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500 down to… 2

So it turns out most of the good pictures from our vacation are of my family – and not from the back. I know, you’re very thankful for this, because really who wants to see all of my family’s vacation pictures? (Answer: No one. Not even my family has that long of an attention span.) But I do have these two pictures from when my in-laws took Zeeb and R to the beach to do some kite flying. Zeeb was begging and begging all week to fly a kite. And then the grandparents decided they wanted to do a “memory” birthday gift rather than a bunch of presents and so they came up with the plan to let the kids pick out their own kites and go fly them. Good choice. Especially because it was such an amazing photo op for me! Ha ha.

R was a laid-back kite flier. Once she got it into the air she just stood there and watched it for a while. And then let her big brother take a turn when she got bored.

Zeeb worked the kite, pumping his arms to make it go higher, moving back and forth to keep it away from R’s kite. He’s such a talker, he went on and on sharing his strategies with me and describing what the kite was doing. He had so much fun, I think he would have stayed on the beach with his kite all day if we’d let him.

And thus ends the coverage of The Big and Unexpectedly Dramatic Family Vacation to The Outer Banks 2009. Up next: Egads I’ve only got 2 days to pack for my reunion trip!!

Life Goes On – As Seen By My iPhone

The drama took a lot longer to tell here compared to how much of our vacation it really consumed. We actually did lots of fun stuff. I took over 500 pictures on my regular camera (!!!) and when I didn’t have that with me, there was always the iPhone. Can I just say, I am totally hooked on that thing? Here’s the vacation, as seen by my iPhone …

We stopped at a big farmers market kind of thing just over the North Carolina border. It was totally set up for tourists and had a ton of really luscious looking fruit. These peaches? Juicy and delicious. Best I’ve had in years.

I’m from the north. Thus I couldn’t resist taking a picture of grits. The old guy in line behind us thought I was very weird. “You never seen grits before?”

Fresh Duck Donuts. If you’ve never been to Duck Donuts, it’s sort of like ColdStone, only with doughnuts. You pick the icing and any topping you want and they make it right in front of you. The doughnuts themselves are like a cross between Dunkin and Krispy Kreme – cake-ish, but warm and melt in your mouth-y. SO good. Seriously, practically worth the trip to the Outer Banks, just for that.

The sunset, as seen from the back deck of our vacation house. The skies there were incredible.

Hubby and I took another walk to the beach; my feeble attempt to make peace with the Ocean. Ocean gave a good effort, what with the dolphins swimming around and all, but still it looked rather fierce and scary and not at all inviting to me. And then when the sand crabs that look like gigantic white spiders started crawling right in front of us, well, sorry Ocean, but that did not help your case one bit.

I know it’s cheesy, but I love this picture. Hubby and I went out on a date for our 16th anniversary. We drove down the Banks to Corolla Light, which is mostly on the Bay side. After dinner we walked out on this dock that we had practically to ourselves and watched the sunset.

I like bays. Nice and calm and a lot less threatening. Not that I’m jumping into one anytime soon or anything…

Stay tuned for more photo highlights… no worries, I promise I won’t post all 500 of them!

Part 4: My Own Personal Mystery

I got sprung from the hospital first thing last Wednesday morning. I believe the doctors exact words were, “You don’t need to be here.” Music to my ears.

A two hour drive back to the Outer Banks and I walked in to find the walls covered in “Welcome Home” pictures colored by my kids. Way to make a girl cry.

Other than being super tired (not sleeping all night will do that to you) I really felt fine. And I wanted to get back into the swing of things as soon as possible, to redeem the vacation for the kids. We were out shopping and getting ice cream that afternoon. Which was only a little surreal.

At lunch that day, Hubby’s dad told me he’d run into a woman he recognized from the beach who said her nephews were the ones who rescued K and me. He said she pointed to the house where they were staying and asked if I wanted to go thank them myself. I really really did. There was this huge hole in my memory between sinking in the ocean hearing some guy saying “this won’t work” to laying on the sand spewing ocean water and I felt like seeing them would somehow help fill that gap. Plus it just doesn’t seem right to not thank the person who literally saved your life.

So that afternoon while we were out shopping I picked up these shirts that said “Outer Banks Lifeguards” as a rather lame token of my thanks. (Really, what DO you buy for the person who saved your life? It’s not covered in the Hallmark guide.) And then the next morning FIL showed Hubby which house it was and Hubby and I walked down the street together. I knocked on the door, feeling more than just a little bit nervous. A woman answered the door.

“Hi. Um, were you on the beach on Tuesday afternoon?”

“No, actually I just got here. Just a minute”

She calls another woman over to the door.

“Hi, I’m just wondering if you were on the beach on Tuesday and saw someone get pulled from the water?”

