Pocketful of Sand
Page 59
Her chest rises and falls, once, twice. He spares me one sharp look and one loud word. “Go!” And then, with the heel of one hand, he’s pressing into her chest, pumping life-saving oxygenated blood through my child’s gravely still body.
With a sob that’s torn ruthlessly from my throat, I clamber to my feet and run as fast as I can to Cole’s house. I find the side door and fling it open, not even bothering to close it behind me. I race to the kitchen for the phone. Surely this is where it would be.
I spot it immediately and dial 911. With breakdown fighting me for dominance every step of the way, I speak to the operator, directing rescue workers to this location the best that I can without an actual physical address. She transfers me to an emergency worker who begins questioning me about the circumstances in which we found Emmy. He asks about water and how long she might’ve been immersed. He asks about her responsiveness and the color of her skin. He assures me that chest compressions are the best thing we can do for her until they get here, and that warming her very slowly and making sure she stays still and horizontal are important as well.
When I hang up, I start off back toward the side door, only to find Cole rushing in with Emmy. He takes her into the living room, kicking the coffee table out of the way so that he can lay her flat on her back on the floor. Without a word, he resumes chest compressions immediately.
As I watch, my eyes are focused on my daughter. The bluish cast to her skin, the darker purplish color of her lips. The closed lids, the lifeless limbs.
I’m not even aware of my legs giving out until I’m on my knees within a few inches of her body. I take her cold hand in mine and bring it to my trembling lips. “Please come back to me, Emmy. I can’t live without you, sweetpea. You’re my whole world,” I tell her tearfully. “Please, God, don’t take her! Don’t take her from me!”
“Get her clothes off,” Cole says quietly. “Then we’ll cover her with blankets.”
When I glance up at him in question, he’s looking at me. In his eyes are the pain and loss and utter devastation that hovers around the corners of my heart. And in these few seconds, I know why. I know why he is here. I know why he won’t leave. I know why he can’t give up.
His daughter. My daughter. Blood of our blood. Death doesn’t change that kind of love. It doesn’t really separate parent from child. Not in the heart. Not in the soul.
I set to work on getting Emmy’s clothes off her without disrupting Cole’s life-saving cycles of pumping her heart and filling her lungs with air. I don’t know how long has passed when the knock sounds at the front door, followed by a harsh, no-nonsense voice, announcing, “Emergency Services.”
From the moment I open the door, I’m in a nightmare. I watch men in thick jackets and white shirts assess and treat my daughter, exchanging words like “near drowning” and “hypothermia.” I watch from behind the bars of my own personal hell as the two men place tiny pads on my child’s chest and feed electricity into her heart, watching for a viable rhythm to appear on the small screen. After the second attempt, I hear the reassuring blip. I hear a strangely haunting howl and I feel arms come around me. It isn’t until Cole turns my face into his chest that I realize it was me.
The two men work as efficiently as one, preparing my daughter for transport, continuing every measure to save her life, her brain, her organs. To bring her back to me in as much the Emmy state that she ran away in as possible.
I watch, heartbroken and horrified, wanting to help, wishing I could. Yet knowing there’s nothing I can do except stay by her side and pray that she wakes up.
The ride to the hospital is a blur. Speeding and sirens, monitors and vital signs, warm IVs and warm blankets. I vaguely remember Cole saying he wouldn’t be far behind, but the memory is as fractured as my mind seems. As my heart feels.
I torture myself with thoughts of my life without Emmy, with memories of her most precious moments, with questions about her recent fixation on me being happy without her. Could she somehow have seen this in her future? Could she somehow have known that God would take her from me?
The thought sends me into silent sobs that wrack my entire body. From my perch beside Emmy’s stretcher, I fold over at the waist, pressing my forehead to hers, fighting off the hopelessness and nausea that pulls threateningly at my insides. She’s not dead, I remind myself. And she’s not going to be. Her heart is beating now. Her chest is pumping with her rapid, shallow breaths. Those are signs of life. Life. She can still make it.
“Emmy, it’s Momma,” I whisper, smoothing the backs of my fingers down her cold cheek. “You are strong, baby. So strong. You have to fight to stay with me. Listen to my voice. Feel me touching you. Know how much you are loved. More than any little girl in the whole world. We have too much left to do, sweetpea. We have sandcastles to build, stories to read, cartoons to watch. And Christmas will be here soon. I have so many things for you. I want to watch you open all your presents,” I tell her, thinking that I will buy her the moon if she’ll just come back to me. “Breathe, baby. Breathe and heal, get warm and cozy, and then you come back to me, okay? Okay, Emmy?”
Tears drip from my lashes into her damp hair. I would give her my blood if it would help, my life if she could use it. If she’ll just wake up and ask me for it, I’ll give her anything her heart desires. Anything. Anything at all for my little girl.
They let me stay in the corner of the emergency room bay as they work on my daughter. I’m relieved when I hear things like “sinus rhythm” and “clear lungs” and “core temp is rising.” They toss back and forth a thousand terms that I don’t understand as they hover over my daughter’s still body. All I can do is watch. And listen. And pray.
