Twelve years ago, I awoke from a dream after the death of my son. The vision for a book came to me in glaring detail complete with chapters and a title which remained unchanged from that night. The book quickly took shape over 2 months as I wrote through many a sleepless night. The words and emotions poured out of me without explanation. The process then stopped as abruptly as it had started and the book was complete.
As I look back now, I realize that something unexplainable had happened. The book is a true to life story and accurately represents the harsh reality of death. But even beyond the obvious, it represents inspiration and hope. I wish for people to understand that tragedy can and should be used to bring about positive change in the world. It is through our own life experiences that we can inspire people on many different levels not only for the betterment of ourselves but for the betterment of others as well.
Given that today is February 2nd, the worst day of my life 12 years ago, I would like to provide you with an excerpt from my book to let you experience the heart wrenching pain and drama of the night he died.
Life sometimes has a grotesque way of reminding us how fragile we are as human beings. If someone had told me that my son Brian would die at age 18 in an auto accident just four months before his high school graduation, I would have told them there’s no way this could happen. But it did happen.
We had a wonderful life once—me a neurosurgeon, my wife a forensic pathologist, and four smart, talented, beautiful children—the perfect family, really.
Brian was the oldest of four, two boys and two girls, all with different interests and personalities. Kevin, our 15-year-old, is outgoing, confident, and somewhat mischievous. Julie, our 14-year-old, is quiet and reserved. Christie, our 11-year-old, is empathetic and sometimes overly sensitive. Then there was Brian, who was mature beyond his years...
Cindy and I were sleeping when our doorbell rang at 1:00 a.m. I sprang out of bed, and when I opened the door, I was confronted with three of Brian’s friends frantically looking for him and wondering if we had seen him. I told them we had not seen Brian since the basketball game.
Cindy came downstairs and asked what was going on. The boys said that they had been at a party hanging out together earlier in the evening and Brian had left angry. They indicated that they had been looking for him for well over an hour and could not find him.
This didn’t make sense. Brian never just “disappeared,” and it would have been very out of character for him to be angry. We both immediately began calling and texting him, but got no response. This was also out of character for Brian, because he always answered calls and texts.
My wife had just texted him at 10:30 that night to remind him that he needed to pick up his date’s corsage tomorrow for the turnabout dance and that senior pictures were tomorrow as well. He promptly texted her back as he always did and said he would pick up the corsage and be there for senior pictures.
On one level, we both knew that something was horribly wrong. On the other hand, we still hoped that if we could just figure out where Brian was, everything would be okay. Should we call other parents—in the middle of the night?
As Cindy paced the halls, our phone rang. It was the mother of one of Brian’s friends. She said Brian had been in an accident. I’ll never forget my wife’s response that night as long as I live—the sheer horror and emotion in her voice when she responded, “Oh God, no! Please, no! Not Brian!”
My heart began to race. The woman told us that Brian had been taken to St. Anne’s hospital, a level-three trauma center for minor injuries only. I was the on-call surgeon for neurosurgery trauma that weekend for both St. Anne’s and Toledo Hospital, a level-one trauma center for major life-threatening injuries. I frantically called St. Anne’s ER, my hands trembling, and asked them if my son had been brought there.
There was an uncomfortable pause, followed by the response, “You need to go to Toledo Hospital right now.”
I reiterated, “This is Dr. Hoeflinger, and I want to know what is happening with my son!”
“We can’t tell you anything. You need to go straight to Toledo Hospital.”
At that moment, my whole life changed. I knew Brian must have been in a terrible accident and was severely injured.
I started to hyperventilate, and my body began to tremble uncontrollably. I could barely hold the phone as I called Toledo Hospital’s ER to ask if my son had been brought there. Again there was a deafening pause, after which I was told, “Dr. Hoeflinger, you need to come to the hospital right now.” No details would be given to me.
“This is Dr. Hoeflinger,” I repeated, “and I need to know if my son is there and what has happened to him!” I asked to speak to the attending trauma physician on call, Dr. Dziad, whom Cindy and I knew very well.
Again in a somber and flat tone I was told, “You need to come to the ER now.”
When no one would speak to me about my son, I knew that Brian was dead. What a sickening feeling to know that something horrible and permanent had happened to my child and there was nothing I could do to change it.
Cindy called a friend to come and stay with the girls while we drove to the hospital. I vividly remember the ride in my Jeep Grand Cherokee. The weather was cold, and it began to snow. I told Cindy that no one at the hospitals would tell me what had happened to Brian, which meant that he was seriously injured or, more likely, dead. Our bodies were numb in disbelief.
Then we both had the most hideous, yet compassionate thought a parent can have about his or her own child: we prayed that Brian was dead and not badly maimed, to be left a mere vegetable. What a horrible thing for a parent to wish for. But at that moment, it seemed like the most humane thing to wish for. The hardest emotion to describe in words is the realization that Brian had been severely injured, and our wonderful life with the boy we had seen just hours ago was gone forever.
When we arrived at the back entrance of the ER, we were met by Dr. Dziad. It was surreal to straddle both worlds that night, both of us being medical doctors but, more importantly, scared parents. I quickly asked Dr. Dziad what was happening with Brian. He told us in a somber, yet gentle tone, “Brian is dead.”
We stood there for a moment in disbelief, not knowing what to feel or do. Then we walked slowly through the sliding doors. I heard Cindy murmuring, “Not my Brian. It can’t be Brian. He’s such a good boy. It can’t be.” Dr. Dziad hugged her as she started to cry.
My body and mind were painfully numb. There are no words to describe precisely what we were feeling. Our beautiful, smart, happy boy, who had brought so much love and happiness into our lives for 18 years, was dead.
We slowly walked down the back hall of the emergency department and made our way to trauma room 24. There we found our son lying motionless on a cold gurney with a white sheet covering his body up to his neck. His face was pale and cool to the touch. He looked as though he could be sleeping, and I wished he was just sleeping but knew all too well that he was dead and never to return home with us again.
The finality of the moment was excruciating, as it is the finality that forces you to realize that your life can never be the same or go back to the way it was before. That exact feeling, or emotion as you may call it, is indescribable.
Life and Death . . . Two words with such opposite meaning and which inflict such contradictory emotions and yet are so closely intertwined in our lives. As parents, we bring meaning and life into this world through our children. Our lives become defined as a result. We learn the joy, hardship, and responsibility of shaping an innocent life. But a day will come when that life will be taken. For some, death will come too soon. This is the story of my son, Brian Nicholas Hoeflinger, who died unexpectedly at age 18.
"Negativity is like a lock on the world; being positive unlocks this door to a world of infinite possibilities and opportunities.”
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