Flashbacks

I get flashbacks of that night, or rather the early morning of October 4, 2018.  I am sharing that night’s events because it is such a major part of our grief. Grief doesn’t start at the moment the person dies. It is a timeline of all the events and emotions that surround the death.

It all started with a text.   Matthew was sent a text by the team that Noah was sparing for.  He wasn’t supposed to be playing.  He had been studying for days for his final electrical exam and just thought he would take the night off and go have some fun.  The text said, “Noah is unconscious on the ice.”  Matthew came running downstairs to me at around 10:45pm and told me.  “Do we get dad?” he asked.  Rick had just gone up to bed about 15 minutes before.  “YES” I replied as I rushed to grab my purse and put on my shoes.  Matthew went to tell his dad and then came back downstairs and told me he received another text.  “He is doing okay mom; they have the defibrillator on him.”  I replied with “that is not good Matthew.”  I don’t think he knew what that machine was for. 

We all jumped in the truck and did 140 kilometres an hour all the way from our house in Maple Ridge, to Twin Rinks in Langley, slowing at intersections but not stopping.  As we approach the rink, we see 2 ambulances, a fire truck and 3 police cars.  I am sure my heart stopped in that instant.  Someone, I have no idea who, met us just inside the doors and said, “they have him on a stretcher and are working on him.”  Working on him?  What does that mean?  As we entered the rink, Rick turned to whoever had me along with Matthew and told them not to let me see what was happening.  I did see that someone was doing compressions.  My boy is a healthy 22-year-old.  Why are they doing compressions??  As they wheel him by me on the stretcher, someone is sitting on him continuing to do CPR.  They tell us to meet them at Langley Memorial.

Back in the truck, we race to the hospital in silence.  Each of us with our own thoughts.  Please don’t let this be what it looks like!  Please don’t let my boy die!

We arrive at the hospital and we go into the emergency room.  There is my boy, lifeless, with a tube down his throat and now a machine is continuing to do CPR.  I don’t remember a word they said except that he was gone, we should say our good-byes, and it is 12:34am, October 4th.  Looking back, I realize I was probably in shock.  I can still hear the guttural cries coming from Matthew as he is on his knees on the floor, holding Noah’s hand.  That is a sound I will never forget. I stood there and remembered the last 22 years with my son.  I leaned over his head, brushed his hair back, kissed his forehead and told him over and over that I loved him more than life itself.  I did that a few times, and then we were escorted to a room where victim services were going to meet with us.  Victim services?  Are we victims here?  Yes, we were.  We were now the victims of Grief.

I remember trying to get hold of my family members.  No one was answering, why weren’t they picking up the phone??  I felt so helpless.  We must have been at the hospital for over an hour, just wandering in circles.  Eventually, it was decided that we should head home.  I remember thinking, “We can’t leave him there, he is all alone.”  While driving home, I remember saying to Rick “What do we do now…….”  The pain in my chest was unbearable.  I was suffering from a shattered heart.

Today, I cope the best that I know how, and some days are better than others.  But on those bad days, I have vivid flashes in front of my face of Noah laying in that hospital with the machine trying to start his big, beautiful heart.  Then I hear a voice saying, “Noah is dead.”  When that happens, I get this immediate empty pit feeling in my stomach and I go cold and the tears flow.  It happens at the most random of times, and when I least expect it.  I don’t know that it will ever go away.  I also can hear Matthew’s cries from that night.  No mother should ever have to hear that sound coming from her child.  I am sure that night is etched in his mind, as clearly as it is in mine.  My heart breaks for Matthew every day.  He not only lost his brother, but he lost his best friend.  Our decision to instill in our boys that it is “Family First, Brothers First” has proven to be both a blessing and a curse, in a way.  They truly lived by it together, always being there for each other, over anyone else, and Noah passed away knowing we would continue to live by those words.