With a sob that’s torn ruthlessly from my throat, I clamber to my feet and run as fast as I can to Cole’s house. I find the side door and fling it open, not even bothering to close it behind me. I race to the kitchen for the phone. Surely this is where it would be.
I spot it immediately and dial 911. With breakdown fighting me for dominance every step of the way, I speak to the operator, directing rescue workers to this location the best that I can without an actual physical address. She transfers me to an emergency worker who begins questioning me about the circumstances in which we found Emmy. He asks about water and how long she might’ve been immersed. He asks about her responsiveness and the color of her skin. He assures me that chest compressions are the best thing we can do for her until they get here, and that warming her very slowly and making sure she stays still and horizontal are important as well.
When I hang up, I start off back toward the side door, only to find Cole rushing in with Emmy. He takes her into the living room, kicking the coffee table out of the way so that he can lay her flat on her back on the floor. Without a word, he resumes chest compressions immediately.
As I watch, my eyes are focused on my daughter. The bluish cast to her skin, the darker purplish color of her lips. The closed lids, the lifeless limbs.
I’m not even aware of my legs giving out until I’m on my knees within a few inches of her body. I take her cold hand in mine and bring it to my trembling lips. “Please come back to me, Emmy. I can’t live without you, sweetpea. You’re my whole world,” I tell her tearfully. “Please, God, don’t take her! Don’t take her from me!”
“Get her clothes off,” Cole says quietly. “Then we’ll cover her with blankets.”
When I glance up at him in question, he’s looking at me. In his eyes are the pain and loss and utter devastation that hovers around the corners of my heart. And in these few seconds, I know why. I know why he is here. I know why he won’t leave. I know why he can’t give up.
His daughter. My daughter. Blood of our blood. Death doesn’t change that kind of love. It doesn’t really separate parent from child. Not in the heart. Not in the soul.
I set to work on getting Emmy’s clothes off her without disrupting Cole’s life-saving cycles of pumping her heart and filling her lungs with air. I don’t know how long has passed when the knock sounds at the front door, followed by a harsh, no-nonsense voice, announcing, “Emergency Services.”
From the moment I open the door, I’m in a nightmare. I watch men in thick jackets and white shirts assess and treat my daughter, exchanging words like “near drowning” and “hypothermia.” I watch from behind the bars of my own personal hell as the two men place tiny pads on my child’s chest and feed electricity into her heart, watching for a viable rhythm to appear on the small screen. After the second attempt, I hear the reassuring blip. I hear a strangely haunting howl and I feel arms come around me. It isn’t until Cole turns my face into his chest that I realize it was me.
The two men work as efficiently as one, preparing my daughter for transport, continuing every measure to save her life, her brain, her organs. To bring her back to me in as much the Emmy state that she ran away in as possible.
I watch, heartbroken and horrified, wanting to help, wishing I could. Yet knowing there’s nothing I can do except stay by her side and pray that she wakes up.
The ride to the hospital is a blur. Speeding and sirens, monitors and vital signs, warm IVs and warm blankets. I vaguely remember Cole saying he wouldn’t be far behind, but the memory is as fractured as my mind seems. As my heart feels.
I torture myself with thoughts of my life without Emmy, with memories of her most precious moments, with questions about her recent fixation on me being happy without her. Could she somehow have seen this in her future? Could she somehow have known that God would take her from me?
The thought sends me into silent sobs that wrack my entire body. From my perch beside Emmy’s stretcher, I fold over at the waist, pressing my forehead to hers, fighting off the hopelessness and nausea that pulls threateningly at my insides. She’s not dead, I remind myself. And she’s not going to be. Her heart is beating now. Her chest is pumping with her rapid, shallow breaths. Those are signs of life. Life. She can still make it.
“Emmy, it’s Momma,” I whisper, smoothing the backs of my fingers down her cold cheek. “You are strong, baby. So strong. You have to fight to stay with me. Listen to my voice. Feel me touching you. Know how much you are loved. More than any little girl in the whole world. We have too much left to do, sweetpea. We have sandcastles to build, stories to read, cartoons to watch. And Christmas will be here soon. I have so many things for you. I want to watch you open all your presents,” I tell her, thinking that I will buy her the moon if she’ll just come back to me. “Breathe, baby. Breathe and heal, get warm and cozy, and then you come back to me, okay? Okay, Emmy?”
Tears drip from my lashes into her damp hair. I would give her my blood if it would help, my life if she could use it. If she’ll just wake up and ask me for it, I’ll give her anything her heart desires. Anything. Anything at all for my little girl.
They let me stay in the corner of the emergency room bay as they work on my daughter. I’m relieved when I hear things like “sinus rhythm” and “clear lungs” and “core temp is rising.” They toss back and forth a thousand terms that I don’t understand as they hover over my daughter’s still body. All I can do is watch. And listen. And pray.
