On losing my son
This is for me. If you want to make a nasty comment, go copulate with yourself. I'm writing to make sense of what happened, although I know there's zero chance it'll ever make sense. However, the intellectual exercise of writing it will make me feel better. These are not sections from interviews or sheriff's office or other reports, simply my understanding of those reports.
It is detailed. Very talented writers have told me I dwell on details and write a story to death. Such is my unbreakable habit. This story contains every detail I remember. If I remember more, I will come back to edit it in.
It is explicit. While I've refrained from the gore, every fact is detailed. Not a word about "ew" k? According to Live Journal, this contains Explicit Adult Content. Please heed that warning. It's your only one.
ETA: I have written this over many hours, many sessions, many tears. I continue to edit the original post as my mind discovers details it has missed and corrects those it's gotten wrong. It's not complete. I add when my heart allows.
This may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, in any way.
a bad idea
On November 02, 2007, at approximately 10:45pm EDT, a very smart boy made a very stupid choice.
Earlier in the evening, he found a gun. The location of discovery is unclear, although it was local to the neighbourhood of incident. He and his friends played with it, loaded and unloaded it. As the child of a former police officer, my son knew well how to load, unload, and safe a weapon. At 10:45, somehow the idea popped into his head that playing with it loaded would be fun. In the way of all teenagers who believe they are invincible, he did that very thing. He played with a loaded gun. Looking at his friends who'd spent part of the evening doing a little pot and being a little rebellious, he said, "It's party time!" He put one bullet into a chamber, spun the cylinder, and pointed the gun towards his head.
At this point, eyewitness reports differ. Even trained observers have faulty recollections under stress. None of the boys were trained observers, just kids being dumb. Some say, he deliberately pulled the trigger. Others say he had his finger on the guard and it slipped. Still others say he cocked it and it just went off. Regardless of the precise mechanism, the gun fired. It is agreed by professionals based on the reports of witnesses as well as reports from family and friends that this was not an intentional suicide, only an intentional act which resulted in death.
The firearm is a .38 calibre revolver, six chambers, make and model are classified at this point. The serial numbers had been filed off. The Sheriff's Office continues this case as open until the origin of the firearm is discovered.
The bullet, found to be a standard issue hollow point of typical manufacture, entered just below the left ear into the temporal lobe. Upon encountering bone, the bullet fragmented. The proximity of the barrel to the skull and calibre of the firearm allowed the fragments to continue through the brain. Fragmentation resulted in impingement of 70% of the brain. The damage to the brain stem was severe and ultimately fatal. Whatever understanding, pain, recollection, or thought he may have had lasted but a millisecond and then was cut. Coma was instantaneous. He immediately slumped to the floor.
Fragmentation prevented a large exit wound, although the inter-cranial pressure caused a "punch out" on the upper right skull above the ear in a near straight trajectory from the entrance. Additional punch outs were visible via CAT scan and during autopsy. Since the bullet was of a small calibre and the barrel was close to his head, it caused only a small entrance hole and bleed out was minimal. Due to the internal damage, full bleed out and death was inevitable.
the bravest soul
One of the boys called 911; the other boys ran. The remaining boy who called 911, sat on the floor next to my son, his friend, lifted my son's head into his lap, and talked to him while keeping contact with the 911 operator. It is agreed by both the attending physicians and Medical Examiner that my son was comatose. The words were of small comfort only to the remaining boy who so bravely stayed with his friend.
The closest responding EMS unit was ALS (Advanced Life Support). Their response time was 9 minutes; 15 minutes would have been acceptable based on distance and road conditions. Upon entering the home, they found my son bleeding moderately and unresponsive. The brain stem had been severely damaged, but a portion remained intact and functioning. My son continued to attempt respirations, although it is agreed that this was residual electrical activity and not true or sustainable brain function. My son was intubated and his head wound stabilized. A large-bore IV was inserted to rapidly infuse him with blood expanders.
911 had notified Life Flight, which was enroute as EMS/ALS stabilized. EMS/ALS transported my son out of the neighbourhood to the nearest major highway, approximately 4 miles away. At approximately 11:14pm, he was transferred to the Life Flight helicopter and then onto the hospital. The flight nurse immediately notified the hospital of a Level 1 trauma enroute. My son is registered as having been transferred to hospital staff on the landing pad at 11:23pm. ER trauma physicians automatically continued respiratory assistance and piggybacked O-negative blood to combat the bleed out, although that was inevitable after the first x-ray revealed the fragmentation.
During the flight, a Deputy Sheriff contacted my son's father, who lived nearby. He in turn contacted my husband, who contacted me. During their exchange, I had been on the telephone with my oldest daughter to wish her a happy birthday a couple of hours early. I was deployed to San Diego, CA to assist with the Red Cross relief efforts for the Southern California wildfires.
Less than three minutes after I ended my conversation with my daughter, my husband called. He informed me that my son "had been shot. We don't know much, but we know he's alive." Right or wrong, this was a lie on his part. He knew it. In my heart, I knew this was a lie. As a mother, I've always been able to reach out mentally and find my child. When my children are separated from me, I can tell if they're ill or ok. When I reached out to my son, he was not there. I accepted the lie as is knowing disputing it would serve no purpose. I told him to call me as soon as he knew something. He and my two daughters left our home to travel the hour to the hospital.
going home
I hang up the phone and start packing my clothes. I stand there naked; I had disrobed to read and then to sleep. As I pack, I call the travel agency that handles Red Cross travel. They attempt to book me on an 11:30pm flight. However, due to the distance of my hotel from the airport, I know I cannot safely make the drive. I opt for the first flight the next morning at 6:30am. It's just before 10pm PDT. Knowing I had to awaken at 2:30am to check out, drive safely to the airport, turn in my rental car, and get through security, I chose to simply pack and make the trip immediately. I know that at some point, I will need to cry. I don't know when that will occur and I want to be at the airport before I lose it.
I call my supervisor to inform him I'll be flying home on the first flight out, as well as update him on operational issues he will confront the next day due to my absence. He is not only my supervisor, he's been my equal on jobs, and he's been my instructor during class. He's also my friend.
During my drive, I realize I hold a Red Cross gas card, which has to be returned. I call the night shift technician and inform him I'll be stopping by and why. Over the previous week of working together, we've formed a friendship. Friendships happen quickly on deployments. I drop the card, accepting his well wishes, and proceed into San Diego. My supervisor calls and suggests he pick me up and drive me. I decline; I am already on the road and in control. He suggests he meet me at the airport. I again decline knowing he has to work another 16-hour day tomorrow. He's already been on the job 11 days without a day off and sleep is a precious commodity on the job. He says ok and we hang up.
Somehow, I miss the turn off to the airport and quickly find myself less than 3 miles from the Mexican border. I turn around and call the night shift technician. He has map access. He talks me to the exit, which I simply missed. I find the proper exit and proceed to rental car return. As I stand in line, tears begin leaking. The agent wants the contract to the car, which wasn't the original car I signed out. On jobs, cars float between people. I return to the car and finally find the original contract. I hand it to her. She asks if I am ok and I politely say, "My son is dead and I'm flying home." We finish our business and I sit outside to wait for the shuttle. I call the number for the ER charge nurse and talk to her. I give her my cell number and tell her to call me if anything changes. I know it won't.
At this point, I don't need to be in such strict control of myself. I ride the shuttle to the airport and allow tears to flow quietly. As I walk in, I find my supervisor and friend waiting on me. He says, "There's no way I'd let you sit alone in an airport all night. You need to rest too, come sleep in the car."
I decline and suggest he go sleep, even if he won't leave for the hotel. He declines as well. Stubbornness is a trait that's appreciated and cultivated on deployments. We sit in the lobby of the San Diego airport and he listens to me talk about my son; his childhood, the funny things that made him who he was. He also listens to me opine about the incident, how it could have happened and why.
During our talk, my husband calls back. He had spoken with the charge nurse. My son was transferred from the ER into the SICU (Surgical Intensive Care Unit) and had had a second evaluation. My husband gives me the number of the SICU charge nurse, so I can speak with her directly. I call her and she relates to me much of the basic medical status I quote here. I tell her my flight won't leave until the morning, but that I know it wouldn't matter. My only concern is that my son had chosen three years ago to be an organ donor. She is aware; his father has confirmed the information when asked. I tell her to do whatever is necessary to save lives, even if that means my son will go into the harvest surgery before I see him.
I return to talk to my friend and after 90 minutes, I realize he will get no sleep at all if I don't relent. I do and we go to his car. My luggage goes into the trunk, he climbs into the front, I climb into the back seat, and I lay there. I doze enough to say that I am not fully awake the entire time, but I don't sleep. I set the alarm on my cell phone, set the loudest setting, and put it next to my face. At 4:30am, it goes off. He walks me into the lobby where we sit in the same place we'd been just a couple of hours before. The airport is waking up and I see the ticketing personnel arrive. At 5am, a line begins to form and I stand in it.
I tell my friend, "I'm here and I'm safe. Take care."
He smiles gently, "I hope the future is kind to you." We hug and he leaves.
flying headblind
I stand in the line and call my husband. It's after 8am EDT and I know I can get information. He tells me there is no change from the night before and asks if I'd like to talk to the transplant coordinator. I say yes and called his number. He answers, a soft voice, a dulled Welsh accent, and I nearly lose it. Before he can say much, I firmly reiterate that the first priority is the patients waiting on transplant. He tells me that my ex-husband, my son's father, has signed the paperwork and they are working on making matches. No surgery time has been set. The line begins moving towards the kiosk and I tell him I will arrive no earlier than 5pm EST. I thank him and disconnect. I quickly move through the ticketing line and then through security. I am somewhat amazed, but yet not, that I'd remembered to repack my backpack with those things approved for carry on. I don't remember doing that.
Once in the lobby area, I call my husband and let him know I'd board within twenty minutes. I softly cry. We both know his soft assurances that things would be ok were a lie. I'd never loved him more than at that moment. Lie or not, he knew I needed to hear those words. As I softly speak with him, unabashedly within earshot of other passengers, a stranger walks to me, hands me a package of tissues and says, "Honey, I think you need these more than I do. Bless you." I cry a little more, but feel better. The kindness of a stranger is never forgotten. I don't know her name, but I will never forget her face or her voice.
I hang up with my husband and another call immediately comes in. I recognize the number and shut off the tears. It's my Emergency Services Director letting me know everything regarding my deployment had been settled. Normally, one takes an entire day to sign out of a job. She and the chapter COO had personally vouched that I held no Red Cross equipment that either wasn't chapter property or that wouldn't be returned as soon as possible to the job. My phone beeps; the battery is low. I realize I did forget one thing at the hotel. My charger. I tell her my battery is low and we quickly say goodbye. As soon as I end the call, my phone shuts off. I feel alone and terrified. What if something happens in the next eight hours? I almost began crying again, but boarding begins.
I look at my ticket. It's a first class ticket. The Red Cross doesn't fly anyone first class, not even its National CEO. I am sure it's a mistake and I know I'd rectify it when I got home. I had no idea that the Volunteer Coordinator at my chapter and the chapter COO agreed to pick up any cost above that which National HQ would pay. I sit and realize a meal will be served. I wait, I sniffle, and try not to cry. While I am fine with crying in the terminal, sniffling in such close proximity to other passengers would be rude.
I eat the tasteless meal. I have no idea what I ate. Egg something, fruit something, a piece of bread of some type. Once the seatbelt light goes off, I stand and retrieve a bottle of medication from my backpack. I'm a lifetime insomniac; I have something to help me sleep. Logically, I know I'll need it. I read until I fall asleep. At random times, I awaken. A noise, a voice, a cramp. Otherwise, I sleep. I awake as the plane is flying over Alabama. After a quick trip to the restroom, I return to my seat. A few minutes later, the captain puts on the seatbelt sign and we begin our decent into Atlanta.
outward lying, inward crying
As soon as we land and the seatbelt sign goes off, I stand, grab my backpack and laptop, and rush down the jetway. I am the second person off. A steward answers my question about phone chargers and I rush to the store, thankfully on my way to my connecting gate. I purchase a charger and cringe at the $30 price tag. Legal robbery at its best. I go to my gate and eye the walls for a socket. Luckily, one is on a post right next to my gate. I plug in my phone and turn it on. It turns off immediately. I impatiently wait twenty minutes. As the gate steward announces boarding, I turn it on and pray to the Goddess for kindness. It turns off again. I wait until the second set of seating zones is called and try again. It stays on as long as it remains plugged in.
