When I arrived at the ER that mild February afternoon, I spoke with a lady at the desk. “I was notified that my son was in a car accident. His name is Joseph.”
“Is this the accident on Route 683?” she asked. I had no idea. She asked my name, took my insurance card, and escorted me into a private room, claiming I could see the ambulance arrive from there. At that moment, it all seemed routine to me.
I don’t know how long I waited, but the longer I sat, the more scenarios danced through my mind. At first, they were mild concerns: maybe he’ll need stitches; maybe he’ll have a slight concussion.
The sanitary hospital smell was getting to me, and my resulting headache agitated me. Maybe he has just gone home, and I’ve been wasting time sitting here. I shouldn’t have left Wyatt home alone. Twelve—is that too young to be home alone? I want him with me. When will Curt get home from youth group? He told me the time, and now I can’t remember what he said. He’s going to be hungry. Good grief. What is taking so long? I have things to do, dinner to prepare for my men. What is taking so long?
Eventually, a nurse came in. “Is there anyone I can call for you while you wait for the ambulance?” he asked. I asked for my friend Karen, a nurse at the hospital. No, Karen was not on duty. “That’s okay, I said. I’m fine.” I had no idea.
As I endured the extended wait, I noticed hospital workers wandering in and out. Each forced a smile, or so it seemed to me. More scenarios raced through my mind. Possibilities were sinking in. Maybe Joseph will require hospitalization. Or surgery. He might be badly burned. Or horribly maimed. For a fleeting moment, I began to consider that Joseph might be dead. Finally, a doctor walked into the room. Relief.
“Mrs. Ramsey,” he said flatly. “I’m Dr. Ramsey. I don’t think we’re related.”
I’m sure we’re not, I replied.
He continued, “Mrs. Ramsey, your son Joe was in an accident.”
“Joseph,” I corrected. “His name is Joseph.”
“Well, Mrs. Ramsey, Joe died.”
Numbness fell over me and then swiftly turned to anger. Who is this stranger telling me my son is dead? Who does this fool think he is? Did he not hear me say my son’s name? It wasn’t a suggestion. It is his name! I shut Dr. Ramsey out after that. He became an intruder. I remember nothing about what he looked like, nor do I know if he uttered another word.
I cried out for Joseph. I needed my husband and sons. I was desperate to smell their aliveness and look at them, whole. A hospital employee told me that my husband was on his way. I needed Phil. I waited … and waited. I was there by myself, alone for what seemed an eternity.
Friend,
Do you have a similar story? Have you suffered great loss? If so, please know that you are not walking this unwanted journey alone. Know that many of us out here get it. We sit with you. We weep with you. And we’re asking God to expedite your grief.
Oh, how He loves you.
Shelley