What a difference a year makes. Or a month. Or a day. Or in our case...an hour.
It was an ordinary summer day (June 15th to be exact) and I was basking in what appeared to be the perfect day. I had accomplished the dreaded task of grocery shopping for the week and spent the remainder of the day cleaning my house. I had fulfilled my motherly task of taking the kids to the pool and had come home to shower and wind down for the day. Despite the Atlanta heat and humidity, my husband Matthew was making good on his promise to take our middle son Tucker dirt bike riding. He did not want to go and had made sure that everyone knew it. He grumbled repeatedly that the heat was going to kill him and when I suggested they not go, was thrown a look informing me that not going wasn’t an option. Tucker’s trainer would be working that evening and had given my boys permission to ride while he was gone (a favor he had granted on multiple occasions). Our eldest son Riggs had decided last minute to tag along and being the good kid that he is, had helped with the daunting chore of loading up the trailer. It wasn't until several weeks after the accident that it occurred to me that Riggs wasn't even supposed to have been there that day. Go figure.
I had made a point to bathe my daughter early that evening in the hopes of her falling asleep shortly after the boys had left. In celebration of my productive day, I was preparing for a kid free evening in my quite and oh so clean house. Ironically, moments before receiving the phone call, I had updated my facebook status to that of having one of the best days I’d had in quite some time.
Call me superstitious, but I haven't done that since.
I have had several traumatic events in my life and the minor details of those incidents always fail to leave me. For example, on the night of the accident, I remember the dress I was wearing. I hate that dress now. It's unfortunate really because it was new. And cute. And expensive....and now i hate it. It calls to me from my closet beckoning me to wear it. I can’t wear it anymore. Nor can I throw it out. It serves as a reminder. Of what, I don’t know.
I remember that because Riggs had been helping load the trailer, he hadn't had a chance to eat when I had fed my other two children. With the truck running and his dad and brother waiting on him, he ran inside to grab a bite before leaving. He ate a double decker peanut butter and jelly sandwich and then chased it with an enormous piece of vegetable lasagna. I shook my head in disgust. My biggest concern that evening was that he would get a stomach ache from the nasty dinner he had just inhaled and be too sick to ride. Laughable really when you consider what happened.
The boys pulled out of the driveway and I exhaled breathing a sigh and muttered “I thought they’d never leave”. I played with my daughter for a little while and silently acknowledged that even given the night off, I didn’t have it in me to sit still. Being my typical anal retentive self, I got up and began sweeping my already clean kitchen floors. I decided to clean out my vacuum in the process. Sadly, this is what I choose to do on a free night from the husband and kids - but that’s neither here nor there. In what seemed like a millisecond the sky turned black and a typical southern storm let loose. Because I love the rain, I thought a storm would compliment my evening perfectly. It then occurred to me that three wet boys would be back momentarily and all would be irritated that their plans had been thwarted.
I called my husband to give him the heads up that a storm was coming their way but he didn't answer. I assumed they were either getting a few more laps in before it reached them or that they were loading up the bikes. Thinking nothing more of it, I went back to my cleaning. They had been gone one hour. That's it, one hour.
What a difference an hour makes.
I went back to cleaning when the phone rang. Hearing the faint ring of the telephone, I turned the vacuum off to answer it. The caller id had shown Matthew’s cell number and I casually answered “hey”. In the upcoming weeks, I would attempt to describe this conversation to others. It would be impossible. The feelings were so raw, I could feel the pain and emotion as though it were standing next to me.
I’ve been making and receiving calls from my husband for upwards of twenty years. There’s a routine, a dance if you will, and habits are formed. I answered the phone casually and the momentary silence on the other end reached into my core and I knew that something was wrong. I was paralyzed upon hearing about five seconds of silence followed by the cry of my middle son Tucker. I found it odd that he would be the one calling me from my husbands phone. Mom's know their children's cries. There are the cries of being hurt. There are cries of hurt feelings. Cries of fear. Cries of rejection. There are even fake cries. But this was none of those. It was a cry that I had never heard before and pray to God that I never have to hear again. It was a pitiful.
Our Tucker has always been an amazing child. He seemed to come into this world a star and since the age of two has had the ability to bond with just about anyone. While I wouldn’t describe him as an emotional child, he has always been observant of others and of things that are going on around him. As a little boy, he would come home from school and want to discuss something that he had heard someone say at school earlier in the day. He would have pondered it all day and come to me to help him make sense of it. He hated when others were hurt and empathized with them as though whatever had happened to them, had happened to him. Because of his depth, he tended to exaggerate scenarios that others would think nothing of. I would often talk things through with him but at times, it was exhausting and I would bluntly shut him down with “it’s nothing. Get over it”. It was as though he took that character trait into consideration (foreshadowing my reaction) before he began speaking.
