Everyone Just Called Her "Viv"

September 1971—The morning started in a rush. I was in kindergarten and my brother in second grade. Mom was in more of a hurry than usual and was not her smiling, upbeat, positive self. It did not take me long to realize that my brother and I had missed the bus. Mom rushed us all into the car, all of us into the back seat, my brother, me, and our good friend Jimmy from across the street, who had missed the bus as well. There were no seatbelts back then, so the back seat was the safest place for kids our age to be. The next thing I remember is pulling out the new Partridge Family album that we had just gotten that weekend to show Jimmy. Mom had let me take it to school for show and tell, and I was really excited to show everybody. As I handed it to my friend, and just as he was turning it over to read off the songs, a Partridge Family tune from the album came over the radio. Yes, at the very moment Jimmy held the album in his hands, I Think I Love You started playing through the speakers. Mom realized it right away and immediately turned it up as we all started laughing and singing to the top of our lungs every word we knew. Cruising down the back road to school, passing my new album back and forth between the three of us, and singing to the Partridge Family with Mom leading the choir—now that is what growing up in the seventies was all about.

And then it happened. A moment in time that came without warning. Like an explosion of energy and speed that seemed to freeze time altogether. We had been hit. And not just hit, but literally crushed—struck with full force on Mom's side of the car by the very school bus that we had missed that morning. All I know is the initial impact and the sound that it made has never really left me. The car rolled halfway onto its side and then spun around until it finally landed in an empty field. I ended up across the other side of the car on the floorboard as my brother flew up into the front seat under the dashboard.

As I came to, I realized what had just happened. I noticed that Jimmy was still in the same place in the back seat and still holding the vinyl record, out of its sleeve, and still in perfect condition. I immediately looked up to the driver’s seat to see if Mom was OK. It was all a blur, but my mom was obviously frantic in the moment. She was all about making sure we were OK as she continued to cover her nose with her hand. I could not tell what had exactly happened to her, but I remember the blood. There was blood all over the steering wheel and blood on her hands and face. Police officers surrounded the car, and I heard ambulance sirens all around us. At some point, we were taken from the car and split up for medical attention. 

The next thing I knew, I was sitting on the floor in the downstairs den of my friend Jimmy's house. Jimmy, my brother, and I were playing a game of some sort as Jimmy's mom, Danna, was fixing lunch off in the kitchen. She had the radio on in the background and turned it up when the great Neil Diamond’s classic, Cracklin’ Rosie, came on. That iconic voice sang those memorable lyrics in a moment of complete fear and stress on my young mind and heart. To this day, that song will always bring me back to that event, as do many great songs of my childhood. They’ve become the markers to my life’s story and many of the events in it. 

We were all worried about Mom, and nothing else seemed to matter. Danna had just told us that she had suffered a broken nose and would need emergency surgery. I could really sense the seriousness in Danna's voice as she kept us informed throughout the day. Danna was Mom's absolute best friend and someone that my brother and I trusted and loved very much. I always felt a sense of true happiness and comfort whenever we spent time at their house. We had to stay overnight a night or two until Mom was able to come home from the hospital. 

What was most important to me, at the age of five, was not really the crash itself, but the fact that Mom needed emergency nose surgery after breaking it against the steering wheel of the car. It was during that operation that the unthinkable happened. While under extreme pressure to give her the blood transfusion that she needed, as things were obviously happening very quickly, she contracted hepatitis C. This was not something you ever wanted to get, especially back in the seventies, when they knew far less how to treat this disease than we do now. This was kept from us, though, and it would be many years before we would learn the truth of that devastating disease.

July 1986—The next thing I remember is my roommate shaking my shoulder to wake up. I opened my eyes and realized that I was still in the same place in my chair, work clothes on, and in my shoes. It was like a dream as I heard him say, “It’s for you,” as he held the phone in front of me.

“She says her name is Collette, and it’s important.”

Startled, I looked at the clock and saw it was now 1:30 a.m. My heart raced with panic as he said the name, Collette. She was a dear friend of Mom’s, and it didn’t make any sense why she would be calling me—especially at this hour. I took the phone and put it to my ear. I began to hear her words, and the next five minutes on that telephone would define the rest of my life in ways that I could never imagine.

On July 1, 1986, at approximately 11:20 p.m., at the age of forty-one, Vivien Lee McDade lost her battle to liver disease. That call with Collette has remained a moment frozen in time, deep in my mind and heart. We all lost that day. The world lost a one-of-a-kind woman. It was a loss felt by everyone she ever touched and by anyone who was fortunate enough to have ever met her. I was riddled with overwhelming pain for hours as my roommate tried his best to help me through it. Eventually, my breakdown eased long enough for my swollen eyes to finally close.

My eyes would eventually open again to the bright sunshine casting through my bedroom window. I looked up with excitement, thinking it was again time to get out and work on that suntan. For a brief second, it felt just like another day until my new reality hit me and knocked me back into bed.

Please tell me I am waking up from a bad dream! No, please tell me!

But, no, I was not. These bricks on my chest taking the wind from me were real. From that moment forward, Mom was gone. The chance for me to hold her hand in Minnesota one last time was over. The phone was no longer going to ring with her on the other end, assuring me she was just fine. And there would certainly be no chance of ever getting that dance she promised. These were just some of the many painful thoughts going through my head as I laid in bed, staring out the window that sorrowful summer morning. 

In the days that followed I spent much of my time in that very place. Curled up, motionless, just staring out my bedroom window. The agony of losing her had completely consumed me. How could this have happened to such an amazing soul? And why? And what was I supposed to do now? Nineteen years old, an entire lifetime ahead of me, and I was now expected to do it all without her. It just did not make any sense, and my mind, body, and soul were devastated.

Present—If there is one thing I know for sure, it is that anybody who ever met this great lady has never forgotten her. With a personality that was bigger than life and a smile that could raise the roof, it is simply no surprise that my mom will forever be missed by all. 

—M. Bradley