Chapter 7: The Legend Ends
They say that traumatic experiences help you remember details more clearly. If I hadn't lived it myself, I'd probably say that's bullshit. But even now, I can tell you in very vivid detail, almost minute by minute, about Day 38 Year 57, the day my husband and oldest son died.
I can hear you asking right now, “What do you mean? Your husband and all of your kids were alive a lot later than that.” And you’re correct. I know that now. I didn’t know that then. I didn’t know it for a decade. But we’ll get there. Let me take you back...
It was late in the summer, that part of the year that really should be autumn, but it really is still summer, and my cousin Victoria was in town. Richard and Oliver went out to Brooklyn to watch Aaron (Richard’s dad) coach a football game, Natalia and Chelsea were at soccer practice, Troy and Parker were at a birthday party for a school friend, and Madalynne was my tag-along for lunch with Victoria and Tatum. I remember we spoke at length about Val, about which of us was to blame for our feud, and who needed to be the bigger person and apologize.
As you can imagine, I worked hard to change the subject.
Mom and Aunt Carm met up with us for dessert, and conversation eventually turned to what troublemakers we were as kids and teens, and how karma was gonna get Tatum and me specifically, with Natalia and Chelsea, and Stormy and Rain (Tat’s girls). Then the margaritas came.
Our lunch date was winding down, and I was struggling to zip my sleeping child’s jacket, because I didn’t want to wake her, when my cell phone rang (and of course woke her anyway). It was Lennox Hill Hospital. It sounded like Charlie Brown’s teacher, all ‘wah-wah-wah’ and all I could make out were Richard and Oliver’s name, as well as accident. I shoved Madalynne at Mom, barking at her to go home and wait for the kids, while I jumped in a cab.
I saw Oliver for just about a moment before he passed, everything happening so quickly that I barely had time to process what the staff was telling me. I could hear them telling me that he was dead, that Richard was in another part of the hospital, but somehow it just wasn’t registering. I kept asking to see Oliver first, that Richard would want to know how he was, but they kept telling me they’d take me to Richard.
When they brought me to him… I don’t think there’s any way I can adequately describe what that feeling was like. He was just laying there, strapped in place, bleeding from the head, and I couldn’t help thinking to myself how helpless he looked. This man who’d carried our children around the house effortlessly, sometimes three at a time, who’d held me up in some physically challenging arrangements (don’t worry, I won’t elaborate), who could take down his drum kit and reassemble it again in minutes… strapped to the bed he seemed capable of less than a toddler. For half of that first second, I thought that he was dead. Then I saw his chest move when he took a breath. My first reaction was anger. Do something so he can be comfortable, you incompetent idiots! They told me they were afraid that moving him would be dangerous, and they were waiting for results of some tests or scans (I stopped listening by then). Out of concern for spinal injuries they were keeping his legs, head, and chest firmly in place. All I could do was sit beside him, and try not to cry. Try not to let him know that I could see how bad this was. He slept for what seemed like days, but it must have only been an hour or so when I felt the tug on my hand.
He was awake!
We joked a little about what a bad driver he was, and this is why he always uses a car service. He dropped one of those “you should see the other guy” lines, to which I politely laughed - I’d already heard by then that the driver of the other car died but I wasn't going to tell him that now - and I started to believe he was going to be fine. A surgeon came in to give us a rundown of his injuries. He had a broken arm, and asked how long it would take to recover, and whether drumming would help or hurt in that recuperation; two broken ribs, and the doctor added that he might want to rethink how soon he’d be drumming again; and a concussion. But, they also said he was already in better shape than when he first came in. They were also concerned about other internal bruising and injury, but they said results were inconclusive. By then, I really wasn’t listening, all I’d heard was 'better’ and I was just focused on my husband, and making sure he stayed with me. We talked about the kids, and I broke down. I wanted to wait to break the news to him about Oliver, but once he brought him up… I had to tell him.
