Something has always bugged me about the morning that Joshua died. I was standing in the ER – and we knew by the way the Dr took him away from us that something was very wrong. Everyone in the room was moving very fast and talking quietly. I was holding my coat in front of me and … just watching. I don’t know where Eric was, but I know he was there. I could only watch the bed where Joshua laid.
But I was not upset. I was just standing there. At one point a nurse tried to get me to sit down, but I couldn’t take my eyes away even for a moment. To be honest, I was a little insulted that she thought I was that weak. I wasn’t going to faint. I had never been so focused.
Today I was listening to a story on NPR’s “This American Life” podcast where a young man was in an accident – he was driving and a bicyclist swerved in front of him and he hit her. He described a moment after the accident like this:
I had the strangest feeling that everyone was responding appropriately to what have been an emergency. But I still didn’t have a feeling there was anything to freak out about. This was something that was being fixed.
That struck a chord with me. I was so sure that the Drs could fix Joshua. I think 90% of my earliest grief was simple shock. I had taken my child to the ER and they were unable to fix him.
It has always bothered me that I didn’t somehow worry more about Joshua. That I didn’t wail….cry….faint. I just stood there and watched. I watched him die. I will never be able to get rid of those memories. And, I’ve been ashamed that I didn’t respond emotionally. In fact, at some point in the ER I shut everything down emotionally – I put it in the box. The box that 5 years later I can just barely peek into.
I know this won’t make sense to most of my visitors….and I pray you never will understand.
