I'm Very Sorry...

With assurance from my mother that she is on her way, I stumble back inside the ER entrance. I continue to see a wall of familiar faces, questions burning in their eyes, but I cannot abide conversation right now.

Our friend Alice comes out to find me (again), to lead me back to the private waiting area, as the doctor is on his way down (is this good…it’s so soon). She works for the hospital, with trauma ICU, no less. She knows Brian personally. Another friend made her aware of our imminent arrival, of Brian’s accident, of our need. Alice immediately assumes her professional persona (I’m struggling, fighting to hold on), and helps to guide me during our wait, making suggestions to bring some order to the chaos (so many waiting, anxious teens, phone calls, updates, etc.), defining black and white choices for me amongst the swirling gray mist created by my circumstance.

I resume my place at the room’s center, as tightly wound as a bedspring, trying to pray for the best, expecting the worst. Another lifetime passes while we wait; the door opens, and there he is, the one who knows. The surgeon zeroed in on me, instinctively knowing somehow that I was the one to whom the message must be delivered.

"I’m very sorry; your son did not make it; he died."

What? Just like that? That’s it? After all of this…it’s over? His words are impossible to comprehend, to believe, much less accept. My grasp of the English language has fled to another place, overwhelmed by the task at hand. He may as well have been speaking in a foreign tongue; for once again, I cannot process anything else being said…

The room is tilted, spinning, my life is slipping away. I hear screams all around me, from within me, cries of anguish, our minds unable to come to terms with the harsh truth that has been thrust upon us, refusing to believe that Brian has gone from us, forever…John jumping up, yelling from the corner, "Nooooo, you’re wrong, no no no no no no no no…this cannot be…no…"; Beth, leaping from the couch and falling to the floor crying out, "No, not my brother, not Brian…"; Grace, kicking and screaming, "You’re lying; it’s not him, you’re wrong, it’s not my brother…"; Sunny, sobbing, searching blindly for the trash can. I have been swept away by the same agony I felt earlier, only it’s far, far worse, for now my nightmare has become my reality, having been confirmed with absolute certainty. The primal cry escaping me announces the departure of my heart and soul, both of which have gone to join my son. We are surrounded by a small group of stunned friends, all silently crying with us and for us, for the life that is no more, disbelief visible on every countenance…

My heavy, hazy veil lifted just enough for me to realize that I had to see Brian (how can I deal with this); I have to talk to him, to touch him, at long last to just be there with him, to let him know that we tried to be there (so he wasn’t alone). I have things that I have to say (although he can no longer hear me); I need to smooth his brow (even though he can no longer feel it); I need to ask him what happened (in spite of the fact that he will never answer); I have to tell him that I am so sorry that I wasn’t there in time (I can’t fix this one, B). This was the only way I could go on, the only way that I could ever begin to face what comes next. At the same time, my mommy instinct knew that I could not allow our girls to see him right then; rightly or wrongly, I decided they did not need to remember Brian in this way.

At long last, we are taken to our son. I am taking deep breaths, trying to make sense of what (who) I have suddenly become, trying to reconcile what is, with what was, to no avail. Over and over (am I speaking or just thinking) ‘I cannot do this; I am not this person; this is NOT my life; I did NOT ask for this; I am not this woman; I don’t know how to do this; I cannot do this; how do I do this; I don’t know how to live this life; how can I live THIS LIFE’? Floating down the corridor (past a sea of faces), into the elevator (are we going up or down), delivered to another passageway (I can’t do this, I have to do this), entering another dimension (someone PLEASE wake me up), braving the place where my present and future have ceased to exist…Brian, I am here, we are here now…

John glances around the curtain to confirm with his own eyes the truth that his heart cannot bear to witness; he can go no further. I must. Alice waits with John beyond this screen, out of the line of sight, lending him her strength, as I cannot. I am finally with Brian; I do what I must, tears falling like raindrops born of a summer storm, my journey to reach our son complete. Dr. Thomason stands behind me, weeping, sharing our loss as his own. Brian is swaddled like a newborn, only his face is visible; he appears to be sleeping. The sunburn on his face is gone, so many freckles on his nose…

We have to go; what else can be done here? We must do the impossible now; we have to leave our child behind (this cannot really be happening). We return to the little room, barely able to acknowledge the many, many others here, lining the hallways, sharing our agony. We gather our girls, forcing ourselves to go from this place, on to the place we call home, without Brian; a little over two hours has passed since Brad’s call. I am forced to settle for clutching the nameless plastic bag containing his sock and shoe to my broken heart instead of him, the last vestige of the man who was our son…

Reaching Brian

To say that Jeff was an angel driving an SUV would be an understatement. I climbed into his car, breathless and wheezing, relieved to know that Brian was at the hospital, grateful for the ride there. I quickly called John to confirm that he was with him. The car had wings-we fairly flew to the emergency entrance of CMC-Pineville. Had Jeff pulled any closer to the building I might have stepped into the trauma room itself. As I barreled through the entrance, I see John, then a staff member. The rescue team (EMTs, firemen) is still here, our heroes from the highway, the front line in the battle to save Brian. At last…I can see my son…from the waist down. The tiny curtained area is buzzing, humming with activity; we are not allowed any closer, but we can SEE him, part of him, anyway. What happened to his sock and shoe?

