Vacation Interrupted
May 15, 2014, 6:00 a.m.
The earliest rays of the morning sun filter in through the window, weak at first, casting a hazy purple-gray light. Gradually, the room is bathed in a rosy glow. I sit, quiet as an empty church, wearing the same clothes
I had on yesterday. The vinyl chair feels sticky against my legs. My eyes are cracked-leather dry. I take a deep breath, and the rusty smell of dried blood overwhelms me. My hair is matted in it, and it has soaked
through and dried on my shirt, leaving it crusty against my chest.
I keep a silent vigil. I would pray, but I can't find words.
Jesus...please...Jesus...
Machines hum and beep, but I barely register the sounds anymore. Dim fluorescent lights pulsate overhead. I turn my face toward the window, and a sharp pain shoots from my neck down my left arm and into my
fingertips. I wince but don't make a sound. I look over at my son's small, still form, eyes shut, lips slightly parted, head resting on his hand. His chest rises and falls rhythmically in time with his soft exhales.
***
May 14, 2014, 12:00 p.m.
We had eaten lunch that day overlooking the shimmering Gulf of Mexico.Our five-year-old son, Benjamin, the baby of the family, was so full of vitality, soaking up each sun-drenched moment at the beach.
He had asked if he could order a Dr. Pepper.
"Why not?" I’d answered.
After all, what are vacations for? We were celebrating the end of the school year. Ben had just successfully completed kindergarten. I ordered myself a fruity frozen concoction with a little paper umbrella. Brian
squeezed a lime into his stubby brown bottle of Red Stripe. The five of us clinked our glasses together and toasted summer break. We gorged ourselves on shrimp and scallops as the waves lapped against the
sugar-white shore.
1:30 p.m.
After lunch, we took the kids to an under-the-sea themed amusement park. The kids rode the merry-go-round first. Each of them chose a sea creature and climbed aboard. Next, Ben and ten-year-old Hadley
rode the Sea Dragon, an enormous swinging ship ride, with their dad. I stood watching, holding eight-year-old Avery’s hand, while the three of them soared higher and higher. My breath caught in my throat
when Ben lifted out of the seat, his legs pressing into the lap bar. Brian’s eyes widened, and he tightened his arms around him protectively. Avery squeezed my hand tighter, clearly happy with her decision to skip
this ride.
Once the three of them were safely back on solid ground, we all breathed a sigh of relief. Then we bought the kids ice cream cones. The mid-May sun was warm, and the ice cream dripped down their chins and
left melty trails down their tan arms.
2:00 p.m.
We loaded into our Grand Caravan. I buckled Ben into his booster seat, and we headed back toward the vacation rental, sticky and sandy and ready for naps. Massive resort-style hotels rose up to the right of us,
intermittently blocking our view of the emerald waters and interfering with the satellite radio signal. On our left, we saw kitschy t-shirt shops, mini-golf courses, and go-kart tracks.
We passed joggers, buff and tan, unwilling to skip their workouts, even on vacation. The sounds of a cover band playing “Margaritaville” drifted out of a touristy open-air beach bar.
2:07 p.m.
Ahead of us, a blur of blue lights came into view. My eyes squinted as I tried to make sense of what I was seeing through the windshield. Sirens blared in my ears, growing louder by the second. From the
passenger’s seat, I helplessly tried to will our minivan out of harm’s way as a Dodge Durango barreled toward us with a dozen police cars on its tail. Time seemed to slow down as my husband jerked the steering
wheel to the right. The Durango spun toward us. The sound was deafening—crunching metal and screeching tires. The impact was dizzying. It felt as if we were spinning, spinning, spinning.
When we finally came to a stop, I unbuckled my seatbelt and turned around to the back seats in one fluid motion. Powered by adrenaline, I barely registered the pains shooting from my neck down my arms. In
the third row, Hadley’s eyes were wide with fear, and Avery softly whimpered in the seat directly behind me, but both girls seemed okay—bruised and scraped, but okay. My eyes swept over to Ben next. There
he was, in his booster seat. There was a gaping hole where the door should have been. Broken glass was everywhere.
A guttural cry escaped my lips.
"No! No! No!"
So much blood. Where was it all coming from? It looked as though it was coming from his eyes, his nose, his mouth. In an instant, I was in the back seat, my knees bloodied against the glass-covered floor. Ben’s
eyes opened and met mine. He looked dazed. I unbuckled him and pulled him into my arms.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the driver of the Durango bail out and take off running.
“He’s getting away!”
In an instant, police officers were on the fleeing criminal’s tail, guns drawn. I turned my attention back to my baby boy. I realized with a rush of horror that I could see Ben’s cracked skull.