I call my husband who says there was no change. He informs me that our closest friends would be picking me up from the airport. I ask him to hand the phone to the transplant coordinator. It's just after 1pm.
"Have you begun the harvest surgery?"
"No. The medical teams are on their way. Matches are still being made."
Relief floods me at the same time deepest dread rakes across my soul. "I'm in Atlanta and my flight is boarding. It will land at 3:50pm. I cannot make it to the hospital before 5:30. If you must do the surgery before then, do it. No matter what, do not wait on me. I need to go."
"We'll follow your wishes. Here's your husband."
The steward announces the final call for boarding. "Final boarding, I need to go. I love you. Take care of my babies."
As he says, "I love you," I turn off my phone. I grab my things and get in line. Only a few boarded after me. I seat myself and know I can't sleep anymore. I continue reading my book, Brother Odd by Dean Koontz, a favourite author and series. It seems strange that a book should block my thoughts, but it's not. Koontz is a favourite, I quote him often. His sense of humour mirrors mine in many ways; I connect easily with his characters. Today, I am simply thankful that for a few minutes, I can forget the pain. Soon, the captain announces our decent into the airport.
On arrival, I notice the flight is early. I exit the flight, one of the first off, and head to pick up my luggage. After retrieving it, I find a wall socket and plug in my phone and charger. I turn it on and call our friends. She's picking me up at the airport and taking me straight to the hospital. He's picking up my car and some things for my youngest daughter, their goddaughter, and following. She tells me her location and the plan, then we hang up. I estimate the time to her arrival and call my husband to tell him I've arrived and am waiting on pickup. I tell him my approximate arrival time at the hospital. He asks if I want to speak with the transplant coordinator. I said yes.
"I've landed, but my ride isn't here. If we make it by 5:30, it'll be close. Have you begun the surgery?"
"No. Matches are still being made and the surgeons aren't here."
"Will it begin before I can get there?"
"I don't think so."
"Please wait until I get there. If at all humanly possible, please wait."
"We will. Be safe."
moving through concrete
A few minutes later, I go outside to the curb, stand silently, look at the cars and wait. I don't remember thinking anything, just existing. That feeling would come back many times.
Soon after, she arrives. She pulls to the curb and gets out to assist with my bags. We quickly load up and leave. Traffic is light and I have hope we'd get there sooner. On the ride, she listens to me speak about what I know and what I expect to happen. She listens me to my bafflement. Why would he play with a gun of any kind? Why? That question would return many times. It lives in me now. It always will.
We make good time to the hospital. At 5:15, we pull into the parking garage. The first parking space we find is next to friends of my older daughter. She stands there, looking so young and so lost. I step out of the car and she comes to me. She hugs me fiercely, softly saying, "Mommy" for the first time in over a decade. We stand there. She is alive, she will continue to live. Although I want to see my son, the living take precedence. I comfort her for another minute. She quickly introduces her friends, my son's friends, who had seen him and were leaving. I later will learn that the stream of friends was constant all day long, but graciously tolerated by the staff.
"Let's go see your baby boy," she says. My son, just days from being a legal adult, is my baby, as she is, as my youngest daughter is. Baby boy is exactly the right term.
As we walk through the parking garage and down the elevator, I remember the last time my son was in this hospital. It was just after his birth. He'd been born 5 weeks premature at 9:31am. By 10am, the doctors were looking for beds in Neonatal Intensive Care Units (NICU) across the country. The first bed was found in Michigan and plans were made to fly him out that afternoon. At noon, a bed opened just twenty miles away. A bed in this hospital. In the first 7 days of his life, the doctors had to restart his heart 4 times. I knew then that every day I had with him was a gift of borrowed time. Time was up. Those early fears passed through me, flashed through me, and floated away. My son was dead already, fear could not find a place to rest within me, only numbness.
We walk into the hospital and meet family at the entrance. My nephew, a grown man now, opens his arms. He fills me in and let me know he is "coordinating" for everyone. Whatever anyone needs, he gets. He takes my hand and says, "They declared him [dead] at 10:30." I stagger. I knew he'd been declared; that's the only way transplant procedures can begin. But hearing it horrifies me and breaks the remaining thread of hope in my heart. For a second, I hate the messenger. As he grips my hand, he says, "I'm so sorry. I thought you knew."
"I did." Deep breath. "I did."
As we walk down the hall, I pass my former father-in-law. Today as in every day since our first meeting, he looks through me as if I don't exist. Not a word of condolence, not a breath of regret at past differences. Indifference reigns in him, as always. I walk into the SICU waiting room and then into the unit. One must pass through a door, being held open by family and friends who are leaving and entering. My son was well-loved. He'd never met a stranger; strangers were only people he hadn't made friends with yet.
I walk in and see a most lovely woman, a nurse. I know immediately this is the woman whose voice has carried me across the country. I see my ex-husband and his parents, my sister and her children, my husband and my younger daughter. With the slightest squeak, she comes to me and holds me. "Mommy," she says so quietly. My husband comes to me and envelopes me. I look at the room before which they'd all crowded. Through the doorway, I see a form on the bed.
Turning to my ex-husband, "I need to speak with you now."
I pull him aside and say, "You signed the papers? He's a donor?" He assures me he has. "Good, now let's go see our son." I know he expected accusations and recriminations. My soul will hurl them later at him from afar, but I will never voice them. He'd made his own hell; his eyes tell me that.
I walk toward everyone; they part and fall in behind me. I look back and see hope on my ex-husband's face. Hope? Why? Why me? Why now? He'd never hoped for anything from me other than my instant immolation. Why would he look at me for hope? I glance at the other faces and see love, fear, hope, and relief. I realize at that time, that no matter what else happens, I have to remain a pillar of strength. The only face I see that allows for my own humanity is my husband's. I see resignation and sadness. I know I will be a pillar of strength until we are alone, then he will become my pillar and I can crumble.
of stone and glass
I let go of my daughter's hand and walk into the room. I push the curtain back and walk to his bedside. The medications they'd given him have swollen his face. At least, that's what the nurses said aloud. Yes, that is somewhat true, but I also know that what I see is pressure expansion and soft tissue damage. Around the top and sides of his head are towels. In an effort to spare everyone the gore, they've covered his injuries. Comically, he looks like a man wearing a nun's wimple. While it should have been a comical image, even now it is not. That is simply how he appears.
He has been on a respirator the entire time. Because of the circumstances, his hands are bagged. While I can touch him, I can not hold my son's hand. A few weeks down the road, this will incite such a deep rage in me at him, at his actions. Irrational, but true. I touch his left arm, the side closest to the door. I feel everyone at my back. I touch his soft cheek and silently beg him to open his eyes. The futile efforts of a mother never dim. I will him silently to open his eyes as I walk around the foot of the bed to the other side. Slowly, they come into the room. More than a dozen people crowd into the room. I look at him, I kiss his cheek and silently say, "I love you, baby boy."
I look up, determined not to break down. "Come on, gather around." I reach out and hands reach back to me. I move as close to the top of the bed as I can. I put my hand on his chest, taking with it the hands that are already in mine.
"Touch him, say goodbye to his body. Everything that was him is gone. This is only a shell, the container that gave his personality and mind a medium to love us. He is dead, but he lives within us. In our hearts, our minds, and our memories. As long as we live and remember him, he will live. Touch him, say goodbye."
Tears flow, a few of mine, many of theirs. All present hold his arm, his leg, touch his chest, his cheek. I look into each face and smile a smile of love and comfort. My ex-husband receives the first look of love and comfort in over a decade. His slights to me aside, he loves his son as I love my son, his son, our son, and nothing else matters. Humanity wins out over the past, or at least it should. I gaze into each face and withdraw my hand.
Soft murmurings of love, goodbyes and I usher them into the hall. "No one has really slept and I know no one has really eaten." I look at my nieces, "Where are the kids?" The replies are "with friends" and I tell them, "Check on your kids, go get them if necessary, this is done."
My older daughter says, "I can't stay. I can't." She is held by various family members, but doesn't come back to me. She's trying to be an adult, to hold it together. She does a good job, as her heart is breaking.
I turn and see my younger daughter. Her face asks me to hold her, while her voice stays silent trying to be strong, to be an adult. I hold her. My oldest daughter finally relents and comes to me. I hold them both and walk into the room. I leave everyone in the hall and pull close the curtain. We walk farthest from the door and I speak to them softly.
"It's ok to cry. He deserves every tear. Let it go."
They cry, they kiss his cheek. My older daughter rubs his arm and puts her head on his shoulder. "I love you, little brother. I love you so much." Tears flow faster. My younger daughter just rests her head on his arm. I stand there with them, wishing I could take their pain. As much as I hurt, I would still take their pain. My older daughter stands, "I gotta go, Mom." She leaves the room.
My younger daughter stands and speaks. "Do you know what happened? I do. I know. He was playing Russian Roulette. Fucking Russian Roulette. He just did it. He was playing. He didn't want to die. He didn't do it on purpose." I hear in her voice what her words don't say. She wants to believe this is an accident. She is correct in that it was unintentional. She does not know it for a fact, she just needs to believe. I nod and hold her.
"I know. He loved life and he loved you." She holds me and I feel the tears seep into my shirt. This is the first time she's really cried the entire time. She is her mother's daughter and I am her rock. "You need to eat."
"I'm going with him [ex-husband] if that's ok."
"That's fine." We walk out of the room and to my ex-husband. My older daughter is holding onto family. A frightened bird, she stands on the edge of flight.
To my ex-husband, I say, "She says she's going with you. She needs to eat."
"That's ok with me," he says.
She and her godfather go downstairs for her things; he still has my keys. I speak again to my nieces. "Head home, we'll meet you there. We need to eat." No one has eaten properly and one niece is 7 months pregnant. Food is a true concern, but honestly, I want everyone to leave, so I can have a few minutes alone with my son. I realize I'll get it later, but I want it now. They've had all day with him; I need time now.
My oldest daughter tells me she cannot stay, she needs to go home. She is her father's daughter, avoiding the immediate and dealing with it in her own time. Our friends are going back home and will take her home too. I send them off with hugs and expressions of thanks and love. My ex-brother-in-law and his wife assist his mother, who is in poor health, out the door. I send them off with hugs as well. My sister stands lost next to my husband and ex-husband. I walk to the nurses station, to the only man there.
"Hello."
"Hello, I'm sorry for your loss." I know immediately this is the transplant coordinator, the soft Welsh accent is more pronounced now, and it again is almost my undoing.
"He signed the consent form?" I simply won't believe it until I see it. The coordinator guides me to an office desk and shows me the consent form. It has my ex-husband's signature on it. I take a pen and sign underneath his signature. I date it. I look at the coordinator and say, "I want it perfectly clear there is no doubt and will be no regret. This is my son's wish and it will be carried out." He assures me the teams are on their way and tells me there is no rush. The surgery won't begin for a few hours.
"It won't hurt, right? He won't be in any kind of pain in any way."
"No, it won't hurt." He so gently answers the question for which I already have the answer. But I needed to hear it from him; I needed him to tell me that he won't hurt my son.
I nod, stand and leave the office. I return to the huddled group and say, "Ok, everyone home. We'll meet for dinner, then I'll come back for the surgery."
"I can't do that," my ex-husband says.
I know this of him. "That's fine. Take our daughter and get her fed. I'll call you tomorrow."
the living come first
He leaves, my nieces and nephew leave, my sister leaves. My husband remains. "I need to go home tonight. I don't have my meds."
