“I just know that he’s still alive”

As dramatic as it sounds to say, I guess our whole lives changed on Thursday, January 7th, 2010 at approximately 6:26am.

Just like every other morning, JD kissed me goodbye while I was half asleep and reminded me of such-and-such that had to get done/paid/resolved that day and I murmured a half-hearted “mmhmm-I know-mmkay-loveyoutoobye”. I got up, got the kids off to their respective bus stops, and was making coffee when my phone rang.

“JD’S BEEN IN AN ACCIDENT-YOU HAVE TO GO TO BRACKENRIDGE NOW”. My first thought was not, I guess, what one would expect, but instead “What an asshole. What an awful thing to say to someone”. I almost hung up. “ARE YOU THERE? HE’S BEEN IN AN ACCIDENT AND THEY ARE TAKING HIM TO BRACKENRIDGE. YOU HAVE TO GET THERE NOW. I’LL BE THERE WHEN YOU GET THERE. GO NOW.”

“Is he ok? What? What accident? Is he ok??” .. “UM. I JUST KNOW THAT HE’S STILL ALIVE”.

Everything goes a little fuzzy after that. I know that I hit my knees. I know that I prayed and begged and pleaded and bargained with God in a way I never have before. I know that it did occur to me that people don’t go from Manor, Texas all the way to the Trauma Center at Brackenridge Hospital in downtown Austin, bypassing several hospitals along the way, unless there is a major problem. I know that for some reason, I felt selfish -but didn’t care- when all I could say out loud, over and over was “Please God Please please don’t take him from me – please don’t take him from me please”. I was in Jack’s room, looking for socks for his feet when I realized I had no idea how to ‘get to Brackenridge’ and called my mother – and that’s when I realized that I was sobbing. I don’t know what I said to my mom when she answered, or what she said back to me, but when I knew she was on her way, I know that I sat down on Jacks floor and concentrated on breathing and praying and counting his socks over and over.. for some reason, I remember that I simply couldn’t make sense of them.

At some point before mom got to me, the social worker from the hospital called and said “Mrs. Darley, I need you to breathe – in your nose and out your mouth. I’m with your husband and I’m going to tell you about his condition, but I need you to stay with me”. Again, my first thought was “what an awful thing to say to someone” but I did what I was told and forced air into the phone so she would just say something. She said his injuries were very serious but not life threatening, that I needed to concentrate on getting there safely, and that he was able to tell her three things: my name, my cell phone number, and that I was pregnant and going be terrified. He had also told her to tell me to “please be calm”.

One hundred years later, the social worker stepped into the family waiting room they had put us in and said, again, that while his injuries were not life threatening, they were very serious. As she listed his injuries in doctor-speak, I struggled to follow the meaning – I just wanted her to say “and he’s going to be just fine” but she didn’t. I zeroed in on her words just long enough to hear her say that I would be allowed in to see him as soon as they finished something-rather. It wasn’t until days later that I realized “broken neck” and “broken back” would become parts of our regular vocabulary.

There are weird things that stamp themselves on your heart during surreal experiences like these. The site of JD’s boss, who was the one that called me, wiping tears from his eyes as quick as he could before he thought I saw him. The site of his dad, looking down at the threshold at the doors of the ER – pausing to take deep breath and then holding it as he  stepped through. And when they let me in to see him, as broken and hurting as he was, it was the site of tiny droplets of blood hanging on to his eyelashes that I can’t let go of. I can’t put logic on that part. I don’t know why that vision still makes my heart cave in. I know that there have been several times over the last 10 days though, that I have run a finger over his lashes and thanked God with every inch of my soul for letting me keep them.

He is, eventually, “going to be just fine”. He has more broken bones than we’ve been able to count, has more bruises than one body should have to hold, and is carrying around a body brace that no-one should be subjected to – but he, after all, is alive – and that’s what counts right now.