Trigger, anyone?

I saw a hat lying in the middle of West Michigan the other day.

A baseball cap.

Not bloody.  Nothing around it to suggest something untoward had happened.  Probably somebody had lost it out the window of their car goofing around.

And yet.

And yet, the images began firing up in my brain as my throat closed in and chest tightened.

My own feet clad in purple sandals clapping the pavement furiously.  Getting there at the end of my road and craning around against the bright sunshine, unable to see anything  at first and wondering if this kid had his story straight..  Then spotting a throng of quiet, uncomfortable, helpful, sad, curious people trying to drag a kiddie pool over to block the passers by from seeing...

ohhhhhhh.....ohhhhh nooo, oh no Cory Girl.  It is her.  It is. 

Trying to get to her but being politely intercepted and held gently but firmly back from approaching her where she laid splayed to the side of the road, facedown, hair covering her face.  Looking small.  Looking not quite right.  Something about the angles did not seem natural.  Looking very, very still.

I am her mother. My name is...her name is...she is nineteen.  Yes, she is allergic to Bactrim and any sulfa drugs.  Yes she is on medication.  They are.... Yes, we live ..... Yes, she lives with me....

"Let us work on your daughter.  Let us help her."

 The fear that dropped into my belly as I watched them turn her over...it was hot, liquid, and oozed into every nook and cranny of my soul.  She has to be okay. 

They turned her over so slowly, so carefully, seemingly inches at a time, maybe even reverently, maybe they already knew what I did not...her hair covered her face, her eyes were closed, and her lips were blue.  A dark blue.  My voice took up my heart's chant, "Is she breathing?  Is she?  Is she breathing?   Someone tell me!"

No one answered.  Instead they sliced her shirt open with shears and I jumped and rejoiced in my heart, for they were going to give her the paddles and it would be ok.  As I waited breathless, the paddles did not appear.  Someone brought a box thing, they hooked her up, they went back to the ambulance.  I kept waiting for the paddles, wanting to wash her legs which were dirty, wanting to stop looking at her arm twisted all the way around like a pretzel but unable to pull my gaze from it.  Shouldn't somebody be tending to that?

And that was it.
Six reluctant words later and it was done.