"We'll get them, but first we need to eat. Figure out where we're eating." I turn and go back into the room. I close the door behind me. My sister pokes her head in before I reach the curtain. "Figure out where we're eating and sleeping tonight. I'll be out in a minute." She closes the door.
I walk to his bedside, the light fading outside. The muted light in the room highlights his swelled features. I touch his arm and make him a promise. "I'll be back once I get everyone settled. Mommy will be back." I touch his cheek and leave the room.
"Ok, what's the plan?"
My husband says, "We're all meeting at your sister's house, then going to eat somewhere local. Then I guess we're going home."
I turn to the nurse, "I'll be back for the surgery. What time?"
"We don't know yet. We'll call you," she says.
We all leave the SICU and head to the parking garage. Even now, I have no idea who rode with whom. I believe I rode the fifteen miles alone. My husband believes someone rode with me. After asking, no one is sure who rode with whom. The fog of exhaustion and disbelief covered us all. As dark falls, we arrive at my sister's. My pregnant niece quickly goes inside to get her purse and we head to Ruby Tuesday's. It's the closest restaurant that serves real food and can immediately accommodate a group of six.
As we sit around the table looking at the menu, the waiter takes our drink orders. He comes back and takes our food orders. Conversation is about the mundane, that night, the next step. One of my nieces works for a local hotel chain and she books us a room at her hotel, a little more than five miles from the hospital, for the night. My husband reminds me that he must get his medications, especially after being awake for more than twenty-four hours. We agree that he will drive his car home and my sister and I will follow in mine. We will all three return in one car. At some point, one of us will not be suitable to drive. Looking across the table at my sister, we both realize we need some time to decompress together, for my children are her children and vice versa. She too has lost a son.
Our waiter brings our meals, empty plates for those of us doing the salad bar. I load my plate and sit down. It occurs to me that this will not be over tomorrow, a Sunday. My husband will need at least Monday off and there are friends to tell of the news. I grab his phone, which has all the necessary contacts, and head outside. I'm not hungry; I don't eat much during a mission. I am most definitely on a mission to get everyone settled so I can return for the surgery.
I call his boss, the maid of honour at our wedding, and two other friends of specific social circles. I tell them of the news and ask they spread the word. His boss ensures me my husband has as much time off as he needs. After twenty minutes, I return to my warming salad. I nibble; others eat as if a feast. Each of us follows the needs of our bodies.
We leave from the restaurant, sending the nieces and nephew home to tend to their children and themselves. They too have had a long day and long days are not helpful to a healthy pregnancy. My husband heads off and we follow. My cell phone rings. It's a local number. I answer it.
"Hello, your son's surgery will be at 3am."
"So, 3am right now, 2am once clocks go back."
"Yes, that's correct."
"I'll be there about 1am. I'm driving home to drop off one of our cars and get clothing and medications for my husband."
"See you then. Be safe."
blindspot
My husband is one light ahead of us passing a car wreck on the other side of the road. As I brake for the stoplight, another driver rear-ends me. I see it coming and ease up on the brake, so she is hitting a moving vehicle. I get out and look into the car that's hit mine. The driver is still on the phone and probably was during the accident. I'm furious; I finally have a target for my anger. I stomp back and look at the driver, who gets out of her car in the middle of traffic. I come to my senses. I too am standing in the traffic lane, my sister is driving my car around the corner since there is no way to pull off the road.
"Meet you over there with the other accident," on the other side of the road is a highway patrol officer already working that wreck. I begin walking to my car, waving my sister over. She drives to me and we sit at the light. I've lost sight of the other driver. We go through the light and pull into the parking lot. It occurs to me that the company I've chosen to do my son's headstone, who did my mother's headstone just a year before, is right next door. It's almost funny. The other driver hasn't arrived.
"I bet that bitch left the scene." Just then, a car turns the corner and pulls into the parking lot. "I bet that's her." As I get out of the car, I walk back and look at the bumper. There is no damage that I see. I don't have time for this. She's driving a Volvo and sees no damage to her car. We both know she's at fault. I ask, "Are you ok?" She nods. I borrow a flashlight from one of the emergency responders and take a closer look at my bumper. The slightest bit of paint is gone, but only in two spots smaller than the end of my finger. She looks at her bumper and sees no damage. I look at her and say, "If you're good, I'm good to go." She nods again. I get into my car, my sister gets into the passenger seat, and we leave.
I call my husband to tell him of the accident, the reason we're so far behind, and that we're ok. I tell him we'll probably be 10 minutes behind him.
On the ride, which lasts a little more than an hour, we chat about the shooting as well as incidentals. She does her best to comfort me knowing there is no comfort. I accept her offers knowing they're out of love. She's hurting too. We talk about our kids when they were younger. We laugh about things that my son did as a child. Soon, I am home. We quickly head upstairs. Already my husband is getting his medications and clothing. I take the time to grab a couple of pictures of my son. My medications are in the back of my car. I need no clothing; I'm packed for a three-week deployment. Within fifteen minutes, we are on the road.
On the way back, we continue chatting, including my husband, comforting him, remembering that he lost the son of his heart, though not of his body. Just after midnight, we return my sister to her home. "I'll call you tomorrow afternoon sometime. We'll come back here before we leave for home." Hugs and words of love are passed and we leave for the hotel. Just twenty minutes later, we arrive. I quickly check in, since the reservation is in my name, I drop all of our gear and kiss my husband. Murmurings of love and I'm out the door.
I know this area well. I have plenty of time, no rush. I do the speed limit, purposely paying more attention to the road than necessary. I cannot break down. I still have a duty to my son. I was with him the second he was conceived. It's my duty to remain with him until the end, until I must hand him off to professionals to do their job.
I arrive at the hospital and quickly find a parking space in the almost-empty garage. I walk inside, the same path I walked just a few hours before. This time, I walk alone.
The security guard at the desk asks, "What room are you visiting?"
"241 in SICU to visit my son."
"How is he?"
"He's dead. I'm here for his organ harvesting."
"I'm terribly sorry."
I take the pass and walk away. Unintentionally, I've been unkind. In my forthrightness, I've made him uncomfortable. I know I must apologize when I return.
I take the elevator to the second floor and take a wrong turn. Luckily, it's a huge square. I end up at my destination just a minute later than I would have. I go into the family waiting room and pick up the phone. The door is electronically locked. One must request entrance.
"Hello?"
"Room 241 to see my son."
a mother's duty
The door buzzes, they need no other information. I walk in and smile at the nurses and doctors. They see so few smiles here in this place of sickness. It's the least I can do for them. My son's nurse gives me a hug. I pull his picture from my pocket and show her.
"This was him at 13."
"Adorable, I could see that about him right away. Light spirits fill the face even in sleep." I turn away, smiling at her comment.
The curtain to his room is open and a nurse sits at the patient table with his chart. She fills out forms, checks machines, replaces empty bags of medication.
"I'll be done in a few minutes."
"It's ok. Do whatever you need to do. We can't help him anymore, but lives are at stake here." Indeed they are.
I brought a book, Brother Odd continues, but I know I won't read it. I may look at it vainly trying to read, but I'm incapable. I can't stop looking at the silent form on the bed. Many moons ago, I attended college as pre-med. Years of Dr. Mom and reading gave me a well-rounded layperson's medical education. I know they'll answer my questions, but first, I want to answer them myself. Moreover, I need to move around, else I begin to scream.
I stand and move to the bank of monitors on his right. The ventilator sits breathing for him. He's brain dead, the remnants of life are man-made, ruffling the veil between life and death. On the left, an IV, bags of medication, his heart monitor. All actors on the stage, none of their machinations are real. I read the bags. Although I recognized the medications then, the names escape me now. The first one I look at is an antibiotic. The second is an anti-coagulant. The nurse hangs another bottle of O-negative. I told them his blood type, but they say it's better to continue on this path.
I begin asking questions about the details of their ministrations, anything to fill the silence. Although I am one of the least rattled mothers they've seen, they know I'm simply coping, lying with my facial expressions and dying inside. As the nurses move around, I try to stay out of their way. I need to participate in some way and they know it; they tolerate my fumblings. I soon realize I'm in the way and sit down again. The nurse sits and makes notes in his chart.
"He was always laughing. If you didn't have a smile, you had about 20 seconds to find one or he'd give you one of his own. He'd do just about anything to make people smile." I reach into my pocket and bring out his picture again. "Smiles were his currency and he gave more than he ever received." She continues to listen to me talk about him as a child, the plans he had for the future.
"I shouldn't tell you this, but his heart will go to a young boy who would otherwise be dead by Christmas," she relates quietly.
"Thank you. That helps. There's a lesson in this. Everything happens for a reason." I say it aloud; the platitude is comforting for now. Bless her for listening and for giving me a straw of hope to grasp. I only remember her name as Lisa, but that may well be incorrect.
I quiet, knowing they have work to do. I sit looking at him, torn between logic and emotion.
"He's breathing, he has a heartbeat," so says my heart.
"Artificial respiration sustains his heart, look at the monitors," logic asserts.
"But he's warm, he's alive, he'll wake up."
Back and forth, the mental sparring continues. I watch the nurses move. I see the clock on the wall. I've been here an hour, I'm losing track of time. It's passing too fast. My chest grips and panic tries to set in, but there's no room. Numbness has the market for now. I see people gathering at the desk immediately outside his room. I see white coats, I hear them speaking in clinical terms about my son, The Donor. I want to yell at them that he's not a donor, he's a boy, a child. I really just want to go pound the hell out of them, to vent the building rage with bloody knuckles and sweat. I also know they're doing their job and I have to do mine.
My job is to sit here, to talk to him because it'll be my last chance. To see his face, to touch him, to remember him in better times, to remind my inner child that it's ok to hurt and to be fearful of life without him. My duty is a Mother's duty, to protect him while he's vulnerable, to sit watch while he sleeps, to never leave him alone regardless of how painful this is for me.
A pair of nurses enter, the female says, "We need to make some preparations. We'll need to move him around a little. Is that ok?"
"Ignore me. Take care of your patients."
She looks at me oddly. I think she questions my sanity. I question it too sometimes, but not now. Right now, it's about the patients awaiting transplant.
They check the connections and pull back the sheet and warming blanket. He's wearing a compression vest to help prevent fluid retention. It's time to remove it. They unbuckle the front, then gently roll him towards me, to his right to slide it beneath him. They roll him gently to his left and I see the bed under his head. A two-foot long triangle of faded red, thinned blood leaking from his wound. I look at it in a detached manner, noting it, the colour, the approximate fluid loss, detailing safe biohazard procedures, clinically making mental notes. It's only a five-second glimpse, but I won't look away. I won't avoid it. I simply turn off the emotional sensors and continue recording the scene.
painfully awake
I look at the clock again. Another half hour has passed, less than thirty minutes to go. I should be sleeping, but I can't. Not yet. I wonder if I'll ever sleep again.
The medical professionals gather in a larger group at the desk, speaking more softly, glancing into the room, questioning the nurses as they exit, watching me watching them. My face is impassive, at least that's the expression I intend. However, I've been told that my impassive face reads more like "I will fuck you up if you get near me" and I imagine it reads such now. I smile softly and look back at the bed. Under other circumstances, yes, I'm a mother bear protecting her cub and strangers are enemies.
As I watch you right now, I'm taking your measure, judging whether or not I trust you with my son's final moments. Not a single pair of eyes is lacking or evasive; each conveys sorrow for me and hope for patients waiting for another chance at life. I cannot fault them for their hope or anticipation. I want to, but I can't. I stand at the foot of his bed. I can't sit still. It seems wrong to sit comfortably right now. My duty station is at his side. I stand guard silently, watchfully.
The Transplant Coordinator comes into the room along with my son's other nurses, those who have cared for him and his family throughout the day. I learn that most are off-duty, but have stayed out of respect. My throat catches. Yes, these people are worthy of my trust, of the care of my only son.
