A phone call at 2am

[Mar. 26th, 2004|03:19 am]
. . .

My son is the most precious person in my life.

More precious than my wife, who I love deeply.
More precious than myself,
who I would gladly sacrifice
to spare my son.

A short story with a point.
(Note: Timeline may be a little off - but the big picture is what's important)

When I was in college, I was living at home, commuting to school and working.
One night, I was lying on the living room rug. I had fallen asleep watching TV, after class, after work.

At a little past 2am, the phone rang. It woke me up, but my mother had already answered it.
I couldn't hear the conversation, but even before my mother had time to react, I knew it was terrible news.
It was the police. They told my mother that my brother (2 years older), was struck by a police car while he was crossing the street and that he was being transported by ambulance to the hospital.

While my parents frantically scrambled to get dressed and out of the house, I drove myself to the hospital to find out how bad it was.

My brother had been struck by a police car traveling, without flashing lights or siren, at 50mph -- clipped by the right front bumper and thrown 30 feet through the air. He landed on the back of his head.
He suffered a broken hip, a shattered femur, several other fractures and brain damage. He was in a coma for 2 weeks. He was in a body cast for over a month, and in physical therapy for over a year. He had to re-learn to walk and talk. (Again, the details may be off, but the broad strokes are there).


My point.

The feeling I had when I reached the hospital, when I talked to the doctor,
and when I saw my brother on life support,
was completely and utterly overwhelming.
I'm his brother.
I can't even fathom the depth of emotion my parents must have felt.


That feeling,
that precise feeling that I had when I saw my brother,
is the one that jars me from a sound sleep sometimes now.

It jars me as I write this -- out of fear that some night I'll get that same phone call, except this time,
it will be MY son.

Car crash.
Drug overdose.
Stabbed.
Shot.
Suicide.

My love for my son is profound.

He knows I love him because I tell him so.
He knows I'm proud of him, because I tell him so.

He's funny, smart, handsome, kind and caring.
He looks to the future.
I think he's happy.
I hope he's careful.

I try my best to keep track of where he is and who he befriends.
I try to engage him in conversation about the risks involved in drinking, drugs and sex.
I try to steer him in the right direction, because there are SO many negative influences trying to steer him in the wrong direction. Far more than when I was his age.

-- I was surprised to find that he uses the term "motherf**ker" in casual written conversation.
-- I was alarmed to find that he has considered dying.
-- I am afraid that I don't know enough,
that I'll miss a clue,
that I'll say "I should have seen the signs"...

Kids think parents don't care.
That we don't understand.
That we're stupid.

You forget that we we once your age.
That we rebelled.
That we protested.
That we locked ourselves in our rooms
and were positive that our parents couldn't possibly
even begin to understand how we felt.

We do understand. We've been there.
We did stupid things in our youth.
We did amazing things.
We were invincible once.
We're here for you, but can't help if you don't let us in -- just a little.

Most of us are simply doing everything we can
to keep the phone from ringing
at 2am.

. . .