I start asking questions, trying to figure out what I’m observing. At some pint, standing beyond the fray, a helpless outsider looking in, a switch flipped in my head. I feel calm, almost clinical, demanding information. “Has he regained…can we go to…his injuries…when can we…do you know…what about…have insurance information…transferring when…done here ...is that a…does he have…do we have time…I’ll be right back?” One of Brian’s nurses overheard my rambling interrogation, and asked “Are you a nurse?” “No,” I replied, “I just need to know as many facts as possible.”

The physician finally stepped out to speak with us. Brian’s injuries required more than what they were able to provide at this facility; he was brought here to be stabilized (due to the proximity to the accident scene). The decision had been made to fly him to CMC’s main hospital. Once he was aboard the helicopter, we were to drive over to the other ER and meet him there. Dear God…please help my family, my son. Brian, what did you do? We still didn’t know exactly what we were dealing with…

Whump…whump…whump…in the time it took to update Brad & his father (they were in the waiting room), the air ambulance arrived. We were told that we were lucky-an actual physician would be accompanying him on the flight. Brian was hustled past us, wrapped up as in a cocoon; John said “I love you Brian, we’ll see you over there”. I couldn’t speak; I couldn’t think; the calm
façade was gone, crumbled to dust as he left my sight again. Just a glimpse of his face as he went by…

I have no idea how we got to the main hospital. I was on the phone again, calling the girls, my mom, voicemail…in the blink of an eye we were there. Where to go: Children’s ER or Main ER? Pineville said to go to children’s; they were wrong. Winding around, loosing precious minutes, finally the main ER, John having to move the car, trying to get to the little curtained area (like before) to Brian, DENIED. We are escorted by a chaplain to a small room, off the side of the main ER waiting area. Our girls arrived, safely delivered to us by friends. Sunny (Brian’s girlfriend), Brad and his family, Brian’s friends, Grace’s friends, parents of those friends, all began to arrive as well, overfilling the space. And so we wait, tears dried for the moment, pacing, phones ringing, praying, raging, wondering, meaningless small talk filling the empty air, impatiently waiting for news. Scared to know, terrified from not knowing…at last, a doctor.

She introduces herself and sits down. Addressing me, she asks, “Exactly how much do you know?” I respond with the facts as I know them: “We have been told that he has been unconscious and bleeding; he has some broken ribs and a collapsed lung, his heart rate and pulse have been erratic, but they were stabilized before he was transported here.” The silence is deafening. It seems as if she takes a deep breath (perhaps steeling herself) and then she pushes full steam ahead, informing us, very matter-of-factly, “Your son actually expired at the scene; they were able to medically bring him back…he’s still in surgery…” Whatever else she said, I do not remember, as I was no longer able to hear. My tenuous grip was slipping away. I made my escape to the parking area outside of the ER (please, get out of my way, let me pass), dialing my mom (please, please answer), looking for a hole in which to crawl (I need to hide, to vent, I’ve got to let it out), seeing people I know all over the place (where can I GO). I couldn’t disappear, so I squatted down, put my head between my knees, and begged, “Mom, I need you to get here, it’s bad, really, really bad…”

How do we get out of here?

How do we get out of here? Our ability to make mindless decisions evaporated in an instant. We wasted what seemed to be an eternity trying to figure out how to get out of the parking lot, and which route would be best (meaning fastest) to get us to Pineville, to our son. Finally, I said “Lawyers to 485”, and we were off.

I started demanding answers: “What happened?” “Who called?” “Where is he in Pineville?” John simply said, “Brad called, all I know is what I told you-he’s been in a wreck, he’s unconscious and bleeding in Pineville.” Brad was Brian’s friend, the one with whom he had been working that morning.

To those of you heading west on I-485 that day, I’m sorry. We were overly aggressive and reckless, driven by a desperation born of uncertainty and failure. Uncertain of the future we were driving toward, and burdened with the knowledge that we had failed our son. Instinct had taken over; the need to reach him as soon as possible eclipsed all rational thought processes. We were going around anyone and anything in our way.