Two doctors follow the nurses. One is introduced as the primary surgeon for the harvest procedure. The other is an anaesthesiologist. My emotions warn of danger. "What does a brain dead child need of an anaesthesiologist?" I demand.
"I'll monitor his oxygen level, heart rate, and other blood chemistry throughout the surgery." I nod, accepting the logical answer. Now is not the time to lose it and logic slams the door on emotion.
I look at the Transplant Coordinator, himself a registered nurse. "What matches were you able to make?"
"Heart, lungs, liver, kidneys, and pancreas, so far, although we're worried some organs may not be suitable." He continues listing levels of various body chemicals. I listen, knowing enough to see that there may be a problem, yet not fully understanding the depth.
The lead surgeon suggests, "Perhaps explain those to her?"
The Transplant Coordinator says, "For some reason, I thought you were a nurse."
"Not a nurse, but I've done a little more than watch "ER". I get it. You'll let me know later what was transplantable?"
The Coordinator asks, "After the surgery, I'll call you. Will you be awake?"
"Probably not, just leave a message." Looking at the lead surgeon, "I'd like to stay and walk to OR, if that's possible."
"Certainly. You don't strike me as the hysterical type."
With a smirk, "Not in this lifetime, love."
With a nod and a gentle smile, he leaves the room. The anaesthesiologist follows, as do the remainder of the gaggle of assistants. Only his nurses remain, those on and off duty.
"We'll be going in a few minutes. We'll leave you for a little bit."
the next goodbye
The nurses leave the curtain and door open. I close the curtain to understanding eyes. I return to his bedside, looking at the vessel of my child's life.
"You were such a kind child. You weren't perfect and half the time, I didn't know whether to hug you or beat your ass off its frame. That's right, I'm talking to you. You knew how to play those green eyes and dimples, didn't you?" Smiling and nodding, I continue, "You knew limits and you pressed them. I wish you hadn't tempted fate, baby. There's a lesson in this, huh? I wish you could tell me what it is. Just once more." Tears leak slowly; it's almost time to let it all go. I sit down and look out the window at the night. I look again at him and being praying for his soul to have a gentle trip across the darkest waters.
As I look at him, it seems as though his body is glowing, not just from the light above his bed, but from within. I feel warm, comforted, as if I'm being hugged. Even now, I can make medical sense of the phenomenon, but my heart would rather I accept it as is. A hug from my son to let me know he's ok. Yes, he's ok. If I close my eyes and reach out for him, I don't feel him here, but I feel him elsewhere and know he's safe. "Take care of yourself, tell your grandmother I love her, have fun with your granddad. You'll like him. He smiled at strangers too."
I hear them now, a little louder than before. I hear papers rustling, clipboards, the door to the unit opening as many people walk through it. It's time. I stand and walk to him. I touch his face, his arm, his chest. I smile at him, seeing him as he is meant to be seen, smiling and laughing, green eyes sparkling, not laying in a bed, hooked to machines, dead everywhere but in my heart. I say goodbye to the body I watched grow from infant to young man.
I pull back the curtain and nod at the nurse in the hallway. I return to stand by his bed. Nurses enter carrying equipment. Everything that is stationary must now be made portable. The mobile ventilator is placed at the foot of the bed and tubes quickly switched. An IV pole is attached to the bed and bags are moved. The heart monitor roles, so it's unplugged from the wall for its short walk on battery. As they move quietly and efficiently, I move out of the way. The anaesthesiologist steps next to the bed, checks the equipment readouts and nods. He smiles at me and I nod and step back into the corner.
The orderly unlocks the wheels. The doctors walk through his room door followed by the nurses. The orderly pushes the head of the bed while a nurse gently pulls the foot. I walk behind the orderly into the hallway. He moves to the side and I slide up to the head. As they move through the unit doors, I put my hand on the head of the bed. Slowly, we walk down a hallway. We pass visitors who turn their head in curiosity. He's now a thing, no longer my smiling little boy. Tears begin to flow and I don't stop them this time. It's almost over for me. We turn the corner towards the OR unit. I see the doors looming ahead. This is where I have to let go. But I can't, I can't let go. If I do, it'll be the ultimate defeat, I'll have given up. Logic reigns again, but the tears don't stop. They leak in worn tracks down my ravaged face.
At the doors, everyone stops. A final moment for me; I cannot thank them enough for that. "Are you meeting someone?"
"No, I came alone. His father couldn't handle this, neither could anyone else. But I'm his mother," as if those four words explain it all. They nod, the doors stand open, and they wait. "It's ok, I'll be ok. Go, there are lives at stake. His has ended, but others are in jeopardy. Go."
"Are you sure? We can wait a minute."
"No, it's time." I touch his shoulder, brush his cheek. "My son is dead, this is only his body, but it still has worth if you hurry." The orderly wheels him through the doors, the doctor glances at me solemnly. I know that look, that look says, "I have children too."
Tears flow more quickly. "The work you do, the transplants," I can barely speak, my throat is so tight, my emotions only marginally contained, "That is the work of God. Works for the good of humanity will save us all." I close my eyes, I can't look at his receding bed. "Go to work. Go." She walks through the door and I turn away.
Goodbye sweet little boy. Mommy loves you.
the longest drive
I walk away, down the hall and back towards the security desk. The same guards are there. I gently lay the pass on the desk and nod. "I'm sorry for your loss," they say. That phrase is comforting now, but soon it will incite rage, as many other things will. I nod in acknowledgement, knowing I cannot speak. Years of lessons at my mother's knee, lessons of carriage and dignity even in the face of disaster, support me. My knees would buckle without those lessons.
I walk into the parking garage and to my car. Tears stream and I don't bother to wipe them away. I start my car and leave the garage. My vision is somewhat blurred, but it's early morning, people are asleep, and the roads are mostly clear. I drive slowly, knowing I can't afford a ticket. More specifically, I can't afford to stop. I have a limited amount of time before I collapse. I need to be back to the hotel before that happens.
Although it seems like many miles, it's less than ten. I pull into the parking spot, lock my car, and walk into the room. I pray my husband is asleep. I quietly disrobe and take my meds. I don't sleep well under the best of circumstances. Without the medication, I won't sleep at all. I crawl under the covers, feeling my husband's warmth. I curl against his side, a woman the physical size of a twelve-year-old with the mental state of a terrified little girl.
"My baby is dead. My baby is dead." I sob now, not trying to contain the pain, the rage, the terror. "My baby is dead." My body is wracked with sobs, with more pain than I've ever endured, with hopelessness. I cry as the medication works quickly on my empty stomach. I mumble, "My baby is dead," and drift deep into torment.
commence shutdown
I wake at 10am, just six hours of sleep, but I know I won't get more. The nightmares came, but I can't speak of them now. I will later. My husband is awake beside me, holding me. I kiss him and move to the bathroom. There are things to do. We bathe, pack a few things, and check out. We'll sleep at home tonight. I need to be at home. We head north and drive by the hospital. My child's body is no longer there. The Medical Examiner took custody immediately after the harvest.
Harvest, I used to hate that word when talking about organ donation. It sounded clinical and even creepy, but I now found comfort in the symbolism. Though life of one has ended, it continues to help others live and carry on. Yes, harvest is the precise word.
We continue to Panera, a place well-known for calorie-laden goodies. Fuck the diet, right now. I want what I want. We go inside to eat and to call my ex-husband. This location is close to his home, but neutral ground. The next discussion won't be easy. I don't want either of us to begin it while feeling defensive. He says he'll meet us at noon. It's just after 11am. After eating, I realize I have nothing on which to make notes, so we head down the strip to a dollar store. I find a Pirates of the Carribean spiral bound notebook that's small enough to fit in my purse. Perfect. We head back to the car.
"I need just one thing," my husband says.
"You can talk about it when he gets here."
"No, I'll say it now. I want an ME (Medical Examiner's) report. That'll help make it final for me and close it out. It helped with my Dad."
"Ok," and I stood there and made a note of it. We grab our laptops and head inside.
Once inside, I start looking up numbers for various vendors. The nearest place for food, the funeral home, the headstone company. I planned events for a number of years and that part of my brain is in gear. My emotions, my rage, I've shutdown. Those programs need to remain offline until I get home. La Maquina. I open a word processing program and begin typing notes. After two sentences, I discover I'm not typing notes, I'm typing a funeral notice. How ironic that my penchant for details should be so useful. I type it, it's succinct. It remains to this day the best bit of writing I've ever done. Three cheers for "Report Writing 101" in the police academy.
I make notes over the next half hour and have a rough outline when my ex-husband arrives. He sits next to me and my husband leaves. He feels this is our time. If we want his input, we can ask. Otherwise, he'll stay quiet by going outside. He too is on the edge and doesn't want to make matters more difficult with a slip of phrase. It's quite funny that my ex should call my husband his "rock" and even more amusing that the animosity my ex harboured for my husband seems to have vanished. Is that the lesson? To forgive old hurts?
As we talk, my ex mentions that his father is willing to pay for the funeral expenses and wait on the insurance policy to pay. I have only one reservation and I voice it immediately. "I appreciate the gesture and I accept with the understanding that this is OUR son and WE will make the arrangements. If they have preferences, they will be considered. However, they have no say in the final plans." I know my former father-in-law and his penchant for using money as a weapon of manipulation. By damned, that will not happen with my son's funeral.
My ex says he understands, but I doubt. Regardless, I've said my piece. We begin with the essentials, the funeral home and the service. Yes, the funeral home that did Mum's funeral may be available. I've already called and left a message. Mark is a trusted family friend. He will take care of our son properly. The service shouldn't be stuffy. Though my son knew how to write a thank you note and which fork to use in a formal place setting, he was an open, friendly child. His service should reflect that.
Yes, there should be a few to speak, but it shouldn't be open mike. Choose carefully. I will speak last. Yes, I think the food should be our son's favourites too. Yes, I trust your brother and sister-in-law to handle the food. My sister will help. In lieu of flowers, I hope people give to charities, which ones? We chose the American Red Cross General Disaster Fund and LifeLink Organ Procurement Foundation. Our son would have approved of both.
"While I was in San Diego, I mailed him a letter. I'd like it back unopened." A simple request, but one of the most important I'll make.
"No problem."
"The girls will want to choose music for the service. They'll probably want to do a video too of pictures. Get everyone started on that. Email them or I'll pick them up, scan and return them." He nods. He knows I can plan; he says something only when he has a preference. "Who has his internet accounts? Lock that up and change the info." He nods again.
"I wrote a funeral notice. Could you proof it?"
"Sure." He reads and adds only that he'd like to have all of the step-parents listed, current and former, as well as any half-siblings. That's easy to fix and I do so right then. At that time, I didn't know his former step-mother, someone with whom I'd had serious legal contentions, had remarried. I used her former name. I simply didn't know, but I will later feel guilty about not calling to confirm. Despite our differences, she loves my son too. That phrase continues to rear its head... despite past differences.
The remainder of the choices are made, including that I'd do the flowers for his funeral. It'll keep me busy over the next week and I know I'll need to do something. As we talk, the funeral home returns my message. He confirms that he's available this coming Saturday. We book the time and make an appointment for the following day to cover details. I make note to call the Medical Examiner; my ex offers to do it for me. I accept.
My ex mentions that his father has offered his plot at a local cemetary. I decline, saying that the family plot where my parents are buried is where our son belongs. He belongs with his grandparents. My ex graciously acquiesces. Final choices are made and I ask one more thing.
"Could you give my cell number to the lady who owns the house where he died? I need to visit this place, to see it. I'd like to see his room too, if you don't mind." He agrees and calls her to ask if she's ok with it. She suggests he give me her number so we can speak directly. I write it down and we part. He has things to do. So do I.
***************** continued in further posts ****************
How could he do this? I'm so angry at him. How could he play such a game knowing the consequences. Knowing the pain this would cause. I'm so angry. Such a fucking selfish thing to do. Deeply rage flows through me, cutting at me like rushing water against rocks. And because I must, I allow it to flow out of me at times, quiet times, times that will not upset my younger daughter. But it flows and it continues to boil up from the deep. Acidic, deadly. I don't know when it'll stop.
