“I looked, and there before me was a pale horse! Its rider was named Death, and Hades was following close behind him. They were given power over a fourth of the earth to kill by sword, famine and plague, and by the wild beasts of the earth.” — Revelation 6:8 NIV

Examination

Pale organs. Pneumonia. Anemia. Heavy heart hypertrophy. Depression. Anxiety. Chronic regional pain syndrome. Multiple prescription medications that may have contributed to Miranda Rose’s death. The medical examiner found no evidence of drug addiction. 

The Manner of Death listed in the Medical Examiner’s final analysis: Natural. In order to better understand the elements that resulted in Miranda’s death, I asked Claude.ai to provide a courtroom report on the toxicological evidence.

Miranda’s attempts to manage her pain and suffering reached the end of effectiveness. Her lungs and heart could no longer provide sustaining levels of oxygen, and her liver could not properly metabolize the medications she used to relieve neurologically induced physical pain or the emotional distress it worsened.

Clinical Tragedy

When you receive an autopsy report of any kind, the most crushing feature is the clinical language. Doctors open their autopsy findings with detachment. 

“The body is received in the supine position in a plastic body bag sealed with an unbroken plastic lock bearing the inscription [case number]. A medical examiner’s band encircles the right ankle and appropriately reflects the above-named case number. The body is that of a well-developed, well-nourished, average-framed 68″, 161 lb., white-skinned woman….” 

These clinical phrases heighten the tragedy. Where once a vibrant young woman lived, Miranda has transformed into a specimen for scientific study. “Dust to dust” garners an uncomfortable overtone. Sweep it up, assess its value, and toss it into a bin. The ultimate injustice.

Missed Opportunities

My daughter clearly did not know how sick she had become in her final hours of life. She didn’t recognize how depleted her heart and body had become over the years, incapable of sustaining a disease. None of us realized she needed hospital-level care for her pneumonia. 

Tragedy occurs when we discover too late what needs to be done. 

The beautiful, joyful girl and woman we knew and loved to be near left us when CRPS took her inside the pain bubble. She only had a few hours a month to reveal that incredible person. All the rest was survival, cover, pain management. 

Long Gone But Not Dead

The report of a death is an exaggeration. 

When a person dies, good qualities rise to the surface while grim interpretations float to the bottom. Let’s not speak ill of the dead. But sometimes, the need for personal justification wraps the truth in a stranglehold. The living hold on to the worst parts of the deceased to protect ideas held during the decedent’s life.

This self-protective delusion comes from an inability or unwillingness to face responsibility for their contribution to the pain and suffering that preceded the death. Someone must take the blame. Why not the one who can no longer speak up?

It’s September 19, 2025. Six months passed since that moment of finality when everything left undone, unspoken, or unsettled came to its climax. 

Sorrow cares not for the barriers we erect to protect our egos. Denouements can last a lifetime in the real world.

Personal Tragedy

In July I had an epiphany. I experienced them a couple of times a week during the first months of loss. This time I realized I’d been doing battle with a ghost. My belief that my daughter’s once-upon-a-time friend group should be held accountable for mistreating her during those long years of pain and suffering kept my internal fists at the ready. 

“Put ’em up, put ’em up!” barked the cowardly lion inside my mind. “Which one of you first? I’ll fight you [all] together if you want. I’ll fight you with one paw tied behind my back.”

Problem is, I can no longer defend her in death like I should have in life. She’s in the hands of the Great Protector. I can punch them all in the face a dozen times with no predictable change in their understanding of her true character. 

Miranda’s sudden death boosted the self-righteous indignation I’d felt toward those who abandoned her when she needed them most. They slandered her with verbalized assumptions about drug addiction and laziness as the causes for her reduced and erratic functionality. 

They are accountable for that. 

But am I not more so? My failure to spend enough time with her, to give her space to resolve disappointments in me as a father and as a man, far surpasses their unwillingness to believe in the sporadic and confounding attributes of her debilitating pain disorder. While they didn’t trust her claims that she could no longer take part in crowds, that she was physically incapable of enduring the vibrations of boisterous people having fun, I didn’t search out solutions for improving our relationship in ways that might reduce her generalized anxiety. 

They may have ignored her constant worries about the exposure of her children to individuals she could not observe. But I didn’t reassure her with a recognizable commitment to their welfare in an overt, outspoken manner that might have provided emotional relief. 

Though they blamed her (accusing her of illicit drug use) for the inability to engage with her children during many of their developmental adventures, I reveled in opportunities to share time with her children without her intrusions. I didn’t always take the time to share those experiences with her so she could benefit as well. 

It was I who did not remind her often and emphatically that I stood shoulder to shoulder with her and understood her distress. I was the one who did not make it easier for her to live with the assurances a father is called to provide. 

The Price of Pain

Hindsight is 20/20, of course. I recognize how I’ve held others accountable for their poor vision while denying my own obligation to do better.

The cost of my hypocrisy was great. In my effort to hold others to the fires of justice, I missed time with my grandchildren, who were shooting off fireworks and laughing with “the enemy” I refused to engage. Anger, disappointment, and the finality of death overwhelmed logic once again. I, for one, stand in need.

Miranda celebrated her 42^nd birthday in Heaven. It’s hard not to believe she’s disappointed in me for not spending this Fourth of July with her children, being present despite myself, being strong and faithful on her behalf. 

Dust Of A Horseman

“After this I looked, and there before me was a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, tribe, people and language, standing before the throne and before the Lamb. They were wearing white robes and were holding palm branches in their hands. And they cried out in a loud voice: “Salvation belongs to our God, who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb.” All the angels were standing around the throne and around the elders and the four living creatures. They fell down on their faces before the throne and worshiped God, saying: “Amen! Praise and glory and wisdom and thanks and honor and power and strength be to our God for ever and ever. Amen!” Then one of the elders asked me, “These in white robes—who are they, and where did they come from?” I answered, “Sir, you know.” And he said, “These are they who have come out of the great tribulation; they have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb. Therefore, “they are before the throne of God and serve him day and night in his temple; and he who sits on the throne will shelter them with his presence. ‘Never again will they hunger; never again will they thirst. The sun will not beat down on them,’ nor any scorching heat. For the Lamb at the center of the throne will be their shepherd; ‘he will lead them to springs of living water.’ ‘And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.’”

Revelation 7:9-17 NIV