Some lessons in coping with a loss beyond imagination

The Lakers begin the playoffs today, the Dodgers continue their quest to never lose again and someone will probably advise if the Ducks are still around.

Plenty of time to dwell on them all. OK, so maybe just the Dodgers and Lakers.

But in the last few days some amazing people have e-mailed, folks who have lost a child, or in some cases the innocence they had hoped their kids would never lose while grappling with the realization safety for loved ones cannot be guaranteed.

How many times have you said it, thankful your own lucky life is such that you can still say it: “I can’t imagine”?

No, we can’t, the loss of a child beyond comprehension, everyone left to wonder what it would feel like after the recent deaths of kids such as Nick Adenhart, Courtney Stewart and Henry Pearson, and the damage done to Jon Wilhite.

But some people like Rick, Art, Michael, Vincent, Rob, Tom, Tony, Don and Helen have experienced the incomprehensible, or the ultimate loss, the journalism world usually frowning on the use of the word “ultimate,” but if not here -- where ever?

They wrote of their own losses, the search for answers, some just wanting to mention the names of their loved ones as tribute, and most writing about hope -- as surprising as that might sound.

Amazing people, all right.

And these people live among you:

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Rick Baedeker: “One of the things people tend to say at a time like this is, ‘It was her time to go . . .’ Was that true? Did God manipulate this? Certain circumstances of the crash made me wonder about that. Her car was struck absolutely broadside, exactly in the middle, by the drunk driver. She was killed instantly. She didn’t suffer. Maybe that was the work of a merciful God.”

Seven years ago Baedeker’s teenage daughter, Jillian, and two of her friends were killed by a drunk driver. Two years ago Baedeker talked about his search for answers to a church group, now sharing some of those comments here.

“How did the drunk driver manage to go five miles down Beach Boulevard through several intersections at 80 mph without hitting anything else? Did God orchestrate this? Did he want to save Jill from something in the future? Did he simply want to give Jill and her friends an early gift of heaven? Was the drunk driver just a pawn in God’s hands?

“It is my firm belief the answer to this question has to be a resounding and unequivocal ‘no!’ To do such a thing, God would have had to take away the free will of the drunk driver. I don’t believe God ever takes our free will from us. . . .

“I believe God intended for Jill, Nancy and Chelsea to live long and happy lives. But a man chose to get drunk and drive through red lights -- so Jill and her friends were killed.

“About a month after the crash there was a police car outside. I saw a policeman coming to the door and immediately recognized him. He was the tall officer who was at the house on that fateful morning and had been so stoic, which I never understood.

“He was there to pay us a visit. He told us that ours was the third house that he and the sergeant visited that awful night and he was so sick to his stomach by the time he got to our house that he was bent over in pain on the sidewalk for five minutes before he could come to the door.

“He said he needed to come back because he couldn’t live with the memory of the look in our eyes that morning. He needed to see our eyes again and know that we were OK. . . .

“I was so grateful for that visit. I think we need to recognize and celebrate good deeds such as these. . . .

“I read a story about a young man who had lost his brother and after two years was still overwhelmed with grief. His dad said to him, ‘Son, you can continue to live in tragedy or you can decide to live in tribute.’ Speaking [here] has allowed me to live in tribute to my daughter, Jill, to recall what a wonderful person she was and to do something constructive in her memory.”

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Helen: “I lost a brother when he was 21 to a drunk driver -- his best friend. . . . As a mother and grandmother I had a terrible nightmare last night about losing my loved ones. This had me realize I can love them as much as I want, but I can’t protect them from life. We just have to live it the best we can.”

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Art Estrella: “He was one month shy of his 17th birthday. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think of Brian and miss him. I am no longer the same person I was before Brian’s accident.”

Estrella’s son, Brian, who attended South Hills High in West Covina, died in an automobile accident nine years ago.

“This loss is not about an Angel baseball player who had a bright future -- it’s about three young adults, their lives and the grieving process that will impact their families and friends. A bereaved parent’s worst fear is that everyone over time will forget about their child. Maybe you can write another article one day that keeps the memories alive. Trust me, it would mean a great deal to the bereaved parents.”

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Tony: “We are both fathers. My daughter Sarah was kidnapped and raped while attending college four years ago. I still cannot sleep more than a couple of hours at a time since that horrific day. As unrealistic as it seems, I cannot forgive myself for not protecting her. She was in a fantastic apartment in a great part of town, and even had two other girls there as roommates. The guy kicked in the door with a gun and a knife. No chance to defend themselves.

“Your fear of not being able to protect your kids is real and I live with my failure to do so every day. But we are lucky. My little girl graduated at the top of her class -- she said coming home after the attack would be ‘letting him win.’ As hard as this has been for all of us, my girl is alive and thriving.

“I cannot imagine what Nick Adenhart’s parents must be dealing with.”

In the next month, Tony and his family will be joining Sarah to watch as she receives her master’s degree.

“I do not want to forget what happened to my girl and your column reminded me that we must cherish every minute we have with our kids while we can.”

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TODAY’S LAST word comes in e-mail from Denis Seger:

“I’ll give my 20-year-old son a hug today if I can reach that high.”

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t.j.simers@latimes.com