It is detailed. Very talented writers have told me I dwell on details and write a story to death. Such is my unbreakable habit. This story contains every detail I remember. If I remember more, I will come back to edit it in.
It is explicit. While I've refrained from the gore, every fact is detailed. Not a word about "ew" k? According to Live Journal, this contains Explicit Adult Content. Please heed that warning. It's your only one.
ETA: I have written this over many hours, many sessions, many tears. I continue to edit the original post as my mind discovers details it has missed and corrects those it's gotten wrong. It's not complete. I add when my heart allows.
This may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, in any way.
a bad idea
On November 02, 2007, at approximately 10:45pm EDT, a very smart boy made a very stupid choice.
Earlier in the evening, he found a gun. The location of discovery is unclear, although it was local to the neighbourhood of incident. He and his friends played with it, loaded and unloaded it. As the child of a former police officer, my son knew well how to load, unload, and safe a weapon. At 10:45, somehow the idea popped into his head that playing with it loaded would be fun. In the way of all teenagers who believe they are invincible, he did that very thing. He played with a loaded gun. Looking at his friends who'd spent part of the evening doing a little pot and being a little rebellious, he said, "It's party time!" He put one bullet into a chamber, spun the cylinder, and pointed the gun towards his head.
At this point, eyewitness reports differ. Even trained observers have faulty recollections under stress. None of the boys were trained observers, just kids being dumb. Some say, he deliberately pulled the trigger. Others say he had his finger on the guard and it slipped. Still others say he cocked it and it just went off. Regardless of the precise mechanism, the gun fired. It is agreed by professionals based on the reports of witnesses as well as reports from family and friends that this was not an intentional suicide, only an intentional act which resulted in death.
The firearm is a .38 calibre revolver, six chambers, make and model are classified at this point. The serial numbers had been filed off. The Sheriff's Office continues this case as open until the origin of the firearm is discovered.
The bullet, found to be a standard issue hollow point of typical manufacture, entered just below the left ear into the temporal lobe. Upon encountering bone, the bullet fragmented. The proximity of the barrel to the skull and calibre of the firearm allowed the fragments to continue through the brain. Fragmentation resulted in impingement of 70% of the brain. The damage to the brain stem was severe and ultimately fatal. Whatever understanding, pain, recollection, or thought he may have had lasted but a millisecond and then was cut. Coma was instantaneous. He immediately slumped to the floor.
Fragmentation prevented a large exit wound, although the inter-cranial pressure caused a "punch out" on the upper right skull above the ear in a near straight trajectory from the entrance. Additional punch outs were visible via CAT scan and during autopsy. Since the bullet was of a small calibre and the barrel was close to his head, it caused only a small entrance hole and bleed out was minimal. Due to the internal damage, full bleed out and death was inevitable.
the bravest soul
One of the boys called 911; the other boys ran. The remaining boy who called 911, sat on the floor next to my son, his friend, lifted my son's head into his lap, and talked to him while keeping contact with the 911 operator. It is agreed by both the attending physicians and Medical Examiner that my son was comatose. The words were of small comfort only to the remaining boy who so bravely stayed with his friend.
The closest responding EMS unit was ALS (Advanced Life Support). Their response time was 9 minutes; 15 minutes would have been acceptable based on distance and road conditions. Upon entering the home, they found my son bleeding moderately and unresponsive. The brain stem had been severely damaged, but a portion remained intact and functioning. My son continued to attempt respirations, although it is agreed that this was residual electrical activity and not true or sustainable brain function. My son was intubated and his head wound stabilized. A large-bore IV was inserted to rapidly infuse him with blood expanders.
911 had notified Life Flight, which was enroute as EMS/ALS stabilized. EMS/ALS transported my son out of the neighbourhood to the nearest major highway, approximately 4 miles away. At approximately 11:14pm, he was transferred to the Life Flight helicopter and then onto the hospital. The flight nurse immediately notified the hospital of a Level 1 trauma enroute. My son is registered as having been transferred to hospital staff on the landing pad at 11:23pm. ER trauma physicians automatically continued respiratory assistance and piggybacked O-negative blood to combat the bleed out, although that was inevitable after the first x-ray revealed the fragmentation.
During the flight, a Deputy Sheriff contacted my son's father, who lived nearby. He in turn contacted my husband, who contacted me. During their exchange, I had been on the telephone with my oldest daughter to wish her a happy birthday a couple of hours early. I was deployed to San Diego, CA to assist with the Red Cross relief efforts for the Southern California wildfires.
Less than three minutes after I ended my conversation with my daughter, my husband called. He informed me that my son "had been shot. We don't know much, but we know he's alive." Right or wrong, this was a lie on his part. He knew it. In my heart, I knew this was a lie. As a mother, I've always been able to reach out mentally and find my child. When my children are separated from me, I can tell if they're ill or ok. When I reached out to my son, he was not there. I accepted the lie as is knowing disputing it would serve no purpose. I told him to call me as soon as he knew something. He and my two daughters left our home to travel the hour to the hospital.
going home
I hang up the phone and start packing my clothes. I stand there naked; I had disrobed to read and then to sleep. As I pack, I call the travel agency that handles Red Cross travel. They attempt to book me on an 11:30pm flight. However, due to the distance of my hotel from the airport, I know I cannot safely make the drive. I opt for the first flight the next morning at 6:30am. It's just before 10pm PDT. Knowing I had to awaken at 2:30am to check out, drive safely to the airport, turn in my rental car, and get through security, I chose to simply pack and make the trip immediately. I know that at some point, I will need to cry. I don't know when that will occur and I want to be at the airport before I lose it.
I call my supervisor to inform him I'll be flying home on the first flight out, as well as update him on operational issues he will confront the next day due to my absence. He is not only my supervisor, he's been my equal on jobs, and he's been my instructor during class. He's also my friend.
During my drive, I realize I hold a Red Cross gas card, which has to be returned. I call the night shift technician and inform him I'll be stopping by and why. Over the previous week of working together, we've formed a friendship. Friendships happen quickly on deployments. I drop the card, accepting his well wishes, and proceed into San Diego. My supervisor calls and suggests he pick me up and drive me. I decline; I am already on the road and in control. He suggests he meet me at the airport. I again decline knowing he has to work another 16-hour day tomorrow. He's already been on the job 11 days without a day off and sleep is a precious commodity on the job. He says ok and we hang up.
Somehow, I miss the turn off to the airport and quickly find myself less than 3 miles from the Mexican border. I turn around and call the night shift technician. He has map access. He talks me to the exit, which I simply missed. I find the proper exit and proceed to rental car return. As I stand in line, tears begin leaking. The agent wants the contract to the car, which wasn't the original car I signed out. On jobs, cars float between people. I return to the car and finally find the original contract. I hand it to her. She asks if I am ok and I politely say, "My son is dead and I'm flying home." We finish our business and I sit outside to wait for the shuttle. I call the number for the ER charge nurse and talk to her. I give her my cell number and tell her to call me if anything changes. I know it won't.
At this point, I don't need to be in such strict control of myself. I ride the shuttle to the airport and allow tears to flow quietly. As I walk in, I find my supervisor and friend waiting on me. He says, "There's no way I'd let you sit alone in an airport all night. You need to rest too, come sleep in the car."
I decline and suggest he go sleep, even if he won't leave for the hotel. He declines as well. Stubbornness is a trait that's appreciated and cultivated on deployments. We sit in the lobby of the San Diego airport and he listens to me talk about my son; his childhood, the funny things that made him who he was. He also listens to me opine about the incident, how it could have happened and why.
During our talk, my husband calls back. He had spoken with the charge nurse. My son was transferred from the ER into the SICU (Surgical Intensive Care Unit) and had had a second evaluation. My husband gives me the number of the SICU charge nurse, so I can speak with her directly. I call her and she relates to me much of the basic medical status I quote here. I tell her my flight won't leave until the morning, but that I know it wouldn't matter. My only concern is that my son had chosen three years ago to be an organ donor. She is aware; his father has confirmed the information when asked. I tell her to do whatever is necessary to save lives, even if that means my son will go into the harvest surgery before I see him.
I return to talk to my friend and after 90 minutes, I realize he will get no sleep at all if I don't relent. I do and we go to his car. My luggage goes into the trunk, he climbs into the front, I climb into the back seat, and I lay there. I doze enough to say that I am not fully awake the entire time, but I don't sleep. I set the alarm on my cell phone, set the loudest setting, and put it next to my face. At 4:30am, it goes off. He walks me into the lobby where we sit in the same place we'd been just a couple of hours before. The airport is waking up and I see the ticketing personnel arrive. At 5am, a line begins to form and I stand in it.
I tell my friend, "I'm here and I'm safe. Take care."
He smiles gently, "I hope the future is kind to you." We hug and he leaves.
flying headblind
I stand in the line and call my husband. It's after 8am EDT and I know I can get information. He tells me there is no change from the night before and asks if I'd like to talk to the transplant coordinator. I say yes and called his number. He answers, a soft voice, a dulled Welsh accent, and I nearly lose it. Before he can say much, I firmly reiterate that the first priority is the patients waiting on transplant. He tells me that my ex-husband, my son's father, has signed the paperwork and they are working on making matches. No surgery time has been set. The line begins moving towards the kiosk and I tell him I will arrive no earlier than 5pm EST. I thank him and disconnect. I quickly move through the ticketing line and then through security. I am somewhat amazed, but yet not, that I'd remembered to repack my backpack with those things approved for carry on. I don't remember doing that.
Once in the lobby area, I call my husband and let him know I'd board within twenty minutes. I softly cry. We both know his soft assurances that things would be ok were a lie. I'd never loved him more than at that moment. Lie or not, he knew I needed to hear those words. As I softly speak with him, unabashedly within earshot of other passengers, a stranger walks to me, hands me a package of tissues and says, "Honey, I think you need these more than I do. Bless you." I cry a little more, but feel better. The kindness of a stranger is never forgotten. I don't know her name, but I will never forget her face or her voice.
I hang up with my husband and another call immediately comes in. I recognize the number and shut off the tears. It's my Emergency Services Director letting me know everything regarding my deployment had been settled. Normally, one takes an entire day to sign out of a job. She and the chapter COO had personally vouched that I held no Red Cross equipment that either wasn't chapter property or that wouldn't be returned as soon as possible to the job. My phone beeps; the battery is low. I realize I did forget one thing at the hotel. My charger. I tell her my battery is low and we quickly say goodbye. As soon as I end the call, my phone shuts off. I feel alone and terrified. What if something happens in the next eight hours? I almost began crying again, but boarding begins.
I look at my ticket. It's a first class ticket. The Red Cross doesn't fly anyone first class, not even its National CEO. I am sure it's a mistake and I know I'd rectify it when I got home. I had no idea that the Volunteer Coordinator at my chapter and the chapter COO agreed to pick up any cost above that which National HQ would pay. I sit and realize a meal will be served. I wait, I sniffle, and try not to cry. While I am fine with crying in the terminal, sniffling in such close proximity to other passengers would be rude.
I eat the tasteless meal. I have no idea what I ate. Egg something, fruit something, a piece of bread of some type. Once the seatbelt light goes off, I stand and retrieve a bottle of medication from my backpack. I'm a lifetime insomniac; I have something to help me sleep. Logically, I know I'll need it. I read until I fall asleep. At random times, I awaken. A noise, a voice, a cramp. Otherwise, I sleep. I awake as the plane is flying over Alabama. After a quick trip to the restroom, I return to my seat. A few minutes later, the captain puts on the seatbelt sign and we begin our decent into Atlanta.
outward lying, inward crying
As soon as we land and the seatbelt sign goes off, I stand, grab my backpack and laptop, and rush down the jetway. I am the second person off. A steward answers my question about phone chargers and I rush to the store, thankfully on my way to my connecting gate. I purchase a charger and cringe at the $30 price tag. Legal robbery at its best. I go to my gate and eye the walls for a socket. Luckily, one is on a post right next to my gate. I plug in my phone and turn it on. It turns off immediately. I impatiently wait twenty minutes. As the gate steward announces boarding, I turn it on and pray to the Goddess for kindness. It turns off again. I wait until the second set of seating zones is called and try again. It stays on as long as it remains plugged in.
