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Unthinkable Dixie Fremont-Smith Coskie, Wyatt-MacKenzie Publishing (page 2 of 4) Page 2 of 4

I did not want to look at the damaged vehicle, but I noticed the wide windshield was cracked. Glancing down the road, I began to pace, becoming frantic, desperately searching for help. I began to yell, “Was anyone else hurt? Where is the ambulance? What’s taking so long?” Shouting louder, my body shook, my voice shook, “What happened?” No one spoke. People came to my side in an effort to hug and comfort me. I swung my arms and thrashed, pushing them away. I fell to the ground beside my son, sobbing. My eyes darted toward unfamiliar and seemingly familiar people standing near the bruised car, tall trees, and small flowers that were emerging from the cracks in the sidewalk. Suddenly I sensed everyone’s hearts beating and witnessed every twitch of their muscles and movements … each individual eyelash, blinking … and Paul … silenced, unmoving. Within a millimeter of a second, the magnified and lucid world around me intently began to weave and spin and whirl, until I felt entrapped, held hostage within the confining net of a harsh cocoon. Instantly … everything had changed.

Oddly, facial expressions on the people around me began to move in slow motion. Their voices became distant. The leaves on the trees even swayed as if a lazy breeze was blowing. I was positive I was going out of my mind that I was not there in the moment. I could not think. Breathe. Comprehend. I was about to black out.

I saw the blur of the ambulance pull up beside my son. I began to pray unceasingly. I was quiet but screaming to the heavens. A muffled, gruff voice was yelling into a radio, making plans to get the life support helicopter in motion. The urgency to pray intensified. I was in a deep, silent prayer, focused on the outline of my son. Had I told him I loved him today? “I love you Paul, I love you Paul … I love you Paul … I love you.” I fell into the car that would follow the ambulance to the hospital. I was limp. The only energy escaping came from my shrieking vocal cords. “Drive faster! Move! Go! Don’t stop at the red light! Go faster! Stay behind them! Watch out for that car … person … Oh my God!”

At the hospital I was in a haze. My legs were like jelly as the paramedics quickly wheeled Paul past me into an examining room. I collapsed into a hard chair. I stared ahead. I heard the scurrying of feet and witnessed bleached, colorless uniforms hovering over Paul. Emergency personnel suctioned Paul’s airway. A young doctor with thick glasses and dusty brown hair pounded on my son’s chest. A long, clear tube was inserted down his throat. Oozing fluids stained the white sheets a deep red. A medicine smell stung the air. A petite nurse came to my side. She handed me a small basin, knowing my stomach was about to empty onto the floor. I sensed that the situation in the emergency room was becoming hopeless, a true crisis, where people lived or died…how could this be happening? Was I really witnessing my son’s last moments on earth? “Dear God, do something!” I stood up and for a moment came to my senses. I somehow screamed out unimaginable, unthinkable words. “Is my son going to die?” Anxious eyes and sullen expressions suddenly darted toward my petrified gaze. I could feel my stomach contracting and vomit erupting. I yelled louder, attempting to drown out my pounding, pulsating heart, “If you think my son is going to die, I need a priest right now!”

It seemed within moments a priest arrived to give my son his last rites, his last blessing before meeting his Creator. Horror and dismay seized my being. I could not grasp what I was witnessing. The doctor in charge explained the seriousness of Paul’s condition and said my son would be taken by helicopter to a pediatric trauma center hospital in Worcester. I could not listen. I was paralyzed by the fear of Paul dying. I was alone in my terror. I was told my husband was racing through traffic. The priest abruptly grasped my hand and said, “Let’s pray.”

At that moment I needed to escape into the rapture of meditation; yet rage, confusion, anger, and disbelief surfaced. I forcibly pulled away. I wanted to scream, kick, and punch. To stop this ritual; to stop my son from dying.

The priest began to make the sign of the cross over my son’s bloody forehead. I desperately wanted and needed concrete proof that there were angels surrounding my son. I craved the knowledge of the theologians and proof that God existed. I needed to penetrate the supernatural.

Death was real. As I slumped into my chair, an image of my father appeared; he was smiling gently. He did not look sick, just peaceful. I wanted to hold tight to his likeness, for he had died two years earlier from cancer. I wanted to hug him close, to hear him reassure me that the angel’s wings did make a noise. It comforted me in an odd way, to know if Paul died, my father would be the first to greet him; he would bring his grandson to a place where the angels played. As a child, I sat on my father’s lap, mesmerized by his eloquent words. He often read to me from the Bible. I was not sure if the characters in that book were real or fictional. Yet, I had been fascinated and awed, especially when he spoke of Mary, the mother of Jesus. I had always wanted to be like her, a simple mother, doing God’s will. Sometimes, to bring meaning and purpose to my days, I would pray to her, as if she was sitting beside me. Often I asked her to guide me to her Son. To His secrets. To understand the world around me.

Every night, my Dad finished his stories by reading a poem written by his mother, Mary Dixon Thayer. Without thinking, I started to mumble and to recite the prayer.

Lovely Lady dressed in blue,
Teach me how to pray!
God was just your little boy,
Tell me what to say!

Did you lift Him up sometimes,
Gently on your knee?
Did you sing to Him the way
Mother does to me?

Did you hold His hand at night?
Did you ever try
Telling stories of the world?
O! And did He cry?

Do you really think He cares
If I tell Him things,
Little things that happen? And
Do angels’ wings
Make a noise? And can He hear
Me if I speak low?
Does He understand me now?
Tell me—for you know!

Lovely Lady dressed in blue,
Teach me how to pray!
God was just your little boy,
And you know the way.

From Unthinkable by Dixie Fremont-Smith Coskie. Copyright © 2009 by Dixie Fremont-Smith Coskie. Reprinted with permission of Wyatt-MacKenzie Publishing. www.wymacpublishing.com. For more information about the author, go to dixiecoskie.com.

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