Bevin Mugford

Photo: Bevin Mugford

UNSPEAKABLE LOSS. UNENDING GRIEF. A MOTHER LOST HER SON. SHE FOUND HER WORDS AND BEGAN TO WRITE A STORY THAT WILL CHANGE THE COURSE OF THE REST OF HER LIFE.  

By Bevin Mugford

It was the second 24 hours. 

The wind and rain swirled outside, and the sky was a melancholic gray.  I sat wedged into the corner of an oversized chair with my knees hugged into my chest.  Looking out the window, I studied the whitecaps as they danced across the surface of the water. The low drone of a helicopter sounded in the distance.  

I looked over to see the Commander enter the room followed by several officers, each wearing a different colored uniform signifying the agency they represented. I searched their faces for a sign of what was to come, but they gave nothing away. I stood and slowly followed the group up the dark and narrow staircase to the second-floor briefing room.  

As I took my place at the table, I felt my body settle into the cold plastic chair, but I also felt a part of me depart to become a witness to the scene unfolding.  I observed two sets of parents anxiously waiting in the silence.  I saw the Coast Guard Commander organizing and distributing papers around the table.  I noticed the officers beside him deliberately avoiding eye contact with each other and with me.  

The Commander started speaking in a low, monotonous voice, not unkind in tone, but with carefully selected phrases and measured pauses.  I listened as he described the hours of the search in detail and held up maps with multi-colored grids crisscrossing the waters of The Sound. He explained that each color represented the search path of one of the 17 vessels deployed on the water or in the air to find my son.  He spoke about the sonar capabilities of the cutter, and pulled out tide charts, current graphs and water temperature readings.   

“As he droned on, a voice inside my head cried out Why are you spending your time telling me about search areas and the capabilities of your equipment?  You’re wasting precious daylight, get back out on the water and search for my son!  But my mouth could not speak the words vibrating in my mind.”

My attention returned to the Commander as he explained the effect of hypothermia on a body submerged in 52-degree water for a prolonged period.  As he spoke, a devastating awareness landed squarely in the center of my chest.  This wasn’t a simple update.  The Commander was building a case for calling off the search.  And then I heard the words:  

“Survival is very unlikely.”  

Silence fell. I looked up and stared at the Commander.  The voice inside my head still wanted a fight, but the awareness in my chest made it hard to breathe.  My arms, legs and feet felt pinned down with the truth he spoke.  But I did not cry.  Crying was acceptance, and I was not ready for that yet.  I slowly stood up, put on my armor of denial and walked out of the room with desperate hope as my welcome companion. 

Miles of road passed by in the dark as I drove home.  Alone. No conversation. No radio for company.  Just silence as an internal wrestling match raged between acceptance and denial.  A deep cold settled into my core.

Arriving home, I climbed the stairs to my bedroom and leaned against the door jamb for support as I slid to the floor, slowly peeling off my sweatshirt and jeans, still damp from the rain.  

I sat. 

Unfeeling. 

Unseeing. 

Alone. 

Naked.

A shaking began. Uncontrollable spasms originating in my core and continuing out into my extremities.  A violent shuddering that would not stop.  As I climbed into bed, the shaking continued.  I tried to burrow deeply under the covers, but I couldn’t escape the tremors.  

I shook.  

Alone.

In the dark.

Staring into the blackness of the night.  

Suddenly, the shaking stopped, and a heat that began in my feet spread through my body. Even my earlobes and fingertips warmed. A sense of calm replaced the seizure-like spasms.  And then I spoke these words softly aloud,

“Spencer is gone.”

The knowing in my body allowed me to speak the truth.

Laying in the dark, eyes open but unseeing, I felt an urgent, almost visceral need to drop deeper into the moment. I knew something transformative was happening, but I didn’t know what.  And I was unsure of how to fully surrender.   

I sat up, switched on the light and fumbled through my bedside table looking for something to write on. Finding a notebook and pen, I furiously wrote until I filled two pages. And when I was finished, I put my pen down, closed my eyes and leaned back on the headboard to rest.

I had never written like that before.  

Two pages. Words of pain. And of gratitude. Words that began to tell the story of Spencer. And words that began to reveal my own.    

As I reached over to place my notebook back in the drawer, I felt a fundamental shift in my internal awareness. I was now a Loss Traveler. And there was a journey ahead. I could see the path laid out before me, though I could not tell where it led. And I knew there was a story that wanted to be told.  

Bevin is author of a weekly “Saturday Meditation” blog and a to-be-published book chronicling her journey through child-loss.  She also writes and hosts a weekly chat series called “Thursday Thrive” where she explores the intersection of our personal and professional lives in the pandemic/post-pandemic era.  

In her day job, Bevin is a speaker, executive coach and training facilitator with over 15 years of experience in leading people, building high-performance teams and creating innovative learning solutions. A Mom of 4, Bevin is a nerdy researcher, meditation novice and CrossFit junkie.  You can follow her writings on Instagram @bevin.Mugford or Facebook @BevinMurchisonMugford and connect with her professionally on LinkedIn @BevinMugford.