I call my husband who says there was no change. He informs me that our closest friends would be picking me up from the airport. I ask him to hand the phone to the transplant coordinator. It's just after 1pm.
"Have you begun the harvest surgery?"
"No. The medical teams are on their way. Matches are still being made."
Relief floods me at the same time deepest dread rakes across my soul. "I'm in Atlanta and my flight is boarding. It will land at 3:50pm. I cannot make it to the hospital before 5:30. If you must do the surgery before then, do it. No matter what, do not wait on me. I need to go."
"We'll follow your wishes. Here's your husband."
The steward announces the final call for boarding. "Final boarding, I need to go. I love you. Take care of my babies."
As he says, "I love you," I turn off my phone. I grab my things and get in line. Only a few boarded after me. I seat myself and know I can't sleep anymore. I continue reading my book, Brother Odd by Dean Koontz, a favourite author and series. It seems strange that a book should block my thoughts, but it's not. Koontz is a favourite, I quote him often. His sense of humour mirrors mine in many ways; I connect easily with his characters. Today, I am simply thankful that for a few minutes, I can forget the pain. Soon, the captain announces our decent into the airport.
On arrival, I notice the flight is early. I exit the flight, one of the first off, and head to pick up my luggage. After retrieving it, I find a wall socket and plug in my phone and charger. I turn it on and call our friends. She's picking me up at the airport and taking me straight to the hospital. He's picking up my car and some things for my youngest daughter, their goddaughter, and following. She tells me her location and the plan, then we hang up. I estimate the time to her arrival and call my husband to tell him I've arrived and am waiting on pickup. I tell him my approximate arrival time at the hospital. He asks if I want to speak with the transplant coordinator. I said yes.
"I've landed, but my ride isn't here. If we make it by 5:30, it'll be close. Have you begun the surgery?"
"No. Matches are still being made and the surgeons aren't here."
"Will it begin before I can get there?"
"I don't think so."
"Please wait until I get there. If at all humanly possible, please wait."
"We will. Be safe."
moving through concrete
A few minutes later, I go outside to the curb, stand silently, look at the cars and wait. I don't remember thinking anything, just existing. That feeling would come back many times.
Soon after, she arrives. She pulls to the curb and gets out to assist with my bags. We quickly load up and leave. Traffic is light and I have hope we'd get there sooner. On the ride, she listens to me speak about what I know and what I expect to happen. She listens me to my bafflement. Why would he play with a gun of any kind? Why? That question would return many times. It lives in me now. It always will.
We make good time to the hospital. At 5:15, we pull into the parking garage. The first parking space we find is next to friends of my older daughter. She stands there, looking so young and so lost. I step out of the car and she comes to me. She hugs me fiercely, softly saying, "Mommy" for the first time in over a decade. We stand there. She is alive, she will continue to live. Although I want to see my son, the living take precedence. I comfort her for another minute. She quickly introduces her friends, my son's friends, who had seen him and were leaving. I later will learn that the stream of friends was constant all day long, but graciously tolerated by the staff.
"Let's go see your baby boy," she says. My son, just days from being a legal adult, is my baby, as she is, as my youngest daughter is. Baby boy is exactly the right term.
As we walk through the parking garage and down the elevator, I remember the last time my son was in this hospital. It was just after his birth. He'd been born 5 weeks premature at 9:31am. By 10am, the doctors were looking for beds in Neonatal Intensive Care Units (NICU) across the country. The first bed was found in Michigan and plans were made to fly him out that afternoon. At noon, a bed opened just twenty miles away. A bed in this hospital. In the first 7 days of his life, the doctors had to restart his heart 4 times. I knew then that every day I had with him was a gift of borrowed time. Time was up. Those early fears passed through me, flashed through me, and floated away. My son was dead already, fear could not find a place to rest within me, only numbness.
We walk into the hospital and meet family at the entrance. My nephew, a grown man now, opens his arms. He fills me in and let me know he is "coordinating" for everyone. Whatever anyone needs, he gets. He takes my hand and says, "They declared him [dead] at 10:30." I stagger. I knew he'd been declared; that's the only way transplant procedures can begin. But hearing it horrifies me and breaks the remaining thread of hope in my heart. For a second, I hate the messenger. As he grips my hand, he says, "I'm so sorry. I thought you knew."
"I did." Deep breath. "I did."
As we walk down the hall, I pass my former father-in-law. Today as in every day since our first meeting, he looks through me as if I don't exist. Not a word of condolence, not a breath of regret at past differences. Indifference reigns in him, as always. I walk into the SICU waiting room and then into the unit. One must pass through a door, being held open by family and friends who are leaving and entering. My son was well-loved. He'd never met a stranger; strangers were only people he hadn't made friends with yet.
I walk in and see a most lovely woman, a nurse. I know immediately this is the woman whose voice has carried me across the country. I see my ex-husband and his parents, my sister and her children, my husband and my younger daughter. With the slightest squeak, she comes to me and holds me. "Mommy," she says so quietly. My husband comes to me and envelopes me. I look at the room before which they'd all crowded. Through the doorway, I see a form on the bed.
Turning to my ex-husband, "I need to speak with you now."
I pull him aside and say, "You signed the papers? He's a donor?" He assures me he has. "Good, now let's go see our son." I know he expected accusations and recriminations. My soul will hurl them later at him from afar, but I will never voice them. He'd made his own hell; his eyes tell me that.
I walk toward everyone; they part and fall in behind me. I look back and see hope on my ex-husband's face. Hope? Why? Why me? Why now? He'd never hoped for anything from me other than my instant immolation. Why would he look at me for hope? I glance at the other faces and see love, fear, hope, and relief. I realize at that time, that no matter what else happens, I have to remain a pillar of strength. The only face I see that allows for my own humanity is my husband's. I see resignation and sadness. I know I will be a pillar of strength until we are alone, then he will become my pillar and I can crumble.
of stone and glass
I let go of my daughter's hand and walk into the room. I push the curtain back and walk to his bedside. The medications they'd given him have swollen his face. At least, that's what the nurses said aloud. Yes, that is somewhat true, but I also know that what I see is pressure expansion and soft tissue damage. Around the top and sides of his head are towels. In an effort to spare everyone the gore, they've covered his injuries. Comically, he looks like a man wearing a nun's wimple. While it should have been a comical image, even now it is not. That is simply how he appears.
He has been on a respirator the entire time. Because of the circumstances, his hands are bagged. While I can touch him, I can not hold my son's hand. A few weeks down the road, this will incite such a deep rage in me at him, at his actions. Irrational, but true. I touch his left arm, the side closest to the door. I feel everyone at my back. I touch his soft cheek and silently beg him to open his eyes. The futile efforts of a mother never dim. I will him silently to open his eyes as I walk around the foot of the bed to the other side. Slowly, they come into the room. More than a dozen people crowd into the room. I look at him, I kiss his cheek and silently say, "I love you, baby boy."
I look up, determined not to break down. "Come on, gather around." I reach out and hands reach back to me. I move as close to the top of the bed as I can. I put my hand on his chest, taking with it the hands that are already in mine.
"Touch him, say goodbye to his body. Everything that was him is gone. This is only a shell, the container that gave his personality and mind a medium to love us. He is dead, but he lives within us. In our hearts, our minds, and our memories. As long as we live and remember him, he will live. Touch him, say goodbye."
Tears flow, a few of mine, many of theirs. All present hold his arm, his leg, touch his chest, his cheek. I look into each face and smile a smile of love and comfort. My ex-husband receives the first look of love and comfort in over a decade. His slights to me aside, he loves his son as I love my son, his son, our son, and nothing else matters. Humanity wins out over the past, or at least it should. I gaze into each face and withdraw my hand.
Soft murmurings of love, goodbyes and I usher them into the hall. "No one has really slept and I know no one has really eaten." I look at my nieces, "Where are the kids?" The replies are "with friends" and I tell them, "Check on your kids, go get them if necessary, this is done."
My older daughter says, "I can't stay. I can't." She is held by various family members, but doesn't come back to me. She's trying to be an adult, to hold it together. She does a good job, as her heart is breaking.
I turn and see my younger daughter. Her face asks me to hold her, while her voice stays silent trying to be strong, to be an adult. I hold her. My oldest daughter finally relents and comes to me. I hold them both and walk into the room. I leave everyone in the hall and pull close the curtain. We walk farthest from the door and I speak to them softly.
"It's ok to cry. He deserves every tear. Let it go."
They cry, they kiss his cheek. My older daughter rubs his arm and puts her head on his shoulder. "I love you, little brother. I love you so much." Tears flow faster. My younger daughter just rests her head on his arm. I stand there with them, wishing I could take their pain. As much as I hurt, I would still take their pain. My older daughter stands, "I gotta go, Mom." She leaves the room.
My younger daughter stands and speaks. "Do you know what happened? I do. I know. He was playing Russian Roulette. Fucking Russian Roulette. He just did it. He was playing. He didn't want to die. He didn't do it on purpose." I hear in her voice what her words don't say. She wants to believe this is an accident. She is correct in that it was unintentional. She does not know it for a fact, she just needs to believe. I nod and hold her.
"I know. He loved life and he loved you." She holds me and I feel the tears seep into my shirt. This is the first time she's really cried the entire time. She is her mother's daughter and I am her rock. "You need to eat."
"I'm going with him [ex-husband] if that's ok."
"That's fine." We walk out of the room and to my ex-husband. My older daughter is holding onto family. A frightened bird, she stands on the edge of flight.
To my ex-husband, I say, "She says she's going with you. She needs to eat."
"That's ok with me," he says.
She and her godfather go downstairs for her things; he still has my keys. I speak again to my nieces. "Head home, we'll meet you there. We need to eat." No one has eaten properly and one niece is 7 months pregnant. Food is a true concern, but honestly, I want everyone to leave, so I can have a few minutes alone with my son. I realize I'll get it later, but I want it now. They've had all day with him; I need time now.
My oldest daughter tells me she cannot stay, she needs to go home. She is her father's daughter, avoiding the immediate and dealing with it in her own time. Our friends are going back home and will take her home too. I send them off with hugs and expressions of thanks and love. My ex-brother-in-law and his wife assist his mother, who is in poor health, out the door. I send them off with hugs as well. My sister stands lost next to my husband and ex-husband. I walk to the nurses station, to the only man there.
"Hello."
"Hello, I'm sorry for your loss." I know immediately this is the transplant coordinator, the soft Welsh accent is more pronounced now, and it again is almost my undoing.
"He signed the consent form?" I simply won't believe it until I see it. The coordinator guides me to an office desk and shows me the consent form. It has my ex-husband's signature on it. I take a pen and sign underneath his signature. I date it. I look at the coordinator and say, "I want it perfectly clear there is no doubt and will be no regret. This is my son's wish and it will be carried out." He assures me the teams are on their way and tells me there is no rush. The surgery won't begin for a few hours.
"It won't hurt, right? He won't be in any kind of pain in any way."
"No, it won't hurt." He so gently answers the question for which I already have the answer. But I needed to hear it from him; I needed him to tell me that he won't hurt my son.
I nod, stand and leave the office. I return to the huddled group and say, "Ok, everyone home. We'll meet for dinner, then I'll come back for the surgery."
"I can't do that," my ex-husband says.
I know this of him. "That's fine. Take our daughter and get her fed. I'll call you tomorrow."
the living come first
He leaves, my nieces and nephew leave, my sister leaves. My husband remains. "I need to go home tonight. I don't have my meds."