Where was his scalp?!
The intense afternoon sun beat down on us as I held Ben close, answering a police officer's questions while he jotted down my statements on a small legal pad. Avery leaned against me, her finger hooked
through my belt loop. Brian stood close by, holding Hadley’s hand.
Where was the ambulance?
A crowd had begun to gather. People looked down at us from high-rise balconies.
What was taking the ambulance so long?
Eventually, a siren sounded in the distance—the ambulance was getting closer. Ben tried to say something, but only unintelligible babble came out of his mouth. He looked at me with terror in his eyes. His
mouth wouldn’t form words.
When the ambulance finally arrived, the paramedics loaded my son onto a gurney and into the back. He clutched a small stuffed kangaroo in his little arms, but where had it come from? I looked around for the
kind soul who had comforted a traumatized little boy, but the good angel had evaporated back into the ether. The EMT grabbed my hand and pulled me in.
The paramedics cut Ben’s favorite Mario Brothers t-shirt off him and attached sensors to his chest. They started an IV and began administering strong antibiotics. Ben drifted in and out of consciousness.
As we sped through town toward the hospital, I was gripped with a sense of panic.
Are my girls okay? Is Brian okay? Will Ben be okay?
The ambulance arrived at the hospital, and we all jumped out. The EMTs rushed Ben into the emergency room for CT scans. I was left alone in a room to wait while Ben underwent the tests. After a while, Brian
arrived and pulled me into his arms. He said our girls had made it to the hospital. Their grandparents had come to be with our scraped-up, bruised, and anxious young daughters.
I melted into my husband’s embrace, my anxiety an unraveling skein of yarn. Brian gently took hold of my shoulders and gave me a pep talk.
“We have to be strong right now. Later, we’ll cry. Right now, we have to hold it together.”
3:15 p.m.
After what seemed like an eternity, a doctor came in to speak with us. Ben had an area of concern on his CT scan, possibly a brain bleed. He needed to be transferred to a level-one pediatric trauma center. The
closest one was two-and-a-half hours away in Pensacola.
Brian would have to stay behind at the hospital in Panama City to be checked out for a suspected broken rib. Our girls had been examined in the emergency room and discharged into the care of their
grandparents. Ben and I were loaded back into an ambulance for the ride to Pensacola. The EMT buckled me into a five-point harness. We drove through a violent thunderstorm toward an uncertain future and
away from the rest of our family.
9:00 p.m.
At Sacred Heart Hospital in Pensacola, Ben underwent a series of tests and examinations.
Eventually, after several hours, the doctors decided he was stable enough for his head to be closed up. Thirty-something sutures later, they wheeled him on a gurney into the pediatric
intensive care unit.
12:15 a.m.
Once Ben was settled in his room in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit with Joey, the stuffed kangaroo, tucked into his arms, I made my way down stark-white fluorescent hallways to the
Sacred Heart Hospital Emergency Room. It was sometime after midnight. Lying in the ER bed, the gravity of the day pressed on me. The adrenaline that had been fueling me for hours had
finally worn off. My body shook uncontrollably. I felt as though I had been trampled on. The nurses layered warmed blankets on me. I lay there alone and awake, exhausted but unable to
sleep, researching the safest vehicles and booster seats on the market. After a few hours, I was discharged. I had two herniated discs in my cervical spine and too many scrapes and bruises
to count.
Back in the Pediatric ICU, I settled into a slick vinyl chair near the window as dawn began to paint the hospital room shades of pink. I sifted through my feelings. I felt cold and thirsty and utterly exhausted. I
felt enraged at the selfish meth-head asshole who stole a car and crashed it into my family. I felt angry that the police engaged in a high-speed chase down a heavily populated two-lane road in a tourist area. I
felt fearful that my son would never be the same.
***
May 15, 2014, 6:20 a.m.
I hear a noise and turn my head toward the hospital bed. Ben begins to stir as if he can sense me looking at him. His eyes flutter open.
"Hey, bud!"
My voice sounds strange and high-pitched.
I rise from the chair and close the distance between us.
"Do you know where you are? Do you remember what happened?”
He blinks and surveys his surroundings. He looks up at me, dark lashes over green eyes.
"When do they serve breakfast around here?"
Tears escape down my cheek, and I exhale something between a sob and a laugh.
***
He’ll need to find his own reservoir of strength and resilience in the days ahead. There will be surgeries and therapies. He will have to learn to read and write and tie his shoes again. There will be headaches and
memory loss, anxiety and personality changes, fine motor and speech difficulties. And there will be countless midnights of murmured prayers over his sleeping form in his twin-sized bed.