Amid Loss, Grief and Guilt, a Family’s Love Sustains

T he man’s face was a map of pain. I was standing next to him in The Times lobby, at the back-issues counter. He was desperate for a certain copy of the paper.

“Oh thank God!” he said, when the clerk handed it to him.

What could be so important, I wondered.

I almost wish I hadn’t asked. But I tell you his story as a way to honor the short life of a sweet child, as a cautionary tale for parents and to share how one family is trying to make sense of a disaster .

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On a sunny afternoon in February, after weeks of dismal rain, the Diaz family took off from Lawndale for the mountains north of the city. It was a beloved Sunday tradition.

Within an hour or so, they found themselves winding along a narrow canyon road, just north of Castaic Lake. The canyon was beautiful and a tributary of the lake begged a closer look, so Ronald Diaz Sr. pulled over. The family spilled out of the car.

As was his habit, 29-year-old Diaz minded his 2 1/2-year-old son, Ronnie Jr., while his 26-year-old wife, Roxana, looked after Lilian, their baby girl.

Holding hands, father and son walked toward the rain-swollen creek. Ronnie was crazy about the water, his dad says. At the rocky bank, somehow Diaz fell. He landed on his back, and slipped into the water. He was unable to get up and afraid to let go of the boy. Hanging on to each other, father and son were swept into the rushing waters.

“I was holding my baby, holding onto him,” says Diaz, speaking slowly, painfully. “I had him in my arms . . . I had him in my arms and we just went down the river. I was holding him and the waves--it was like everything happened so fast--I got hit by the rocks a couple times, I injured my leg and my arm and my back, and I think one of those waves pushed me down, and I hit a rock and somehow let my baby go because of the pain.”

He managed to get to shore a quarter of a mile south of where he’d fallen in, and began a frantic search for his son.

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L.A. County Fire Department Battalion Chief Larry Rohrer thinks the first rescue units arrived on the scene 30 or 40 minutes after Diaz and Ronnie fell in. Rohrer supervised what ended up being a crew of nearly 30, including three swift-water rescue teams and two helicopters.

“We knew where he went in, but we weren’t sure where he was,” says Rohrer. What had appeared to Diaz to be a “normal flow . . . not very fast” was in fact a dangerous current. At 15 to 20 knots, the water flowed so fast that Rohrer thought the toddler might already have been swept into the lake, more than half a mile away.

But the stream was full of rocks and tree limbs, so he guessed Ronnie was still in the creek. Rohrer hoped the boy had hit a snag somewhere--above water.

Two hours passed. The light began to fade. The helicopters, already working in dangerous territory--a narrow, tree-lined canyon is not the easiest place to maneuver--decided to make one last pass. Someone thought they saw the boy, submerged.

One of the helicopters came in very low and used its prop wash to blow away the water and debris. Now they were certain.

On a hoist, one of the rescuers was lowered from the helicopter. He plucked the boy from the icy water and began to administer mouth-to-mouth resuscitation mid-air. They hung from the helicopter, the man desperately trying to revive the lifeless child, until the pilot found a flat spot to land, a quarter-mile away. The pair was brought on board, and the helicopter flew to a hospital in Valencia.

Ronnie Diaz was pronounced dead about 15 minutes after he was found. The cause of death: “fresh water drowning due to blunt trauma to head.”

*

Grief descended on the family like a shroud. Roxana Diaz did not sleep for two weeks. Ronald Diaz had constant flashbacks.

He says it is a tribute to the strength of his marriage that there have been no recriminations, no attempts to fix blame. There has been only sorrow and bewilderment, and for the father, a guilt that even the broadest shoulders should never have to bear.

“I feel like I killed my son,” says Diaz, his eyes welling with tears. “When I was comforting my wife, she never questioned me, never blamed me. That is why I love my wife so dearly. She knew that no matter what, I would do the impossible to protect my son.”

Because Roxana could not bear the memories, the Diazes moved. In the new house, on a modest block in Hawthorne, there are no signs of Ronnie. No pictures, no toys. His things are in the garage, in boxes. The wound is still too fresh.

Roxana does not really want to talk about Ronnie, she says, although, with great pride, she shows a picture of him that she keeps in her wallet. The photo was taken a month before Ronnie drowned: Brown hair, brown eyes, a laughing face.

“I wish you could have met my son,” says Diaz. “It was better than winning a lottery when he was born. He was so sweet and tender. Such happiness. My son was full of love.

“You ask a lot of questions: What was the reason God took him? Why my son? Why us? What have we done?”

Roxana finds comfort in talking to Ronnie: “I miss you a lot,” she tells him. “I love you, I want to be with you, you are part of our hearts.”

Ronald has learned, in his grief, to treasure what he has. What he has--and what he clings to like a lifeline--are the lovely memories of his only son.