"We'll get them, but first we need to eat. Figure out where we're eating." I turn and go back into the room. I close the door behind me. My sister pokes her head in before I reach the curtain. "Figure out where we're eating and sleeping tonight. I'll be out in a minute." She closes the door.
I walk to his bedside, the light fading outside. The muted light in the room highlights his swelled features. I touch his arm and make him a promise. "I'll be back once I get everyone settled. Mommy will be back." I touch his cheek and leave the room.
"Ok, what's the plan?"
My husband says, "We're all meeting at your sister's house, then going to eat somewhere local. Then I guess we're going home."
I turn to the nurse, "I'll be back for the surgery. What time?"
"We don't know yet. We'll call you," she says.
We all leave the SICU and head to the parking garage. Even now, I have no idea who rode with whom. I believe I rode the fifteen miles alone. My husband believes someone rode with me. After asking, no one is sure who rode with whom. The fog of exhaustion and disbelief covered us all. As dark falls, we arrive at my sister's. My pregnant niece quickly goes inside to get her purse and we head to Ruby Tuesday's. It's the closest restaurant that serves real food and can immediately accommodate a group of six.
As we sit around the table looking at the menu, the waiter takes our drink orders. He comes back and takes our food orders. Conversation is about the mundane, that night, the next step. One of my nieces works for a local hotel chain and she books us a room at her hotel, a little more than five miles from the hospital, for the night. My husband reminds me that he must get his medications, especially after being awake for more than twenty-four hours. We agree that he will drive his car home and my sister and I will follow in mine. We will all three return in one car. At some point, one of us will not be suitable to drive. Looking across the table at my sister, we both realize we need some time to decompress together, for my children are her children and vice versa. She too has lost a son.
Our waiter brings our meals, empty plates for those of us doing the salad bar. I load my plate and sit down. It occurs to me that this will not be over tomorrow, a Sunday. My husband will need at least Monday off and there are friends to tell of the news. I grab his phone, which has all the necessary contacts, and head outside. I'm not hungry; I don't eat much during a mission. I am most definitely on a mission to get everyone settled so I can return for the surgery.
I call his boss, the maid of honour at our wedding, and two other friends of specific social circles. I tell them of the news and ask they spread the word. His boss ensures me my husband has as much time off as he needs. After twenty minutes, I return to my warming salad. I nibble; others eat as if a feast. Each of us follows the needs of our bodies.
We leave from the restaurant, sending the nieces and nephew home to tend to their children and themselves. They too have had a long day and long days are not helpful to a healthy pregnancy. My husband heads off and we follow. My cell phone rings. It's a local number. I answer it.
"Hello, your son's surgery will be at 3am."
"So, 3am right now, 2am once clocks go back."
"Yes, that's correct."
"I'll be there about 1am. I'm driving home to drop off one of our cars and get clothing and medications for my husband."
"See you then. Be safe."
blindspot
My husband is one light ahead of us passing a car wreck on the other side of the road. As I brake for the stoplight, another driver rear-ends me. I see it coming and ease up on the brake, so she is hitting a moving vehicle. I get out and look into the car that's hit mine. The driver is still on the phone and probably was during the accident. I'm furious; I finally have a target for my anger. I stomp back and look at the driver, who gets out of her car in the middle of traffic. I come to my senses. I too am standing in the traffic lane, my sister is driving my car around the corner since there is no way to pull off the road.
"Meet you over there with the other accident," on the other side of the road is a highway patrol officer already working that wreck. I begin walking to my car, waving my sister over. She drives to me and we sit at the light. I've lost sight of the other driver. We go through the light and pull into the parking lot. It occurs to me that the company I've chosen to do my son's headstone, who did my mother's headstone just a year before, is right next door. It's almost funny. The other driver hasn't arrived.
"I bet that bitch left the scene." Just then, a car turns the corner and pulls into the parking lot. "I bet that's her." As I get out of the car, I walk back and look at the bumper. There is no damage that I see. I don't have time for this. She's driving a Volvo and sees no damage to her car. We both know she's at fault. I ask, "Are you ok?" She nods. I borrow a flashlight from one of the emergency responders and take a closer look at my bumper. The slightest bit of paint is gone, but only in two spots smaller than the end of my finger. She looks at her bumper and sees no damage. I look at her and say, "If you're good, I'm good to go." She nods again. I get into my car, my sister gets into the passenger seat, and we leave.
I call my husband to tell him of the accident, the reason we're so far behind, and that we're ok. I tell him we'll probably be 10 minutes behind him.
On the ride, which lasts a little more than an hour, we chat about the shooting as well as incidentals. She does her best to comfort me knowing there is no comfort. I accept her offers knowing they're out of love. She's hurting too. We talk about our kids when they were younger. We laugh about things that my son did as a child. Soon, I am home. We quickly head upstairs. Already my husband is getting his medications and clothing. I take the time to grab a couple of pictures of my son. My medications are in the back of my car. I need no clothing; I'm packed for a three-week deployment. Within fifteen minutes, we are on the road.
On the way back, we continue chatting, including my husband, comforting him, remembering that he lost the son of his heart, though not of his body. Just after midnight, we return my sister to her home. "I'll call you tomorrow afternoon sometime. We'll come back here before we leave for home." Hugs and words of love are passed and we leave for the hotel. Just twenty minutes later, we arrive. I quickly check in, since the reservation is in my name, I drop all of our gear and kiss my husband. Murmurings of love and I'm out the door.
I know this area well. I have plenty of time, no rush. I do the speed limit, purposely paying more attention to the road than necessary. I cannot break down. I still have a duty to my son. I was with him the second he was conceived. It's my duty to remain with him until the end, until I must hand him off to professionals to do their job.
I arrive at the hospital and quickly find a parking space in the almost-empty garage. I walk inside, the same path I walked just a few hours before. This time, I walk alone.
The security guard at the desk asks, "What room are you visiting?"
"241 in SICU to visit my son."
"How is he?"
"He's dead. I'm here for his organ harvesting."
"I'm terribly sorry."
I take the pass and walk away. Unintentionally, I've been unkind. In my forthrightness, I've made him uncomfortable. I know I must apologize when I return.
I take the elevator to the second floor and take a wrong turn. Luckily, it's a huge square. I end up at my destination just a minute later than I would have. I go into the family waiting room and pick up the phone. The door is electronically locked. One must request entrance.
"Hello?"
"Room 241 to see my son."
a mother's duty
The door buzzes, they need no other information. I walk in and smile at the nurses and doctors. They see so few smiles here in this place of sickness. It's the least I can do for them. My son's nurse gives me a hug. I pull his picture from my pocket and show her.
"This was him at 13."
"Adorable, I could see that about him right away. Light spirits fill the face even in sleep." I turn away, smiling at her comment.
The curtain to his room is open and a nurse sits at the patient table with his chart. She fills out forms, checks machines, replaces empty bags of medication.
"I'll be done in a few minutes."
"It's ok. Do whatever you need to do. We can't help him anymore, but lives are at stake here." Indeed they are.
I brought a book, Brother Odd continues, but I know I won't read it. I may look at it vainly trying to read, but I'm incapable. I can't stop looking at the silent form on the bed. Many moons ago, I attended college as pre-med. Years of Dr. Mom and reading gave me a well-rounded layperson's medical education. I know they'll answer my questions, but first, I want to answer them myself. Moreover, I need to move around, else I begin to scream.
I stand and move to the bank of monitors on his right. The ventilator sits breathing for him. He's brain dead, the remnants of life are man-made, ruffling the veil between life and death. On the left, an IV, bags of medication, his heart monitor. All actors on the stage, none of their machinations are real. I read the bags. Although I recognized the medications then, the names escape me now. The first one I look at is an antibiotic. The second is an anti-coagulant. The nurse hangs another bottle of O-negative. I told them his blood type, but they say it's better to continue on this path.
I begin asking questions about the details of their ministrations, anything to fill the silence. Although I am one of the least rattled mothers they've seen, they know I'm simply coping, lying with my facial expressions and dying inside. As the nurses move around, I try to stay out of their way. I need to participate in some way and they know it; they tolerate my fumblings. I soon realize I'm in the way and sit down again. The nurse sits and makes notes in his chart.
"He was always laughing. If you didn't have a smile, you had about 20 seconds to find one or he'd give you one of his own. He'd do just about anything to make people smile." I reach into my pocket and bring out his picture again. "Smiles were his currency and he gave more than he ever received." She continues to listen to me talk about him as a child, the plans he had for the future.
"I shouldn't tell you this, but his heart will go to a young boy who would otherwise be dead by Christmas," she relates quietly.
"Thank you. That helps. There's a lesson in this. Everything happens for a reason." I say it aloud; the platitude is comforting for now. Bless her for listening and for giving me a straw of hope to grasp. I only remember her name as Lisa, but that may well be incorrect.
I quiet, knowing they have work to do. I sit looking at him, torn between logic and emotion.
"He's breathing, he has a heartbeat," so says my heart.
"Artificial respiration sustains his heart, look at the monitors," logic asserts.
"But he's warm, he's alive, he'll wake up."
Back and forth, the mental sparring continues. I watch the nurses move. I see the clock on the wall. I've been here an hour, I'm losing track of time. It's passing too fast. My chest grips and panic tries to set in, but there's no room. Numbness has the market for now. I see people gathering at the desk immediately outside his room. I see white coats, I hear them speaking in clinical terms about my son, The Donor. I want to yell at them that he's not a donor, he's a boy, a child. I really just want to go pound the hell out of them, to vent the building rage with bloody knuckles and sweat. I also know they're doing their job and I have to do mine.
My job is to sit here, to talk to him because it'll be my last chance. To see his face, to touch him, to remember him in better times, to remind my inner child that it's ok to hurt and to be fearful of life without him. My duty is a Mother's duty, to protect him while he's vulnerable, to sit watch while he sleeps, to never leave him alone regardless of how painful this is for me.
A pair of nurses enter, the female says, "We need to make some preparations. We'll need to move him around a little. Is that ok?"
"Ignore me. Take care of your patients."
She looks at me oddly. I think she questions my sanity. I question it too sometimes, but not now. Right now, it's about the patients awaiting transplant.
They check the connections and pull back the sheet and warming blanket. He's wearing a compression vest to help prevent fluid retention. It's time to remove it. They unbuckle the front, then gently roll him towards me, to his right to slide it beneath him. They roll him gently to his left and I see the bed under his head. A two-foot long triangle of faded red, thinned blood leaking from his wound. I look at it in a detached manner, noting it, the colour, the approximate fluid loss, detailing safe biohazard procedures, clinically making mental notes. It's only a five-second glimpse, but I won't look away. I won't avoid it. I simply turn off the emotional sensors and continue recording the scene.
painfully awake
I look at the clock again. Another half hour has passed, less than thirty minutes to go. I should be sleeping, but I can't. Not yet. I wonder if I'll ever sleep again.
The medical professionals gather in a larger group at the desk, speaking more softly, glancing into the room, questioning the nurses as they exit, watching me watching them. My face is impassive, at least that's the expression I intend. However, I've been told that my impassive face reads more like "I will fuck you up if you get near me" and I imagine it reads such now. I smile softly and look back at the bed. Under other circumstances, yes, I'm a mother bear protecting her cub and strangers are enemies.
As I watch you right now, I'm taking your measure, judging whether or not I trust you with my son's final moments. Not a single pair of eyes is lacking or evasive; each conveys sorrow for me and hope for patients waiting for another chance at life. I cannot fault them for their hope or anticipation. I want to, but I can't. I stand at the foot of his bed. I can't sit still. It seems wrong to sit comfortably right now. My duty station is at his side. I stand guard silently, watchfully.
The Transplant Coordinator comes into the room along with my son's other nurses, those who have cared for him and his family throughout the day. I learn that most are off-duty, but have stayed out of respect. My throat catches. Yes, these people are worthy of my trust, of the care of my only son.
Two doctors follow the nurses. One is introduced as the primary surgeon for the harvest procedure. The other is an anaesthesiologist. My emotions warn of danger. "What does a brain dead child need of an anaesthesiologist?" I demand.