I began dialing as John was driving. I spoke with a calm that I did not own, forcing myself to make the brief but necessary calls, trying to organize my other children and responsibilities…

Our daughter Beth- “Where are you? Please stay calm…”
Our friend Sue- “Please pray for him…”
Our daughter Grace- “Gracie, I need you to wake up…”
Our friend Sara Anne- “Are you still at Pine Lake? I need a huge favor…”
My aunt Judy- “Please pray for Brian…call the church prayer chain…”
My mom- “Brian…pray and call the church… I’ll call you back…”
Our employer George- “Please help Beth…I won’t be working this afternoon...”
Our co-worker Sabrina- “Take care of Beth…I don’t need to worry about her too.”

As we passed the Rea Road exit, I couldn’t breath. I felt as if my heart had been wrenched from my chest. I was suffocating, crushed under the weight of my own hopelessness. The overwhelming agony of loss was personified in me right then, dry-heaving sobs of disbelief rolling out of me, unable to control the emotion, denying awareness of what my soul knew to be
true.

It seemed as if one hundred years had passed since we left Mint Hill; we finally made it to the Pineville exit. Once again, we were paralyzed, trying to figure out how to get across the traffic. “John, roll down the window & ask them to let you over.” We barely made the light, turning left onto Park Road. From where we were stopped, I could see the flashing lights on Highway 51. At this point, we were still unsure of where Brian was, so I did the only thing I could. I decided to run down there, literally. There was no difficulty in making this particular decision; one of us needed to be wherever Brian was, period. John was driving, so he went on to the hospital and I began running toward my child (maybe), acting out this scene from a nightmare. I am too slow, fighting, pushing ahead to the horror (rather than away from it), unable to get to where I must be. My Rainbows are flopping (do I really need these shoes), my purse flapping (why didn’t I leave it in the car), wheezing (not now-no time for inhaler), pounding on the hoods of cars to let me pass (don’t you all understand, that’s my child up there), not moving fast enough (when did I get so SLOW), I cannot breathe, don’t you dare stop running, got to keep going, I’ve got to get up there, NOW!!!! I vaguely recall a lady waiting in the stopped traffic, offering to drive me wherever I needed to go. I yelled “That’s my son up there; I’m trying to get to my son.” I finally reached the police car that had the northbound traffic blocked; she starting walking towards me as I screamed again “That’s my son, I’ve got to get to my son!”

As soon as the words flew out of my mouth, I knew the officer had me pegged as hysterical and frantic; that was certainly an accurate assessment. A car heading back toward Pineville pulled up beside me right then, the passenger window buzzed down. It was Brad’s father, Jeff. “Get in the car; Brad’s on the phone, they have Brian at the ER up the road.” He told the officer he was taking me there. A total of 25 minutes had passed since receiving Brad’s telephone call.

The Beginning

So many details of this day are etched in my mind and burned into my heart. I trust that these memories will blur and fade over time, but the pain born of this experience has exacted a toll which will always be known. It has altered me in a way that I cannot begin to explain.

Thursday, June 12, 2008 began as another ordinary day. Summer was officially here, as evidenced by the early morning humidity and my children’s immediate nocturnal transformation. I had no strict schedule to keep-tennis in the morning, a little work at home in the afternoon, and a swim meet that evening. My only real goal for the day was thwarting the teenage tag team still sleeping upstairs. I could sense the spider webs of scheme and strategy, designed to evade and elude my mommy radar. Their spirit of unity and purpose had me on red-alert status, and summer had only just begun. I could feel my hair turning gray already. Without a doubt, sleep deprivation was on my horizon. I thought about sticking my head in Brian’s room (his door was cracked open ever so slightly) to see if he was up, but decided against it; no need to make him aware that I was really paying attention to the details, so to speak…

Change had already begun to assert itself. We finished tennis clinic early and were short a person for doubles play afterward, so we called it quits, and skipped our customary lunch. While sitting on the deck to cool down, I told my friends of my suspicions. “If I make it through the summer without killing Brian or Grace or both, or becoming an alcoholic, it will be a miracle!” They found this statement particularly funny, since I am known to seldom drink anything stronger than sweet tea. I left Pine Lake and decided to see where John was in his day, thinking we could grab a sandwich. He actually finished his work early, and was at Food Lion contemplating varieties of fish sticks, wanting to get home to watch the U.S Open. Yuck! I was having no part of that. After a brief discussion (really it was more like I’m going there with or without you), chicken salad at Mint Hill Grill & Deli trumped Gorton’s. For the second consecutive Thursday we were having lunch, a rare occurrence on Thursdays for almost three years. One week prior, we spent the morning finalizing the purchase of Brian’s car. A big change occurred on that day. We handed Brian his freedom and our control, all in the passing of two small keys and a Honda key ring.

We ordered our sandwiches and sat down with a couple of sweet teas, enjoying the air conditioning and the fact that we got in ahead of the crowd. Almost immediately, John’s phone rang. He walked outside; I simply assumed that the call was work-related and that reception was bad. Minutes later, he returned, but not to our table. Instead, John walked to the counter, spoke to an employee, and started walking back toward the door. He looked across the room, speaking to me over the crowd, “We have to go NOW”. Out of habit, I grabbed our drinks and bolted after him, wondering, what exactly has happened?

As I hustled to catch up with him, he answered my unstated question, saying the words that sent waves of panic through me…quickly giving way to despair… “Brian’s been in a wreck, he’s unconscious and bleeding.”

***This was originally written & posted in December 2008 on the MomsCharlotte blog site; I am re-publishing these in hopes of helping others who have also experienced the unthinkable, or are dealing with loss of any kind...tg

Youtube Debut

I overcame some of my technological ignorance this week... I successfully uploaded a video clip from June where I was a guest speaker at a safety awareness campaign kickoff.

I've been hoping to create a video which included pictures to go with my narrative, but the budget does not allow for it right now. Perhaps one day it will!.

I'm really nervous about putting this out there for the entire world to see, but my desire to share Brian's Story and our mission is greater than my fear.

Hopefully it will persuade someone to make a better choice...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1kpbgVlz1hw

Arrive Alive...

I actually wrote this initially on the Moms site, but since this happened in my household a few days ago and I really, really felt like I needed to put it here as well, to encourage all parents to talk with their driving age children about it... Even after all we have been through, sometimes the "It won't happen to me" mentality still takes hold... Here goes:

For a moment, I was shocked stupid…

I was on the way home from a friend's house on the other side of our neighborhood; it was our 'first Thursday night of the month' bridge evening. I lingered an extra beat at the four-way stop sign while belting out the chorus of my favorite DC Talk song… Thank goodness I did.

The coupe materialized out of thin air, blew through the stop sign and zoomed past me before I knew what happened…

By the time I turned right, the speeder was already approaching the next stop sign, four-tenths of a mile ahead. Not only did it fail to stop, the tail lights never even blinked…

I grabbed my phone and began to call the Mint Hill police…until I realized I had no specifics other than it was darkish-blue and going extremely fast... The only way to get more info was to catch up with the car, which I wasn't about to attempt…

I stopped for the third and last stop sign before my street. The car had vanished…

I hoped and prayed the person had arrived at their destination…and was staying put for the night.

I turned into my driveway only to immediately back out again for the headlights exiting the rear of my house.

As the car reached the road, I was shocked stupid again… Two times in two minutes…

It was THAT car…I rolled my window down as the driver pulled up beside me…

It was one of Grace's friends.

"Was that you I saw ignore 3 stop signs while doing twice the speed limit?" (It's 25 mph in our neighborhood.)

"Aww, yes m'am. I'm really sorry but I'm running late and I'm trying to get home before my curfew. I'm so sorry."

A chill ran down my spine…

I offered to call her father… She said no thanks, but promised to slow down the rest of the way home and not to do it again. Off she went…

It wasn't until I got out of my car and locked eyes with Grace that I understood…My daughter had just been IN that car. As a passive passenger.

They admittedly recognized the danger but chose to ignore it. Both were far more concerned with the consequences of being late than the risks they took by literally racing the clock.

Even after what happened to Brian...

Friends, I'm shamelessly begging you. If you are the parent, relative or friend of a teenage driver or know a teen that will be driving soon, please, please, talk to them about this. Today. And do me a favor…pass this request on to someone else…

Ask your child to pull over and call you if they are running late. Be willing to discuss their 'punishment' and make an exception or adjust it, if appropriate. Also, empower your teen to boldly speak up if they feel someone is driving recklessly and putting them in danger. Have a standing agreement to pick them up, anytime, anywhere, no questions asked, if need be…

Be sure your child understands the most important thing to you is for them to arrive alive... Everything else, you can work through later...

I'm pretty sure the father of this young woman hasn't a clue… Thankfully, my Father made certain that I do…

It matters...

Sometimes I ask myself why I'm doing this... I wonder if anything I say stays with anyone beyond the time it takes for the echo of my words to fade from their mind... Without fail, when I reach the end of my resolve, someone is placed in my path to remind me it matters. Last week, a student from N Meck HS lingered after the end of class... He asked me if I was at a junior tennis tournament last fall (I was). He said he remembered me from then...and he still has the bracelet I gave him. It's sitting in his bathroom...

It mattered to him...