A Heart in Pieces

Suddenly my niece Katie, and Mary's best friend since the girls were born, came running into the house yelling, "Aunt Barb you need to call 911; Mary has fallen and she isn't getting up." From this moment forward it was as if my life was put into slow motion. I made the call not having any idea how serious the situation outside was. I put the phone down, ran outside to investigate, so that I could tell the 911 operator what was wrong. Mary had collapsed, wasn't breathing. All I remember thinking was not my Mary, not Mary, please, God, not Mary. How was this happening? A perfectly healthy eight year old child just collapses while playing tag with her cousins in the front yard. This wasn't possible. Oh, but it was. My sister-in-law tried giving Mary CPR. I sent my son David over to see if our neighbor, a nurse, was home; the squad came; they worked on Mary; the helicopter came, and off she went to Children's Hospital, her dad in the helicopter with her. We frantically drove to Children's clinging to the hope of a miracle, praying the entire way, God, please, not Mary, she's only eight, and she is so full of life. I knew as soon as we walked into the ER. I could tell by the look on the nurse's face that my precious Mary was gone. I had to be living in a nightmare, floating in some foreign world. How could this be happening? Just an hour ago she was perfectly healthy; she even played her first ball game four hours before. This doesn't happen, right? Parents are not supposed to outlive their children; this is not the order that life is supposed follow; and, yet, this has now happened twice in my family. We were quickly ushered into the trauma area in the back. I saw Mary in a room off to the side, silent, inert, dead--just like that, gone. All her grandparents were there. The ER gave us time to say goodbye. Everyone took time to hug Mary. My mind couldn’t comprehend what was happening. Say goodbye? This cannot be reality. I was given a phone by one of the nurses; they needed a decision right then about donating Mary's organs. I said yes but later found out that it was too late; she had actually died at the house. Sadly, too much time had passed to use any of her organs. This might sound strange, but I wanted out of there. I knew her body was there, but my heart could not feel her presence, and the pain was just too overwhelming. I wanted to run out of the hospital screaming at the top of my lungs. If I could get away, I would not have to face the grim reality staring me in the face: my daughter, gone, gone forever. Never again to see those sparkling, bright brown eyes staring back at me; never again to hear her infectious laugh; never again to revel in that beautiful, radiant smile of hers. The heartache was suffocating me. Run! Run! Run!