And in that moment, I wondered if I had just killed him. I swear, he deflated. I can’t imagine my reaction would have been any different. We’d lost our child, this boy that we’d raised to be a man. The devastation hadn’t hit me yet because it never sunk in. There was a combination of denial and distraction, as I had been refusing to hear when the staff told me he was gone and my focus had been in getting to Richard. But in that moment, actually saying the words out loud, to his father… I was done. I laid my head near his shoulder on the bed and we cried. At some point, he’d fallen asleep.
Letting him rest, I went down the hall to one of the quiet family rooms and called my mother, explaining what was going on, I told her about Oliver, I told her Richard's prognosis was positive, that right now it was just a matter of time and rest. She had things under control with the kids, so I planned to stay overnight at the hospital. I was just tracking down someone who could help me get a cot moved into the room so I could sleep.
And that's when my world came crashing down.
"Mrs. Urban, Mrs. Urban... We need you to come with us."
Absolutely the last thing I wanted to hear. Nothing good comes from that. I was led to a different room, where I was told that Richard's injuries were more severe than they originally believed, and that he'd quietly slipped away while I was in the other room. They wouldn't let me in to see him.
Everything from here is a blur. I have only flashes of memories for the next several days. I remember trying to punch the doctor. I remember being threatened with a sedative. I don't remember how I got home, but I remember walking in the door. I crept up to our bedroom because I didn't want the kids to see me. The next day Taryn was there. I was outside in my pajamas. The boys asked what's wrong. Taryn told them. Natalia and I argued and she said she was going with Mom back to LA. It's all in little snippets, like a highlight reel.
I was a widow.
We had them both cremated, and had a private funeral service. Natalia did go to LA with Mom. Richard's parents ended up taking care of Troy, Parker, and Madalynne. Chelsea just... lived, I guess. I don't know. The first few months passed by in a fog. I did everything wrong because I had no idea how to take care of our kids by myself. I didn't know how to look at them and not see Richard reflected in them all the time. I avoided them - No, I abandoned them. I let Aaron and Mitzi keep them for weeks at a time. I was a mess. Everything I knew had just been taken from me, destroyed. I grew self-destructive because I had a hard time understanding the point of living if I had to do so without my husband.
Of course, you know that about ten years later, we discovered that Richard and Oliver were very much alive, but before that day came... There was a lot of other shit for me to wade through.
I can hear you asking right now, “What do you mean? Your husband and all of your kids were alive a lot later than that.” And you’re correct. I know that now. I didn’t know that then. I didn’t know it for a decade. But we’ll get there. Let me take you back...
It was late in the summer, that part of the year that really should be autumn, but it really is still summer, and my cousin Victoria was in town. Richard and Oliver went out to Brooklyn to watch Aaron (Richard’s dad) coach a football game, Natalia and Chelsea were at soccer practice, Troy and Parker were at a birthday party for a school friend, and Madalynne was my tag-along for lunch with Victoria and Tatum. I remember we spoke at length about Val, about which of us was to blame for our feud, and who needed to be the bigger person and apologize.
As you can imagine, I worked hard to change the subject.
Mom and Aunt Carm met up with us for dessert, and conversation eventually turned to what troublemakers we were as kids and teens, and how karma was gonna get Tatum and me specifically, with Natalia and Chelsea, and Stormy and Rain (Tat’s girls). Then the margaritas came.
Our lunch date was winding down, and I was struggling to zip my sleeping child’s jacket, because I didn’t want to wake her, when my cell phone rang (and of course woke her anyway). It was Lennox Hill Hospital. It sounded like Charlie Brown’s teacher, all ‘wah-wah-wah’ and all I could make out were Richard and Oliver’s name, as well as accident. I shoved Madalynne at Mom, barking at her to go home and wait for the kids, while I jumped in a cab.
I saw Oliver for just about a moment before he passed, everything happening so quickly that I barely had time to process what the staff was telling me. I could hear them telling me that he was dead, that Richard was in another part of the hospital, but somehow it just wasn’t registering. I kept asking to see Oliver first, that Richard would want to know how he was, but they kept telling me they’d take me to Richard.