“No, I’m sorry, I didn’t.”

Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen, FIL pointed out the WRONG house. Hubby calls him on his cell and FIL says it was definitely a brown house, set back from the road. So we tried another brown house that was close to the access road, where Hubby thought the ambulance was parked.

An older man opens the door. I do my spiel once again. “Were you on the beach on Tuesday? Did you see a woman get pulled out of the water?”

“Oh there was a lot of excitement this week. But I didn’t see it. Was that you?”

“Yep, that was me.”

“Oh, bless you, I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Thank you, I feel very blessed.”

And that would be strike out number two on The Quest To Find My Rescuers.

So then Hubby had the idea that we should walk down on the beach to the scene of the crime and see if perhaps the guys are hanging out there again.

Easier said than done. Because suddenly the sand and surf was anything but relaxing. My heart was beating a mile a minute and I had a death grip on Hubby’s hand.

We saw a guy sitting in a chair by himself, and Hubby thought he might be one of them. So I go over to a random guy on the beach and ask him if perhaps he pulled anyone out of the water this week? Nope, he wasn’t the one either. But he also said he was glad I was okay. Surprising really how nice all these strangers were. But then they probably wanted to keep the crazy lady from going off the deep end right in front of them.

At that point I was very very frustrated and also feeling that FIL was not the world’s best witness. So I decided to take a different tack. I called the non-emergency number for the area and asked if a report had been filed that might tell me their names. The first person didn’t know but gave me a number for another person. That person pulled a file and started reading me names – seven altogether – but then clarified that these were the EMTs (or fire department?? Something like that) on call at the time of my near drowning. Not the people who pulled me out of the water. She then gave me another person to call, who has access to the full reports.

I finally talked to her – Jeannie was her name – and she didn’t have a lot of new info to give me. “If they didn’t write the bystanders names in the police report, it’s likely we won’t know.” She said.

That did it, I started to cry. “But it’s not right,” I said, “To save someone’s life and not even get a thank you.”

“I know. I’m sorry. Well, let me do some calling around and see what I can find out for you.”

I didn’t hear from Jeannie that afternoon. I figured she’d hit the same dead ends I did and it was a lost cause. But then in the morning, she called me back. It turned out she’d spent much of the afternoon and some of that morning chasing down leads. This woman totally went above and beyond to get some answers for me.

“Well I was really confused because you said it was two bystanders that pulled you out but the only record we have of a bystander rescue was for a male. According to your report, you were rescued by two men on beach patrol.” She gave me their names and an address where I could send them a thank you card. I thanked her profusely.

But then? I was more confused than ever. Because sister-in-law and father-in-law were both positive that two bystanders had pulled me out – and that woman said her nephews did. So why did the report say beach patrol rescued me?

So then I searched online for the beach patrol number. The first guy I got said I needed a different guy and gave me his number. That guy said the two guys I was loooking for weren’t on duty that day. And one was away on a camping trip until Sunday afternoon. I told him that I was trying to figure out what happened and he says, “Oh you’re the one Jeannie called me about.” Which made me feel a little bad because now it sounded like I didn’t believe her after all she did. But he called the one beach patrol guy who was still in town, while I waited on the line. “He says he was the secondary on the call. The other guy was primary. He said he didn’t see who pulled you out.” And then he told me that it had been a very busy week – a lot of water rescues – and its hard to remember specifics. And they don’t keep the reports with them, they’re filed somewhere else. I hung up, frustrated and feeling like I was never going to get any answers.

Then he called me back. He ran into Primary Beach Patrol guy at the grocery store – shopping for his camping trip. And asked him about me. (seriously – these NC people are SO much nicer than I’m used to!) Primary Beach Patrol guy confirmed what the other one said – they didn’t pull me out, they arrived just after. Back to the dead end.

Thursday night Hubby asked his dad to walk down the street with him again and see if he can find the house. This time FIL points to a dark red house and says he’s nearly positive it’s the one. K says she wants to go with us, to meet her rescuer herself. We knock on the door. No answer. Nothing to do but go to bed and try again tomorrow.

At this point it’s Friday – R’s birthday and our 16th anniversary – and the fact that I can let this quest go is starting to bug me. But it was really driving me crazy. So that afternoon Hubby and I decide to go back to the red house for one more try. If it’s not the right one, I’ll give up and accept that it’s an unsolvable mystery. (K decided not to go along – she said she just wanted to know if her rescuer was “hot”. Clearly an important detail when you are nearly 14.)

We knock on the door.

A young man answers.

“Hi, could you tell us, were you on the beach on Tuesday afternoon?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you pull someone out of the water?”

“No, but my cousins did. One of them is out right now, but the other one’s here.”

