Ray's an ER doc, and he's lost young patients before, but none of that can prepare you for the day it's your own child. As friends and family, you wish there was something you can say, or something you can do for them. And there is absolutely nothing there. During the funeral service, one of the rabbis talked about a noted rabbi who had died years before on the same day that Jenny did. He had said that when he died, not to mourn him, but to celebrate him, that it marked the completion of his mission in this life. Well, that's great if you're an old man. You can't say that about a 19-year old girl. I don't see what comfort that's supposed to be. I've been here before with Brian, and it isn't any different.
For me, the low point came yesterday afternoon. The way a Jewish burial works, they lower the casket into the grave first, then bury it, and then say the burial service. What I never want to have to see again is the look on my friends' faces as they watch people shovel dirt onto their daughter, or their sister. The intensity of such a thing is just beyond words. I started to lose it when I saw Jake losing it.
You can't wish that on anyone. You can't.