Shattered Dreams, Part 1

I wander up on a car accident today. It had just happened, and there was no way I could get to them to help. It was a bunch of teenagers. One had been thrown from the car, two were wandering around frantic trying to help their friends and some more were trapped in the car. The one on the ground was covered with blood. When her friends tried to revive her they got no response. It seemed to take forever for the emergency services to get there. First a few police cars and motorcycles, then a firetruck and finally an ambulance or two. 


The first reponders talked to the kids who were able to communicate. There was a lot of screaming, confusion. My attention kept being drawn back to the girl sprawled on the ground a few feet from the car. She never moved. Soon firefighters were working to get the crushed door off the car to get the ones trapped inside out, EMS personnel were helping the people they could get to and police were giving a field sobriety test to the young man who had evidently been driving. Everyone did their jobs quickly and efficiently. It was like a smoothly working machine. 

Only a man with "CHAPLAIN" on the back of his black shirt seemed to notice the girl on the ground. He took pictures of her, and finally her small, bloody body was covered with a white sheet. At that time I knew for sure that she was gone. My heart sank. That was someone's child, and all these people were scrambling around her, ignoring her. I knew they were trying to take care of the ones they could save, but it still bothered me.

Starflight was called in for one of the victims. It had been 30 or 40 minutes since the accident had happened, and I wondered why it took so long to get there. I supposed they had determined that the girl's injuries required the services of a hospital farther away than the ambulance to get to in a reasonable amount of time. She was loaded into the helicopter and it took off as quickly as it had landed. 

Ambulances left. Firefighters cleaned up their equipment and tried to put the doors into the crumpled car. Police made marks around the scene with their fluorescent spray paint - even around the girl under the sheet who was still lying on the ground. 

Forty-five minutes after the ordeal began a hearse pulled up to the scene. Two men in black suits pulled a gurney from the back of the car. They carefully opened a body bag on the ground and gently rolled the young woman into it. They were so tender. Respectful. It was somewhat surreal to watch. Almost like a scene from Men in Black cleaning up after some aliens. Then they drove away.

People began to disperse, so I made my way home.

Shortly after I arrived there was a knock on the door. I opened to it find several people - a policeman (maybe two), a man in a black shirt and khaki pants, a kind-faced woman. You've got to worry when the police come to the door. It can't be good. But Daughter A was at school; Daughter B was at work; and JB was in San Marcos (probably in class). I let them in and they told me they had some difficult news for me. They invited me to sit and clustered around. Their faces all full of care and concern. The police officer informed me that my child had been involved in a car accident. And she was dead. He didn't say it that way. He was careful with his words. He was genuinely concerned for me. But that was what I heard - SHE WAS DEAD!

They offered comfort and asked who they could call. I didn't want our tight family to hear that type of news from some stranger, so I asked them to call my mother and explain to her. She would know what to do. She always knows what to do... She's a mother. I managed to remember the phone number that I have called hundreds of times after a little thought. The only question I could think to ask was, "Did she suffer?" This is one of my babies. I don't want her to hurt. She hates pain. She's always hated pain and never even tried to pretend that she was tough. If she hurt I couldn't stand it. They didn't know for sure, but let me know that she had been thrown from the car and most likely had died on impact. No pain.

The chaplain did his best to comfort. I wasn't hysterical, but the tears fell. I couldn't stop them. This could not be real. "DA was at school", I kept telling them. There were hugs and pats and comforting words, bunches of business cards with numbers I could call at any time of the day or night. I wasn't able to process any of it. It was just like a buzzing in my head. My mind was racing - DB, JB, John. What would we do? How could this happen? What had happened? But I wasn't sure how to verbalize any of the questions going through my head. The words wouldn't string together outside of my mind.

Finally the men all left and the kind woman - a victim counselor or something - stayed with me. She gave me instructions about taking care of myself. She told me she would be with us through the next steps and help in any way she could. She kept saying she didn't want to overload me with information at that time, but would be just a phone call away if I needed her. She was like a best friend when I was all alone. My mind kept screaming, "Make it go away! Make it stop! I can't do this anymore!" when a young man said, "That's good. I think that's all we need. Thank you."

I managed to get my breath and say thanks to the people around me.The worst part of this dramatization called Shattered Dreams was over. Or at least I think It's the worst part. Tomorrow I go to my child's "funeral". I'll let you know how that goes.