see sad Cassie.” Nicky had reached the same sad place where we were. We prayed and cried and decided as a family to turn off the machines. We would do it the next day.

As we entered the room after they had bathed Cassie and taken her off the machines, I could not take my eyes off of her. No one could. The child, beautiful from birth, had returned to herself again. All of the machines, tape, and tubes that had consumed her were gone. They left swollen, crooked lips, abrasions, and a rash.

They had ravaged the face of the sleeping beauty without her knowing it. I stared at her as the nurses told us she could last for hours or days, but her dad and I were prepared to stay for the duration.

It was through great pain that I brought Cassie into this world, but it did not compare to the pain for the next few hours.

Cassie looked so much better without all of those machines. Her hair was combed and clean. Her clothing and bed sheets were crisp and neatly folded. She didn’t look as fragile as she did with all of the apparatus on her. My eyes stopped surveying Cassie and focused on Sister Monica, who was holding Cassie’s jaw shut. She had her head tilted back as if she was going to give CPR. She explained that when she let go of Cassie’s jaw, that the tongue would slip back and create a rattle. We all stiffened and prepared ourselves for the imagined horror. But nothing, nothing, could have ever readied us for what happened next. Cassie struggled noisily to breathe. I fell to my knees and started the rosary. I was horrified to watch my daughter struggle to breath. Sister joined my prayers, then the rest of the family. I lowered my voice and desperately tried to surrender myself to what was happening. When we finished our prayers, I rose from the floor and lay on the bed with Cassie. I held her in my arms. We all held her. We kept whispering all we longed to tell her.

We made fervent promises about caring for her sister and each other. I sang to her the lullaby I used to sing her and Nicki when they were babies. Her dad rubbed her arms and legs. Nicki put her head on Cassie’s chest. Grandma cried and stroked her.

We stroked Cassie so gently and then whispered for her to let go. We promised her we would take care of Nicki and each other. We told her the depth of our love. We prayed with her and pressed our lips to her face and bathed her with our tears. I kept my hand on her heart. Greg looked at the monitor and said “Look, Mom. We are losing her.” I stared down at my daughter knowing I was witnessing her last few precious breaths, wanting to breathe them in and never release them; they would always be a part of me.
           
Grandma and Nicki had gone to the cafeteria and Greg pulled himself from his daughter and wiped his tears in a hard, defined motion, and left the room. They returned distraught, a few moments later. Pushing everything out of their way to get to Cassie’s body and hold the final warmth one last time. Nicki screamed Cassie’s name and sobbed; Grandma, too.I looked at my family sobbing and then down at Cassie’s face and saw something amazing. I felt my heart stop. Moments earlier, her lips were swollen; her face terribly welted and sore from all of the tubes and tape. I stood in amazement. I called their attention to her face. Everyone stopped crying and looked at Cassie. She was beautiful. All the blisters had disappeared. He face was restored to its usual flawlessness. Her skin tone took on a bronzed cast. She looked as if she had been dusted with glitter. She was the image of people. We looked in awe. Cassie radiated with the presence of the Lord. The gift of her image will remain with us forever.