The Accident - The Phone Call - Part 1
March, 2005
The dream I can’t remember is interrupted by beeping. The noise is trying to superimpose itself into the dream unsuccessfully, my brain can’t figure out where to put it, so I start to rise up into consciousness. I hear one more series of beeps then silence. That sounded like my phone. Was it a dream? Or were those last beeps real? I shake my head and look at the bedside clock. Why would my phone be ringing at one in the morning? I feel a little clutch in my stomach, the first hint of premonition, phone calls at one a.m. are seldom good. I wonder if Chelsea’s home?
I slowly get to my feet and pad barefoot to the front door. I look down, the shoes Chelsea wore out tonight when she left with her friends are ominously absent. Still wanting to believe my life hasn’t just changed in an instant, I calmly walk over to the phone and check the last incoming call. Not familiar. The clutch in my stomach twists a little, bringing me to full consciousness. I hit redial and wait.
“Kona Community Hospital, how may I help you.” Shit, shit, shit!
“Um, I just missed a call from this number?”
“Okay ma’am, who might you be calling about?”
“My daughter’s name is Chelsea Haworth.” For once I am not interested in giving a long story. I just need to know the answer.
“Okay, let me seeeeeee…” I hear her tapping quietly on her computer. “Yes, she’s here in the emergency department. Would you like me to put you through?”
“Yes, yes, of course.” I register that my feet are cold on the tile floor, I must remember to bring a sweater, hospitals are always cold.
“Emergency department, how may I help you.”
“Yes, I just found out that my daughter was brought in there, Chelsea Haworth?”
“Yes ma’am, you can come on in. She has some abrasions and she’s conscious.” I will look back on this monumental oversimplification later and shake my head. Way to minimize the situation so that mom doesn’t get herself in an accident on the way in.
“I’ll be right there.”
Thank god the hospital is only a 10-minute drive from the house, I make it in seven. As I push through the double doors into the waiting room, I see four of Chelsea’s friends sitting silently on my left, their heads are all hanging and they look glum.
“We tried to stop her getting in the car…” says one of the boys. “But she got angry with me and grabbed her keys.” He can’t look me in the eye.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. I know how determined Chelsea can be when she wants something. I fight a wave of nausea. Her friends all look wretched, there’s no time to cross-examine them, I turn without a word and press the large square button on the wall to gain access to the ER.
I’m ushered to a bed with privacy curtains pulled on either side, but the end curtain is open, I assume so they can keep an eye on her. My daughter’s beautiful 19-year-old body is lying on a narrow gurney, she has a large, bright yellow support strapped around her neck. She moves her left leg, then her right and groans, “my fucking back hurts.” Now is not the time to ask her to watch her language, I just register my relief that she’s moving her legs. I will discover later that often with serious concussions, it’s not uncommon for patients to lapse into incoherent profanities.
I lean down close to her ear, “I’m here sweetie, mom is here.” She continues with a string of obscenities, mainly complaining about her back. As she tries to move, I touch her shoulder, “Just stay still sweetie, let’s see what the X-rays say before you try to move.” She doesn’t acknowledge me but settles down and goes back to groaning.
TO BE CONTINUED:
