A Year Ago Today I nearly lost my son (2)
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Sam and I made our way to where we were supposed to find him. We noticed the roads were blocked off and there were lots of flashing lights. "Hmm, there must be an accident ahead - I wonder how we'll get through," I thought. I began to think that maybe there was something ahead, something I didn't know or wasn't ready for. "I'm not going to worry," I kept telling myself. "He sounded fine," I almost spoke the words aloud. The policeman tried waving us past, and we said, "Our son is back there." We were waved past the barriers. We pulled up to an intersection and parked by the roadside. As we got out of the van, Sam reached over and grabbed my hand. I still haven't talked to him about that night. A year has passed and we have hardly processed it. I don't know what he was thinking. I wasn't afraid, yet. I felt the world seemed to slow down. The night air was muggy, damp, and not too hot. All the flashing lights seemed to bleed their neon into the evening breeze - a blinding glow surrounded us with red, blue, and white. We couldn't count all the fire engines, police vehicles, and ambulance. In fact, we didn't think to take note. We saw pieces of yellow and blue plastic from Timo's motorcycle strewn far and wide across the intersection. I began to think, "This might be bad."
The police guided us to the ambulance. They told me I could look in through the side door. I could see Timo's head - the back of it, as he was tied onto a stretcher completely immobilized. I still thought he might be ok, but I could hear him groaning. Timo is stoic. He doesn't wince under immense amounts of pain. The ambulance driver told me to hop in. That we needed to go right away. I looked down at my purple skirt and folded my hands in my lap. "Be still. Breathe. God, You are here with me. Be here with me. You be here: right here, next to me." The driver had lazer focus and a heavy foot. From within an ambulance the siren isn't so loud. I saw traffic clear before us. I didn't speak a word. The driver didn't speak a word. He was doing his job. I was doing mine.
I could hear the paramedics in the back tending to my boy. They wanted to offer pain meds. He refused. He has a fear of anything addictive and had lost a friend to an overdose the year before. He was terrified of ingesting drugs. My mouth was closed, silenced. My heart was paralyzed. I felt nothing. Perhaps terror comes close, but terror is something that is felt. Stillness in an ambulance and a world moving in slow motion and a pleading inner prayer is all that was going on in me. "What is happening? Can this be real?" I was so stunned, I sat immovable.
My worst fears were being realized. I could only wait and watch. We got to the hospital and they took him in. The paramedics and cops and doctors and nurses all swung into action. The immediacy of his need and care was like a well-oiled machine - there was speed, efficiency, thoroughness, transfer of information. We watched while x-rays were taken, an i.v. started, bloodwork begun. Some medical person stood at a computer. A paramedic was reading number aloud as they punched them in: I over heard things like, "Distance of patient from vehicle? Speed? Speed of other vehicle? Kind of vehicle?" They put all the distances of feet and miles per hour into the computer. They punched in numbers. Then they watched for a few seconds. And then they stepped back, silent. The hallway was full of the firemen, the room full of nurses, doctors and others. I sat in a chair and observed it all. I tried to tell Timo to be willing to receive pain medications. Finally he listened. I saw fear in his eyes.
The E.R. doctor pulled us aside and told us accidents like this bring many surprises. He said we can't know the extent of injury right away. Accidents like this can throw curve-balls. Timo might be fine and alert right now, but he could tank suddenly with few options to turn his situation around. He told us this hospital does not have the highest level for pediatric trauma care and Timo would need to be taken immediately to the hospital in Chicago with level 1 care. They were calling the ambulance, and he would be there in 10 minutes.
We saw the initial x-rays. Two broken arms. Pelvis with multiple fractures. Many other unknowns.
We would have to drive the hour to the city after the helicopter took off.
Quickly they moved him to the helipad, situated him, and we watched it take off, with our precious cargo strapped to a stretcher. Timo had always wanted to fly in a helicopter. This was not the chance he was waiting for.
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