Another young guy comes to the door. He’s probably in his early 20’s, with sandy blond hair. He looks friendly and kind, but not at all familiar. He introduces himself – his name is Christian. I explain who I am and he tells us he’s very glad we came by. And then he says it’s been a bad week.

“Have you seen a lot of rescues this week?”

“Yeah, there was another one after yours. The man who was staying over there (he points across the street) – he’s from Richmond, like me. They pulled him out but then he had a heart attack and died.”

I know the man was likely at least 10 years older than me, but that still really freaked me out. I couldn’t help thinking, that could have been me.

Christian tells us he didn’t pull me out, his cousin did. He helped K out of the water. And then he says the whole thing is a blur at this point. I thanked him, he does that “it’s nothing” kind of head shake, to which I respond, “No, you don’t understand. I have four kids. My parents keep calling to make sure I’m all right. You helped my daughter. I can never thank you enough for what you and your cousin did.” And then I asked if I could give him a hug. Which I’m sure puts me right up there at Stalker Status or something, but he seemed okay with it. And he said we could come back in an hour when his cousin would be there.

So we came back, cheesy shirts in hand, and met my rescuer. His name is Mike and he’s a cop in Maryland. And clearly didn’t know what to say other than he was glad I was okay. He kind of had that Italian guy/cop attitude (I say this with no disrespect, my sister is married to an Italian guy cop) – sort of you know like, “Don’t think nothin’ of it” kind of attitude. So I didn’t feel like I had an opening to ask him what happened and how exactly he rescued me. Which kind of bums me out, because that hole in my memory will just be there forever now. But he was very nice and also let me give him a hug (and actually hugged me a second time as a good-bye, which probably just proves my Italian guy theory…).

And that was that. And while I didn’t get the answers I was hoping for, I did get an incredible sense of peace and closure and for that I am very very grateful. Just one more miracle that God gave me that week.

As for the “This isn’t going to work” thing… I’m thinking it happened something like this: My boogie board was still attached to my arm (with that velcro cuff) and probably it was making the rescue harder, pulling me back out on the waves and whatnot. So probably he had to get the board off first. That seems plausible, right? Anyway it really doesn’t matter. Mike got me out and Christian helped K out. We are both alive and totally well. What more could I ask for?

Part 3: In Which A Dancing Star Sucks My Blood

I’ve noticed over the last few days that I get this tight panicky feeling in my chest every afternoon. It’s like I need to get away – away from everyone else, from everything around me – and just cry. It only occured to me today that this is about the time I was fighting for my life in the ocean. Could be a coincidence, I don’t know. So this might not be the best time for me to continue my story. But it’s rare that I can find time to myself here in this house full of extended family, and I feel an urgency to get the story told before it gets lost in my jumbled memory.

[Editors Note: I wrote every sordid detail of this part, and then took it down 12 hours later, because it turns out there actually are some things I don't want to share with the entire internet. So I deleted those parts.]

So I’m on a gurney, getting rolled into the Trauma Center at the new hospital. And the funny thing is, even though at Beach hospital I had shifted from gurney to bed a few times on my own (or with just a little assistance) at Big City hospital they insisted that I lie perfectly still while they transferred me. You know, with like 3-4 people all grabbing a part of a sheet and saying “1-2-3 LIFT!” Which, can I say? Does not make one exactly feel light as a feather.

And then the doctor insisted on rolling me on my side and checking my spine for injuries. This involved him pressing on my spine and asking if it hurt. Press – “Now?” (Me: “no”) Press – “Now?” (”no”) Press – “Now?” (”no”). So once I passed the poke test, I was able to lay on my back and then another doctor started pressing on my stomach. Aside from how badly I needed to “make water” at that point, it didn’t hurt. (Which? Is somewhat amazing because boy did my stomach feel nasty up until then.) And then Maksim Chmerkovskiy came over and lovingly took my hand sank his teeth into my wrist (ahem) started looking for a vein.  And okay, it wasn’t actually Maks from Dancing With The Stars… but it was definitely his twin brother.  Maks quickly assessed my sad vein situation and decided the trick was to put the rubber tournequit thing on and leave it there a good long time while occasionally wacking at my hand to get the blood flowing.

While all that’s going on, a kind non-medical looking man comes in and sort of shyly comes over to talk to me. “I’m the hospital chaplain, is there anything I can do for you? Any family or anyone I can call?”

“Um, well, my husband’s on the way already and I don’t know any of my family’s numbers without my cell phone.” (Sad state of affairs, that.) “Could you just pray for me?”

“I’ll pray with you.”

