Railroadthewriter

Much of my adult life I have been confronted by the dash on graveyard headstones. Whether by self-help gurus pushing you to make the most of your life now (you just need their book or video and if you act in the next 15 minutes, when you buy both, you will get one half price! But wait!…) or a well meaning Pastor encouraging you to make that dash into a strong Christian heritage (you just need their book or video which you get FREE with a love offering of $20 or more…) or the realist at the bar after a couple of shots who claims that in the end that’s all anyone remembers about you- the day you were born and the day you die. The dash is there because no one really cares what happened in between, especially to a average Joe like me. In the big scheme of things, it was just a moment. A glance. A twinkling of an eye. A dash.
I bought him another shot and joined him.
Because one thing is certain and it’s what everyone agrees on, whether they are selling you a book or a headstone, the moment between is never long enough.

But when my son, Clayton, died from “fentanyl toxicity” on March 8, 2025, one month shy of his 24th birthday (Born April 18, 2001), the concept of the “moment between” took on an entirely new meaning.
Whatever Clayton ingested that fateful night was either laced with fentanyl or the fentanyl was more potent than he had planned. There was no evidence that he intended anything more than a normal dosage as he clearly intended to play games online with his cousins. He was alone at home and in his room with the door closed when I found him dead. (He lived with his Mother at the time and she was out of town.)
As I stood in the parking lot and the Police and First Responders managed the scene, they kept coming up to me and asking me if I had administered Narcan after I found him. I had not.
So, a few weeks later, once the shock wore off and we were finished with his memorial service, the reality surrounding the question, “Did you administer Narcan to your son?” began to sink in: No one else had been there.
He had administered it to himself.
He knew he was in trouble.
Already a deeply heartbroken Dad, contemplating this moment- the moment between life and death, action and consequence- began to consume me and to take me even deeper into despair.
Even more often than being confronted with the dash on the headstone, I have also been told about the “flash”- which is said to happen just before you die- where your life flashes before your eyes.
In that moment between, did Clayton get to see his life flash before his eyes? Was it all the good times we had on our road trips? Was it all the fun he had as a happy child when we were all together? Was it the fun he had with his friends and cousins? I hope it was all the good stuff.
But before all that, when the “uh, oh” moment happened, and he administered the Narcan, was there a lucid moment where he knew he wasn’t coming back this time? If so, what did he think? What did he say? What did he do?
Did he cry out to God for help or mercy?
Did he try to call 911 or someone else?
Did he think of me? Did he say, “I’m sorry, Dad” and that he loved me?
I know he loved me. He loved everyone more than himself.
Did he know how much I loved him?
I would like to think he thought of me but then I remember that I wasn’t there and I couldn’t hear him and I couldn’t save him.
The moment between wasn’t long enough.
I always thought there would be another day. Another chance to make it all right. But his dash stopped.
And although Clayton was cremated, I couldn’t help but notice the inscription on the front of his urn: Robert Clayton Rowland, 2001- 2025.

I should stop here but a stark comparison comes to mind with the passing of my Mother, Peggy, on August 3, 2026. She lived a long, full life (Born November 21, 1940) but suffered from advanced Alzheimer’s Disease the last couple of years. The last year and a half she was bed-ridden, confined to a hospital bed at home, and was unable to care for herself or even communicate clearly most of the time. She had, comparatively, a long time to contemplate the end that was coming, but did she? Could she?
Clayton had his right mind for a fleeting moment and Mom had a questionable mind for over a year. Did her life flash before her eyes in dreams and visions as she laid there, hour after hour, day after day?
Did she think of me?
Did she know how much I loved her?
I was there when Mom passed away, asleep in another room.
She had began to suffer the last couple of days so when she had breathed her last, I was not in shock, I was more relieved.
My son suffered from addiction for many of his 24 years and he died suddenly and alone.
Mom only suffered a couple of days in her 85 years and died in her home with people she loved and who loved her.
And yet her headstone reads just the same: Peggy J. Rowland, November 21, 1940 – August 3, 2026.
24 years or 85 years, life is just a dash.
Make it count so when the flash comes at the end, even if no one else cares, it will make you smile.