"I'll monitor his oxygen level, heart rate, and other blood chemistry throughout the surgery." I nod, accepting the logical answer. Now is not the time to lose it and logic slams the door on emotion.
I look at the Transplant Coordinator, himself a registered nurse. "What matches were you able to make?"
"Heart, lungs, liver, kidneys, and pancreas, so far, although we're worried some organs may not be suitable." He continues listing levels of various body chemicals. I listen, knowing enough to see that there may be a problem, yet not fully understanding the depth.
The lead surgeon suggests, "Perhaps explain those to her?"
The Transplant Coordinator says, "For some reason, I thought you were a nurse."
"Not a nurse, but I've done a little more than watch "ER". I get it. You'll let me know later what was transplantable?"
The Coordinator asks, "After the surgery, I'll call you. Will you be awake?"
"Probably not, just leave a message." Looking at the lead surgeon, "I'd like to stay and walk to OR, if that's possible."
"Certainly. You don't strike me as the hysterical type."
With a smirk, "Not in this lifetime, love."
With a nod and a gentle smile, he leaves the room. The anaesthesiologist follows, as do the remainder of the gaggle of assistants. Only his nurses remain, those on and off duty.
"We'll be going in a few minutes. We'll leave you for a little bit."
the next goodbye
The nurses leave the curtain and door open. I close the curtain to understanding eyes. I return to his bedside, looking at the vessel of my child's life.
"You were such a kind child. You weren't perfect and half the time, I didn't know whether to hug you or beat your ass off its frame. That's right, I'm talking to you. You knew how to play those green eyes and dimples, didn't you?" Smiling and nodding, I continue, "You knew limits and you pressed them. I wish you hadn't tempted fate, baby. There's a lesson in this, huh? I wish you could tell me what it is. Just once more." Tears leak slowly; it's almost time to let it all go. I sit down and look out the window at the night. I look again at him and being praying for his soul to have a gentle trip across the darkest waters.
As I look at him, it seems as though his body is glowing, not just from the light above his bed, but from within. I feel warm, comforted, as if I'm being hugged. Even now, I can make medical sense of the phenomenon, but my heart would rather I accept it as is. A hug from my son to let me know he's ok. Yes, he's ok. If I close my eyes and reach out for him, I don't feel him here, but I feel him elsewhere and know he's safe. "Take care of yourself, tell your grandmother I love her, have fun with your granddad. You'll like him. He smiled at strangers too."
I hear them now, a little louder than before. I hear papers rustling, clipboards, the door to the unit opening as many people walk through it. It's time. I stand and walk to him. I touch his face, his arm, his chest. I smile at him, seeing him as he is meant to be seen, smiling and laughing, green eyes sparkling, not laying in a bed, hooked to machines, dead everywhere but in my heart. I say goodbye to the body I watched grow from infant to young man.
I pull back the curtain and nod at the nurse in the hallway. I return to stand by his bed. Nurses enter carrying equipment. Everything that is stationary must now be made portable. The mobile ventilator is placed at the foot of the bed and tubes quickly switched. An IV pole is attached to the bed and bags are moved. The heart monitor roles, so it's unplugged from the wall for its short walk on battery. As they move quietly and efficiently, I move out of the way. The anaesthesiologist steps next to the bed, checks the equipment readouts and nods. He smiles at me and I nod and step back into the corner.
The orderly unlocks the wheels. The doctors walk through his room door followed by the nurses. The orderly pushes the head of the bed while a nurse gently pulls the foot. I walk behind the orderly into the hallway. He moves to the side and I slide up to the head. As they move through the unit doors, I put my hand on the head of the bed. Slowly, we walk down a hallway. We pass visitors who turn their head in curiosity. He's now a thing, no longer my smiling little boy. Tears begin to flow and I don't stop them this time. It's almost over for me. We turn the corner towards the OR unit. I see the doors looming ahead. This is where I have to let go. But I can't, I can't let go. If I do, it'll be the ultimate defeat, I'll have given up. Logic reigns again, but the tears don't stop. They leak in worn tracks down my ravaged face.
At the doors, everyone stops. A final moment for me; I cannot thank them enough for that. "Are you meeting someone?"
"No, I came alone. His father couldn't handle this, neither could anyone else. But I'm his mother," as if those four words explain it all. They nod, the doors stand open, and they wait. "It's ok, I'll be ok. Go, there are lives at stake. His has ended, but others are in jeopardy. Go."
"Are you sure? We can wait a minute."
"No, it's time." I touch his shoulder, brush his cheek. "My son is dead, this is only his body, but it still has worth if you hurry." The orderly wheels him through the doors, the doctor glances at me solemnly. I know that look, that look says, "I have children too."
Tears flow more quickly. "The work you do, the transplants," I can barely speak, my throat is so tight, my emotions only marginally contained, "That is the work of God. Works for the good of humanity will save us all." I close my eyes, I can't look at his receding bed. "Go to work. Go." She walks through the door and I turn away.
Goodbye sweet little boy. Mommy loves you.
the longest drive
I walk away, down the hall and back towards the security desk. The same guards are there. I gently lay the pass on the desk and nod. "I'm sorry for your loss," they say. That phrase is comforting now, but soon it will incite rage, as many other things will. I nod in acknowledgement, knowing I cannot speak. Years of lessons at my mother's knee, lessons of carriage and dignity even in the face of disaster, support me. My knees would buckle without those lessons.
I walk into the parking garage and to my car. Tears stream and I don't bother to wipe them away. I start my car and leave the garage. My vision is somewhat blurred, but it's early morning, people are asleep, and the roads are mostly clear. I drive slowly, knowing I can't afford a ticket. More specifically, I can't afford to stop. I have a limited amount of time before I collapse. I need to be back to the hotel before that happens.
Although it seems like many miles, it's less than ten. I pull into the parking spot, lock my car, and walk into the room. I pray my husband is asleep. I quietly disrobe and take my meds. I don't sleep well under the best of circumstances. Without the medication, I won't sleep at all. I crawl under the covers, feeling my husband's warmth. I curl against his side, a woman the physical size of a twelve-year-old with the mental state of a terrified little girl.
"My baby is dead. My baby is dead." I sob now, not trying to contain the pain, the rage, the terror. "My baby is dead." My body is wracked with sobs, with more pain than I've ever endured, with hopelessness. I cry as the medication works quickly on my empty stomach. I mumble, "My baby is dead," and drift deep into torment.
commence shutdown
I wake at 10am, just six hours of sleep, but I know I won't get more. The nightmares came, but I can't speak of them now. I will later. My husband is awake beside me, holding me. I kiss him and move to the bathroom. There are things to do. We bathe, pack a few things, and check out. We'll sleep at home tonight. I need to be at home. We head north and drive by the hospital. My child's body is no longer there. The Medical Examiner took custody immediately after the harvest.
Harvest, I used to hate that word when talking about organ donation. It sounded clinical and even creepy, but I now found comfort in the symbolism. Though life of one has ended, it continues to help others live and carry on. Yes, harvest is the precise word.
We continue to Panera, a place well-known for calorie-laden goodies. Fuck the diet, right now. I want what I want. We go inside to eat and to call my ex-husband. This location is close to his home, but neutral ground. The next discussion won't be easy. I don't want either of us to begin it while feeling defensive. He says he'll meet us at noon. It's just after 11am. After eating, I realize I have nothing on which to make notes, so we head down the strip to a dollar store. I find a Pirates of the Carribean spiral bound notebook that's small enough to fit in my purse. Perfect. We head back to the car.
"I need just one thing," my husband says.
"You can talk about it when he gets here."
"No, I'll say it now. I want an ME (Medical Examiner's) report. That'll help make it final for me and close it out. It helped with my Dad."
"Ok," and I stood there and made a note of it. We grab our laptops and head inside.
Once inside, I start looking up numbers for various vendors. The nearest place for food, the funeral home, the headstone company. I planned events for a number of years and that part of my brain is in gear. My emotions, my rage, I've shutdown. Those programs need to remain offline until I get home. La Maquina. I open a word processing program and begin typing notes. After two sentences, I discover I'm not typing notes, I'm typing a funeral notice. How ironic that my penchant for details should be so useful. I type it, it's succinct. It remains to this day the best bit of writing I've ever done. Three cheers for "Report Writing 101" in the police academy.
I make notes over the next half hour and have a rough outline when my ex-husband arrives. He sits next to me and my husband leaves. He feels this is our time. If we want his input, we can ask. Otherwise, he'll stay quiet by going outside. He too is on the edge and doesn't want to make matters more difficult with a slip of phrase. It's quite funny that my ex should call my husband his "rock" and even more amusing that the animosity my ex harboured for my husband seems to have vanished. Is that the lesson? To forgive old hurts?
As we talk, my ex mentions that his father is willing to pay for the funeral expenses and wait on the insurance policy to pay. I have only one reservation and I voice it immediately. "I appreciate the gesture and I accept with the understanding that this is OUR son and WE will make the arrangements. If they have preferences, they will be considered. However, they have no say in the final plans." I know my former father-in-law and his penchant for using money as a weapon of manipulation. By damned, that will not happen with my son's funeral.
My ex says he understands, but I doubt. Regardless, I've said my piece. We begin with the essentials, the funeral home and the service. Yes, the funeral home that did Mum's funeral may be available. I've already called and left a message. Mark is a trusted family friend. He will take care of our son properly. The service shouldn't be stuffy. Though my son knew how to write a thank you note and which fork to use in a formal place setting, he was an open, friendly child. His service should reflect that.
Yes, there should be a few to speak, but it shouldn't be open mike. Choose carefully. I will speak last. Yes, I think the food should be our son's favourites too. Yes, I trust your brother and sister-in-law to handle the food. My sister will help. In lieu of flowers, I hope people give to charities, which ones? We chose the American Red Cross General Disaster Fund and LifeLink Organ Procurement Foundation. Our son would have approved of both.
"While I was in San Diego, I mailed him a letter. I'd like it back unopened." A simple request, but one of the most important I'll make.
"No problem."
"The girls will want to choose music for the service. They'll probably want to do a video too of pictures. Get everyone started on that. Email them or I'll pick them up, scan and return them." He nods. He knows I can plan; he says something only when he has a preference. "Who has his internet accounts? Lock that up and change the info." He nods again.
"I wrote a funeral notice. Could you proof it?"
"Sure." He reads and adds only that he'd like to have all of the step-parents listed, current and former, as well as any half-siblings. That's easy to fix and I do so right then. At that time, I didn't know his former step-mother, someone with whom I'd had serious legal contentions, had remarried. I used her former name. I simply didn't know, but I will later feel guilty about not calling to confirm. Despite our differences, she loves my son too. That phrase continues to rear its head... despite past differences.
The remainder of the choices are made, including that I'd do the flowers for his funeral. It'll keep me busy over the next week and I know I'll need to do something. As we talk, the funeral home returns my message. He confirms that he's available this coming Saturday. We book the time and make an appointment for the following day to cover details. I make note to call the Medical Examiner; my ex offers to do it for me. I accept.
My ex mentions that his father has offered his plot at a local cemetary. I decline, saying that the family plot where my parents are buried is where our son belongs. He belongs with his grandparents. My ex graciously acquiesces. Final choices are made and I ask one more thing.
"Could you give my cell number to the lady who owns the house where he died? I need to visit this place, to see it. I'd like to see his room too, if you don't mind." He agrees and calls her to ask if she's ok with it. She suggests he give me her number so we can speak directly. I write it down and we part. He has things to do. So do I.
***************** continued in further posts ****************
How could he do this? I'm so angry at him. How could he play such a game knowing the consequences. Knowing the pain this would cause. I'm so angry. Such a fucking selfish thing to do. Deeply rage flows through me, cutting at me like rushing water against rocks. And because I must, I allow it to flow out of me at times, quiet times, times that will not upset my younger daughter. But it flows and it continues to boil up from the deep. Acidic, deadly. I don't know when it'll stop.