Through the silence, I heard him try to compose himself. "Mom, we had an accident. We got hit". It all made sense now and I imagined my husband pissed off and standing in the pouring rain being the victim of a car accident. "Ok. I’m on my way, where are you"? I sighed, and deep down I thought to myself “never a dull moment”. With my head still swirling in the midst of my pity party, Tucker’s next sentence startled me. "We got struck by lightning", and frankly, I found the statement ridiculous. I snapped “What do you mean you got struck by lightning Tuck? Put your dad on the phone”. I was confused and admit that I may have even been a little annoyed. "I can't”, he said. “He's working on Riggs".
Ok, you know the part in the movies where the room disappears and the main character's head gets huge and they are just standing in the middle of the room spinning? Well that's me. Standing in my kitchen, amid a pile of vacuum dirt. In the dress that I now hate.
For the next 5 minutes I listen to my middle child pray that God doesn't take his brother. He actually begs for forgiveness for fighting with him earlier that morning. I say nothing and hear little as I try to make sense of the phone call. I’m ashamed that at one point, I actually use this as a teaching moment and say to him that he should remember the way he feels right now for the next time he gets upset with his brother. I mean who does that? In my defense, I still didn’t fully understand the severity of the situation or I would have never abused his vulnerability. He would compose himself for a minute at a time than wales through 11 year old tears "please don't take my brother. I'll do anything". He is talking to god of course but is using me as his witness....as if I have ANY control over the situation. I don't. I am confused to say the least. I am helpless and all I want to do is talk to my husband. But I can't. He's working on Riggs, whatever that means.
It is only later that I learn that while I am doing my best to calm Tucker, he is kneeling in the back seat of his dad’s truck looking out the back window. He is a mere spectator to the horrific scene that is taking place outside of the window in the bed of my husbands F-250. He had been watching his dad give CPR to his brother in a wicked storm all the while fearing that they would be struck by lightning once again. He is certain that Riggs is dead and being the stellar little man that he is, spares me the details. Riggs was a pale hint of blue and his eyes were open (a sight that would haunt both Matthew and Tucker for almost two years after the accident).
When my heart can't take anymore, I tell him that I need to go and that I will call him right back. I am calm. I am eerily calm. I phone a girlfriend and flatly asked if she could come over. She laughed and and responded "you do realize there's like a monsoon going on, right"? I inform her that there has been an accident and that I don’t have time to discuss it. Actually that had been a lie. I didn’t want to discuss it. I don’t know what was said next but she sensed the urgency and told me that she’d be right over.
I called Tucker back with the hopes of hearing that all was well, but all was not well. Matt was still working on Riggs with the help of a neighbor who just happened to arrive at the right place at a very wrong time. Bill was a gift from god that evening and our family will be forever grateful to him. He had been down the road at a gas station and felt prompted to head home upon seeing and hearing the huge crack of lightning. He felt the need to check on his house and was worried that it it been had hit. When he arrived home, he stumbled upon the scene. My husband was frantic and still working on Riggs in the bed of his truck. The boys had been behind the house and far from the street. Having no idea what the street address was, they could not call for help. Had bill not arrived when he had, no one would have seen them and eventually, Matthew would have had to stop CPR. I try not to think about that. Bill sat and offered words of encouragement as Matthew went from pumping his sons chest to giving him breaths. The situation looked grim but Bill held it together for the sake of my boys.
Feeling helpless and accepting that the situation was not getting under control, I informed Tucker that I was on my way to them. He shouted “no mom!” and demanded that I didn’t come. For some reason, I took the order from my 11 year old. At the time I thought that he was protecting me. Looking back, I realize that had I left the house to come there, I would have had to hang up with him. The fact that I couldn’t see what was going on granted me a calmness that allowed me to comfort him. It was a calmness that no one at the scene could offer. While I knew that things were bad, I didn’t know how bad.
I saw the headlights shine into the woods behind my house and before my girlfriend even had the chance to turn her car off, I opened my screen door and thrust my 7 year old daughter towards her. My instructions were flat. I pointed to a neighbors house and barked for her to take her there. I must have made the arrangements with that neighbor before hand but to this day, have no recollection of doing so. Oblivious to what was going on, my girlfriend scooped up Bella and left as quickly as she had come.
When each of my children were born, there was that moment before I began to deliver that my body would go into full blown convulsions. Regardless of the epidural which had taken away any sort of pain, my body (and perhaps my mind) understood that something pretty major was about to happen and responded by shaking. With each delivery, Matthew would cover me with a mountain of blankets. While the thought was nice, it never did any good. The blankets served no purpose because the convulsions were coming from the inside.
The moment my daughter was out of site, my calm demeanor subsided and convulsions soon followed. I recall bracing myself on my outdoor patio furniture for fear of my legs giving out. I paused and allowed myself a moment to let the events sink in. The trembling began in my legs than traveled quickly to my chest, my arms, and my hands. I was shaking profusely from the inside out. The moment ended abruptly when the phone rang. It took me a minute before realizing that it was in my hand. I answered it without saying a word. Expecting to hear the voice of Tucker on the other end, I felt relief to hear Matthew. Relief instantly turned to panic as I recognized that if he was talking to me...he was no longer working on Riggs. It was more than I could bear.
