[The following was
written on December 28, 2013. Although three years ago, the same
emotions still grip me today.]
The
sixth day of December used to mean something entirely different to
me. It signified one of the busiest days of the year at work. It
also hinted that December was moving quickly and Christmas would be
here soon. It acted as a reminder, as well, that our anniversary was
in one week, and I had better start thinking about it.
All
this has changed.
Last
year, by the time the calendar changed from the fifth to the sixth―at
midnight―my four kids
and I were all standing on our front porch, looking up at the sky and
watching the blinking red light of an airplane. Mom and Brittany
were up there. We teased a little bit that Brittany would be our
first kid to ride in an airplane―and
she wouldn't even know it! Of course, the teasing was brief, because
we all knew that her situation was critical, and we all worried.
I
didn't attempt to fall asleep until two o'clock, when I received the
phone call from Jenelle to inform me that they had arrived safely in
Salt Lake City, and that Brittany had been delivered into the secure
hands of the doctors at Primary Children's Hospital.
During
the next hour, I tossed and turned, never sleeping. How could I
sleep while my fourteen-year-old daughter laid in a coma.
At
three o'clock, the phone rang again. Jenelle cried and wailed on the
other end. Brittany wasn't going to make it. I was to pack everyone
up and drive to Salt Lake immediately.
The
four-hour drive to Primary Children's Hospital was the most surreal
drive of my life. The sky, black; the freeway, empty; the kids,
whimpering. Jenelle called three or four times during the drive, and
each time I instantly pulled the vehicle to a stop on the shoulder of
the road before I would run behind the Trailblazer, and answer the
call. Every time, she only wanted to hear my voice, but every time,
I worried that this would be the call,
and I worried that the impact of the news on my body would collapse
it and send me into paralysis.
At last, we arrived at the hospital, and there I found my daughter
lying on a bed, motionless, with tubes attached all around her, and a
screw coming from her head. She neither acknowledged me, nor opened
an eye.
Family members from all parts of the state gathered there also, to
say their goodbye's. More and more came throughout the morning. We
said our goodbye's also, by holding her hand, kissing her forehead
and crying on her cheek.
We had one final family prayer. We all knelt down around Brittany's
bed, and I, as the mouthpiece for the family, gave thanks to God for
the wonderful daughter we had been blessed to have during the last
fourteen years. Then I pleaded with Him that we could somehow
survive this painful blow and asked for His spirit to be abundantly
upon us.
When the time came, the nurse unplugged the apparatus that helped her
breath, and we all gathered around Brittany and grasped her living
body one last time. I rested the side of my head on her chest and
felt her breathing become fainter and fainter and finally disappear.
With her final breath, it was as if one last, large bubble found a
way to escape her lungs. Our baby was gone.
We left the hospital that day, and drove to the south end of the
Salt Lake Valley to find a hotel. Our faces must have been quite a
sight―eyes red and wild.
The receptionist at the hotel didn't know what she was getting into.
She asked why we were in town, and I responded to her that our
daughter had been in the hospital.
“Is she doing alright?”
“No,” was my inevitable response. “She passed away this
morning”
She gave us the room for free―the
first in a long line of tender mercies.
One year later, and in a very different setting. The exact
same thoughts are running through our minds. This year we are in
California, having just left our hotel in Barstow. No snow. Warm
Mojave air and palm trees.
We stopped at Walgreen's in Victorville. Jenelle forgot to bring a
picture of Brittany, but she was able to find one on her laptop and
send in an order to the one-hour lab. That was a relief! We would
have kicked ourselves if we hadn't been able to fix that one. At
Walgreen's we also picked up an 8 x 14 wooden picture frame.
Within an hour, the chaos and insanity of the southern California
freeway system was well upon us. Clinching tight to the steering
wheel left me with few resources in my brain to think of Brittany.
At
approximately 11:25 am, I exited the 210 onto Fruit Street, a road
that I felt was fitting for the apple-queen of our family. We turned
left, then another left, and found ourselves parked, semi-secluded,
inside a tiny cul-de-sac, along a brick wall, where the 210 surely
rumbled along the other side. We turned off the vehicle and and
listened to one last song, Somewhere Over the Rainbow,
one of Brittany's favorites. Then we turned all music off for a
moment of silence at 11:38, the exact minute that Brittany passed
away. Jenelle stepped outside and found some beautiful pink flowers
spilling over from someones yard. Brittany would have loved them, so
she picked one.
Once again on the freeway, we made our way closer and closer to the
chaos. The kids all awed in amazement at L.A.'s magnificent skyline.
Soon, it wasn't a skyline at all, but we were directly beneath the
buildings.
We spent two hours in Chinatown. Jenelle bought a wooden Eiffel
Tower inside a shop. The wooden kit mingled with incense burners,
fans, Chinese toys, and other Asian merchandise.
Before checking into our hotel in Santa Monica, we stopped at the
grocery store, Vons. Parking was tight, but not as tight as the
space inside of our vehicle after we left the store with fifteen
helium balloons―fourteen
teal and one purple. Fourteen to represent every year that we had
her with us, and one purple to signify the one that we didn't. The
balloons spread out across the second and third row of seating inside
the Trailblazer. No way to see behind me. Jordan's voice was my
mirror.
We made it to our hotel, which just happened to be across only two
roads from the beach. After checking in, many bystanders witnessed a
family of six, all in white t-shirts, carrying fifteen helium
balloons along a cross-walk and over the bridge that led to Santa
Monica Pier.
I
must say, that before we crossed the bridge, we were stopped in awe
as we watched a street performer perform the song, Tears in
Heaven, which is the same song
that we played for the balloon release at Brittany's funeral. We
hadn't heard the song since then, so what were the odds?
Once at the beach, Jenelle began arranging us for a family photo. We
held the balloons and positioned ourselves in an aesthetically
pleasing manner. From the backpack, Jenelle pulled out a newly
framed picture of Brittany, to be held by one of our kids on the
front row. We set the camera on a tripod, and after a few intense
moments of forcing everyone to hold still and to smile, a
pleasant-looking family portrait was taken. We all appear to be
happy, but to the mindful observer, it has to be noted that we are in
agony, because we know that one of our children is not really there,
but only in image, as we hold a photo of her inside an 8 x 10
frame.
Then came time to release the balloons. No music. Only the sound of
crashing waves upon the sand. The wind was our enemy that evening.
Not only did it confuse all the strings into knots, but by the time
we cut them loose and handed them to the kids to release, the wind
sent our balloons eastward in a fury, giving us little time to ponder
their flight through the air.
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