No pain will ever compare to the pain I felt on October 20th, 2010. No one will ever comprehend the pain that surged through my body when I got the call. I had to work to pay for the bills; I thought she would be okay for a few hours. Alone. I left my baby alone. “You need to come back to the hospital now.”
For some reason, my brain told my body to move in the direction of the car but my body could not move. Move! Go now. I couldn’t move. I froze. If I only tried harder to move maybe she wouldn’t have died alone. Maybe she wouldn’t have been as scared of dying if I could just be there.
Everything will be okay. You’re going to a place where there are no more doctors, or needles or pain. Baby, you’ll be fine. I don’t know how long I stood there with the phone in my hand, the voice in the receiver asking if I was there. I wanted to scream. I’m here! I finally spoke to the voice. “Tell her I love her.” I hung up. As I drove to the hospital I knew I wasn’t going to make it. I just knew. Yet I had some hope. I drove faster until the speedometer said I was going 90.
Then I saw flashing lights in the rearview mirror. Sirens. My last hopes dying. What else could I do? I pulled over. I started crying as I got out of the car before the cop could come to the car door. “My daughter’s about to die and I don’t know what to do. Please help me.” The cop ushered me into his car because he told me I shouldn’t be driving in my position. He turned the sirens on and asked which hospital.
The medical staff saw how hysterical I was and urged me to talk with them first. But I wanted to see my daughter. “Please. Just let me see my daughter.” Our favorite nurse walked my into my daughter’s room. She looked so beautiful. Peaceful. Quiet. The latter two words do not describe my daughter.
My daughter fills up every room she walks. She tells you things. She speaks her mind. She is loud, noisy, and honestly sometimes a handfull. She is proud, confident and gracious. She is kind yet assertive. Brave yet humble. This is not my daughter. My daughter is not calm or quiet. This is not my daughter. “Where is she? Where is my daughter?” “ Ma’am, this is your daughter.” “No it isn’t. This is not my daughter.” The nurse sat me down and looked me in the eye. Her eyes were a shade of emerald.
The shade of evergreen trees. How they stand out in the winter behind. “Your daughter is dead.” I knew it was coming. But the room still spun. I couldn’t grasp the info. She placed her hand on mine. “It will be okay.” “What were her last words?” The nurse gave me a look. Her eyes told me that I didn’t want to know. She sat there, silent. “What were her last words, damn it!” Her eyes swolled, which is unusual for this particular doctor to do. “She said, ‘ Wheres Mommy? Will I see her again?’” And with that, I knew I would never recover.
All I want to hear again is her voice. Mommy. What if I didn’t leave? What if I didn’t freeze? Would I have been able to tell her everything was okay? What if I could have told her one last time that I loved her? I love you. If I had been there, I would have told her everything was alright. There would be no more pain. No more pain. And with that, I lock the garage door and put the keys in the ignition. No more pain.