"I did all I could", he spatted through tears. "They pulled me off of him and took him from me. They made me stop”! He proceeded to tell me several other things but I had stopped listening after he told me that he'd done all he could. I was aware of how long it had been since receiving the first call and knew that no one, NO ONE could sustain being down as long as my child had been. In this moment, we are are fifteen miles apart and we are both certain that our oldest child is dead. Matthew informed me that the paramedics had taken Riggs into the garage to continue working on him and told me that the lead medic was walking over to talk to him. He told me that he had to go. We hung up with one another and I collapsed at my kitchen table with the phone still in my hand. I didn’t cry. I was numb....and was oh so glad that I heeded Tuckers advice and didn’t come.
There isn't a parent alive that hasn't had that moment where they can't find a child in the store for two minutes or watches the panicked face of an infant choking. They will describe those two minutes as feeling as though it were ten. Let me tell you what 40 minutes feels like.
It feels like a lifetime.
My friend quietly walked into my kitchen like she had a hundred times before and asked “ok, WHAT is going on”? I can hardly form the words that my boys had been struck by lightning and that Riggs wasn’t breathing and hadn’t been for quite some time. It seemed surreal. Actually, I think it sounded kind of stupid. Stupid or not, it was my reality and I flatly stated the facts and told her that it wasn’t looking good. I will be forever grateful to her for taking control of the situation when I literally couldn’t have coped had it been left up to me to do it alone. She literally drug me to my kitchen floor and informed me that we were going to pray. She pulled me to my knees next to the pile of vacuum dirt (another irrelevant detail I have yet to forget) and began to plead with god for a miracle. I remember for a second feeling guilty that I hadn't thought of that myself. I had after all, listened to the prayers of my middle son, the least I could have done was echo his words.
I would describe myself as being extremely level headed and quite rational when faced with trials. At times I regret, I am too rational. I pride myself on remaining calm in the midst of chaos but this moment was different than any other. This wasn’t chaos, this was my child. My first born child. We had barely said "amen" when I jumped to my feet and completely lost my mind. The phone hadn't rung in several minutes and everything in my body told me that my husband was on his way home to tell me that Riggs was gone. I asked my friend to take me somewhere. Anywhere. I didn't want to be home to hear the news. I realize now just how ridiculous that was. Regardless of where I chose to hide, the news would have found me. In this moment, however, all I wanted to do was run away. It seemed rational. In fact, it seemed like the only choice.
My friend had enough sense to pretend that she would take me somewhere but told me she wanted to first call Matt for an update. I begged her not to, there may have even been a struggle with the phone. I don’t know. She was in her right mind, however, and I wasn't. She won. She had gotten Matthew on the phone sooner than I had wanted and I put my forehead on the kitchen table to brace myself for what I was about to hear. I remember pitying her for the position I had put her in. Even in this horrific moment, I recall feeling guilty that she would have to be the one to tell me.
I listened to lots of “uh huh’s” and “ok’s” and assumed that they were masking the obvious. A moment later, I heard the word stabilized and her promise to bring me there. She mouthed that they were headed to the hospital and this brought me a small amount of comfort. A very small amount of comfort. I had no idea what that meant, but it was better than the alternative. They were transporting him to the hospital and as far as I knew, they didn't take the deceased to the hospital.
I left the dog out of his cage to roam the house. I left candles burning and virtually every light in the house on. I walked outside and mechanically climbed into my friends car. We drove to the hospital in what was apparently one of the worst storms we have ever had. I honestly don't remember. If I recall, it was a rather quite ride to the hospital with the occasional promise from my friend that everything would be ok. She eventually stopped talking probably realizing that there was a very good chance everything would not be ok. I remember the feeling slowly coming back into my body and raw emotions turning into thoughts and worries. I silently told myself to pull my shit together and as we were getting off at our exit, turned my head towards heaven. With the attitude of a teenager, I smugly said "I haven't asked you for anything. If you are even remotely aware of us, prove it". I was talking to my parents.
My parents had passed away several years earlier. My father passed suddenly and my mother lost her long battle with cancer. They had passed away a little over a year apart leaving me little time to mourn for either of them. Being the youngest of six children when they died, I had always struggled with the void that was left in their absence. I listened to others tell of beautiful experiences they had had with their deceased loved ones. I had yet to be the recipient of one of these experiences and I resented it. If we’re being honest, I wasn’t mad at God for taking them. I was mad at them for not making a bigger effort to “speak” to me or let me know that while they were technically gone, they still were with me. My faith had been shaken and I had been dealing with that internally for quite some time. I didn’t plead graciously. I reverted back to my sixteen year old self and challenged my parents with my temper. This had always worked for me and so in sheer desperation, I became the child who shakes their fists.
On this particular night, my middle son and husband had called upon God. I on the other hand, had called upon my parents.
One, if not the combination of the three heard our families prayers.
My son was alive. Barely.