When they brought me to him… I don’t think there’s any way I can adequately describe what that feeling was like. He was just laying there, strapped in place, bleeding from the head, and I couldn’t help thinking to myself how helpless he looked. This man who’d carried our children around the house effortlessly, sometimes three at a time, who’d held me up in some physically challenging arrangements (don’t worry, I won’t elaborate), who could take down his drum kit and reassemble it again in minutes… strapped to the bed he seemed capable of less than a toddler. For half of that first second, I thought that he was dead. Then I saw his chest move when he took a breath. My first reaction was anger. Do something so he can be comfortable, you incompetent idiots! They told me they were afraid that moving him would be dangerous, and they were waiting for results of some tests or scans (I stopped listening by then). Out of concern for spinal injuries they were keeping his legs, head, and chest firmly in place. All I could do was sit beside him, and try not to cry. Try not to let him know that I could see how bad this was. He slept for what seemed like days, but it must have only been an hour or so when I felt the tug on my hand.
He was awake!
We joked a little about what a bad driver he was, and this is why he always uses a car service. He dropped one of those “you should see the other guy” lines, to which I politely laughed - I’d already heard by then that the driver of the other car died but I wasn't going to tell him that now - and I started to believe he was going to be fine. A surgeon came in to give us a rundown of his injuries. He had a broken arm, and asked how long it would take to recover, and whether drumming would help or hurt in that recuperation; two broken ribs, and the doctor added that he might want to rethink how soon he’d be drumming again; and a concussion. But, they also said he was already in better shape than when he first came in. They were also concerned about other internal bruising and injury, but they said results were inconclusive. By then, I really wasn’t listening, all I’d heard was 'better’ and I was just focused on my husband, and making sure he stayed with me. We talked about the kids, and I broke down. I wanted to wait to break the news to him about Oliver, but once he brought him up… I had to tell him.
And in that moment, I wondered if I had just killed him. I swear, he deflated. I can’t imagine my reaction would have been any different. We’d lost our child, this boy that we’d raised to be a man. The devastation hadn’t hit me yet because it never sunk in. There was a combination of denial and distraction, as I had been refusing to hear when the staff told me he was gone and my focus had been in getting to Richard. But in that moment, actually saying the words out loud, to his father… I was done. I laid my head near his shoulder on the bed and we cried. At some point, he’d fallen asleep.
Letting him rest, I went down the hall to one of the quiet family rooms and called my mother, explaining what was going on, I told her about Oliver, I told her Richard's prognosis was positive, that right now it was just a matter of time and rest. She had things under control with the kids, so I planned to stay overnight at the hospital. I was just tracking down someone who could help me get a cot moved into the room so I could sleep.
And that's when my world came crashing down.
"Mrs. Urban, Mrs. Urban... We need you to come with us."
Absolutely the last thing I wanted to hear. Nothing good comes from that. I was led to a different room, where I was told that Richard's injuries were more severe than they originally believed, and that he'd quietly slipped away while I was in the other room. They wouldn't let me in to see him.
Everything from here is a blur. I have only flashes of memories for the next several days. I remember trying to punch the doctor. I remember being threatened with a sedative. I don't remember how I got home, but I remember walking in the door. I crept up to our bedroom because I didn't want the kids to see me. The next day Taryn was there. I was outside in my pajamas. The boys asked what's wrong. Taryn told them. Natalia and I argued and she said she was going with Mom back to LA. It's all in little snippets, like a highlight reel.
I was a widow.
We had them both cremated, and had a private funeral service. Natalia did go to LA with Mom. Richard's parents ended up taking care of Troy, Parker, and Madalynne. Chelsea just... lived, I guess. I don't know. The first few months passed by in a fog. I did everything wrong because I had no idea how to take care of our kids by myself. I didn't know how to look at them and not see Richard reflected in them all the time. I avoided them - No, I abandoned them. I let Aaron and Mitzi keep them for weeks at a time. I was a mess. Everything I knew had just been taken from me, destroyed. I grew self-destructive because I had a hard time understanding the point of living if I had to do so without my husband.
Of course, you know that about ten years later, we discovered that Richard and Oliver were very much alive, but before that day came... There was a lot of other shit for me to wade through.