Growing up, my two boys, Chase and Shaun, spent a lot of time with their German grandfather, Opa. He would welcome them to his house with a twinkle in his eye and the promise of adventure. He might take them fishing, hiking, bird-watching—they never knew. “Where are we going today, Opa?” they’d beg to be told.
“Buxtehude!” he would practically shout.
In real life, Buxtehude is a pretty town that sits on the Este River in northern Germany, but for generations in my family, its name has symbolized a kind of wonderland. “Buxtehude is where dogs bark with their tails,” Dad told me when I was little. I pictured a magical place where dogs frolicked and joy abounded. A bit like heaven, I guess, to a little girl.
But as the boys got older, the idea of Buxtehude faded, as if obscured by darkening clouds. My younger son, Chase, broke his neck in a high-school lacrosse game. The resulting paralysis left him in a wheelchair. He still had some movement in his arms but little in his hands. Chase was determined to stay active. He still believed in Buxtehude, I suppose. He joined a wheelchair users’ group that went fishing and did other outdoor activities together. He took college classes and even had a truck specially outfitted so he could drive.
One morning Shaun, a volunteer firefighter at the time, woke my husband and me before dawn. “My chief is downstairs,” he said, his voice quavering. “Chase was in a wreck. He didn’t make it.”
I felt a part of me die just then too. Chase had held on so tightly to life after his injury. As if a defense mechanism had kicked in, I threw myself into practical details: notifying friends and family, making sure we donated Chase’s organs, arranging the funeral. The telephone had rung right after Shaun had given us the terrible news, but we hadn’t picked up. Hours later, my husband checked our voice mail. The message was only a few seconds long, but when he listened, his jaw dropped. “What is it?” I asked.
He handed me the phone.
It was Chase’s voice. Chipper. Excited, even. He said only one word, one beautiful word: Buxtehude.