But just then Maks and everyone else swarmed around me poking and prodding and doing yet another chest x-ray and a zillion other things that make one feel like an alien experiment of some kind.  The Chaplain stood over in the corner, patiently waiting as though he had nothing better to do than be nearby, ready to pray with me. A few minutes later, he found an opening and did just that. I don’t remember word for word what he prayed, but I remember thinking he was praying exactly what was in my heart.  And it gave me a lot of peace.  I hope he gets a good salary at that hospital, because I think he contibuted as much to my healing as anyone else in the room that day.

Interesting background stuff going on all the while…

On the other side of the curtain from me was a resident of the nearby prison who had been stabbed 7 times. All over his body. He was in pain. Also sounding not altogether in his right mind. Again with the feeling like I was plopped down in the middle of an episode of ER.

One of the doctors working on me was a resident – it was his second day. I was rather glad I did not need to be intubated.

Maks did finally get a good line in my arm, and was quite proud of himself. And then I was wheeled down the hall for yet another CT scan, this time on my chest. I was very much not looking forward to this.

The CT guy says to me, “like doughnuts?”

“Um, yeah, just had one the other day.” (Duck Donuts. YUM.)

CT guy: “Well, now you get to be in a doughnut!” (Because the CT scanner looks like a giant doughnut. Ah, we’re so witty and clever in the lab, aren’t we?)

Good news: The dyes didn’t hurt nearly so much going into Maks’ IV as it had in my hand. But I still wouldn’t use the word “uncomfortable.” I explained as much to CT guy. (Oh and YES, I really did say FUDGE and not the other word! For some reason I don’t swear when I’m hurt, only when I’m really mad. Generally at hubby. Sorry Hubby.)

After the CT scan I was wheeled back toward the first room, but then the nurse said they had a different room set up for me. I don’t know what kind of room it was, it wasn’t like an overnight thing, not sure if it was recovery or something? Anyway, biggish room with a bed and a flat screen TV and some monitors. All to myself. Lovely. A sweet blond nurse came in and got me hooked up to the monitors (which involved sticking on a whole bunch of sticky circles with snaps on them. Seriously, I looked like a Dress Me doll.) And then I asked her if I could please have a cup of ice. Because in all this time, I still never had a chance to rinse out my mouth. Ick.

Sitting in the room was also my first chance to look at a clock – 10:00pm. “Is that right?” I asked someone. “Yes, that’s right.” Holy cow did I lose a lot of hours that day.

Hubby still wasn’t at the hospital yet – it was about a two hour drive and he’d stopped home for a few things. But I was starting to worry. I couldn’t help thinking how horribly ironic it would be if I survived a drowning only to have Hubby die in a car crash on his way to my hospital. (Insert yet another TV reference – Gray’s Anatomy where Bailey’s in labor and her husband gets in that awful wreck on the way to the hospital. I really need to stop watching medical dramas.)

I distracted myself with National Treasure on TV and my cup of ice chips. And wondered if they had a good guard watching the prisoner from the Trauma rooms. (I also watch too many crime shows.) Also for the first time that day I reached up to run my fingers through my hair.  EGADS.  I think I had an entire beachful of sand on my scalp.  And my hair was a combination of sticky ringlets and scary frizz.  Think “Bride of Frankinstein.”  Then National Treasure ended and the next show was a freaky cop show and I didn’t have a remote and I started thinking about The Prisoner again and also worrying some more about Hubby.

Thankfully just about then Hubby showed up. Really, everything just seemed so much better when he was nearby. Hubby was amazed at how much better I looked than the last time he saw me a few hours before. I was definitely feeling better too. Even sort of hoping they’d let me go home, though I knew that was rather unlikely.

Fast Forward because this part is boring… after waiting a long while they told me I’d be staying overnight and they were getting a room ready for me and I’d be moved soon. And I called my sister (because hers was the only number programmed in my phone) and probably gave her far too many details. Then I called my mom, and gave her way less details, emphasizing how very Okay I was. Unfortunately I think sister shared the details with everyone in the family later, but hey, I tried.

Around midnight Maks came to take me up to my room. “You’re looking a lot better than the last time I saw you.” he said. “I’m hearing that a lot” I said. And then self-consciously touched my hair, remembering I looked rather like a waterlogged rat. You know you have to be in a very sorry state if people are complimenting you despite how positively awful your hair is looking.

The new room was smaller but I had my very own bathroom and they even brought in a chair-bed for Hubby to sleep in. And the nurse only checked my vitals a couple of times before leaving me alone for four straight hours, so I might have even slept. Just one problem. Every time I closed my eyes (and often when I didn’t) I’d relive those moments in the ocean. Right down to the horrible feeling of the water filling my lungs. And that man saying “this isn’t going to work.” Staying awake all night was much preferable to that.