Part 4: My Own Personal Mystery
July 1, 2009 
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
June 27, 2009 
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.
Part 2: In Which I Break A Solemn Vow
June 25, 2009 
The events that followed my washing up on shore have become a jumbled blur over the last 2 days. It was all clear in my mind at the time – and even the first night, when I couldn’t close my eyes in the hospital because the events of the day kept replaying over and over – I could have probably recalled every moment in searing detail. But I’ll do my best to make sense of the jumble.
For one thing, there was a pickup ride before the ambulance. When Husband told me that last night I did sort of remember, in the way that I might remember a vague detail from a dream. But really it was so inconsequential – the pickup drove us off the beach to the road where we were loaded into the ambulance. Stranger is that I don’t remember how long the ambulance ride was, and apparently it was about 30 minutes long.
I remember that I was strapped down, and that my head was very uncomfortable. And I remember that I had an oxygen mask on. I’ve always thought those things were sort of freaky, and almost wondered if they would make me feel like I was being suffocated. Turns out they are quite useful. Especially if your “pulse ox” level is at 80%, as EMT told me mine was. I don’t know much about medical jargon, but I know 80% isn’t such a good score when you’re talking oxygen levels. I also heard her tell K that hers was 100%. And then, she went on to explain that with K they were being extra safe, because there’s such a thing as “secondary drowning” where the water in your lungs seeps in over time and you drown hours after you were actually in the water. I was barely conscious at the time, but in my mind I was thinking, “Why on earth are you telling my daughter this? Don’t you know she panics easily?”
Another thing I remember from the ambulance was when the rescue squad woman handed me off to the EMT woman she told her she would need something. I don’t know what it was – I couldn’t look at them because I was strapped down and also I was rather, um, mostly dead. (Sorry, had to throw in the Princess Bride reference. It couldn’t be helped.) Anyway, Rescue Squad says, “You should take this.” and EMT woman says, “I won’t need that.” ; RS “I really think you should” ; EMT “I don’t need it.” RS: “I strongly think you should…” EMT: “RS, step outside with me, right now.” 80 percent oxygen, in crazy amount of pain and nausea, taking my first ever ambulance ride, but I still appreciated a bit of medical drama played out just for me.
We arrive at the hospital and I’m rolled in – my view was just like they show on TV – the sky, the entrance sign, the ceiling lights. Weird how TV makes reality feel surreal.
In the passing from the ambulance gurney to the ER bed and the subsequent jostling of removing me from the backboard, my oxygen mask wasn’t on the entire time. And my nauseau was back. And I was really really cold. Did I mention I’m still just in a wet bathing suit at this point? With like a thin hospital “blanket” over me. (I put “blanket” in quotes because it wasn’t a sheet but anything that thin does not deserve the name “blanket”.) But mostly I remember feeling like I couldn’t get any air. It felt just like when I was in the water, and it scared the crap out of me. I said, “I can’t breathe.” But no one seemed to hear me, they were all busy setting stuff up and whatnot. So I said it again, “Please, I can’t breathe.” I was getting pretty panicky at that point. Also having a bit of deja-vu from the ocean, feeling like I’m calling and no one is hearing. “Please!” One of the male medical attendant people says in what he obviously considered to be a soothing voice, “You just need to relax.” Okay numbnuts, I freaking CAN’T BREATHE and you think I just need to RELAX?!! I’m shaking my head back and forth, trying to convey the ridiculousness of his statement. The oxygen mask is on my face but it’s not working, I still can’t get a breath. “Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth” he says. DUH. I know this. I took Lamaze for goodness sakes. I’m trying, but it still isn’t working. Then a saint of a nurse takes my hand. Her hand is warm and reassuring and firm. “You’re okay.” She tells me. And for some reason I believe her. I can even breathe a little better.
Meanwhile, some doctor is asking me questions, poking my stomach, “Does this hurt?” Um, let’s see, I just swallowed a freaking OCEAN, YES, that HURTS. I think I made that rather clear to the nice man. Pain in the stomach is a sign of internal bleeding. So they kept asking me if I hit the bottom of the ocean, perhaps got banged up a few times. I didn’t remember hitting the bottom, but then I also didn’t remember getting out of the ocean, so I wasn’t much help with those questions.
Another fun symptom I had was low blood pressure. That combined with shock meant that my veins (which are normally not very easy to find) were non-existent. Getting an IV put in? Not so much fun. Multiple nurses, multiple tries. The “successful” line was in my hand. It hurt like the dickens, just sitting there. When they put anything in it, it burned.
It really is a jumble. I’m sure this is out of order. But then, who would know or care? Well, if you are a medical type person and I say something that sounds wacky, blame the drugs. I apparently got lots of them. First and foremost was something they put in the IV for nausea. Because dude I was feeling SO sick. And not just nauseous but like painful nauseous. Also there was drugs for the low blood pressure. And I really don’t know what else.
Meanwhile, the nurse decided I needed to get cleaned up. Here’s your Helpful Heloise Tip for the day: Baby powder cleans away wet sand. She got the sand off my arms and legs. And then she wanted my suit off. “But then I’ll be naked” I said. I’m quite good at pointing out the obvious, aren’t I? “Oh no,” she reassured me, “We have clothes for you.” Do you know what “clothes” means at a hospital? The Gown. I’m sorry but a sad thin little gown that is not even tied in the back does not meet my definition of “clothing”. But there I was, “clothed” in the gown, and nicely dusted with baby powder. Also thankfully at that point they had brought many more “blankets”, some of them pre-warmed and so I was no longer freezing, so long as no one was trying to inspect any part of me. (Which happened every 10 minutes or so.)
Sometime in there I also got a chest X-ray.
And then, they had to send me for a CT scan of my stomach, to rule out internal injuries. A nice man rolled me down the hall and into the big CT scanning room. I saw that gigantic machine and had another minor panic attack. “I don’t like those machines” I said. “It’s okay,” he reassured me, “You don’t go inside it, it’s not like an MRI.” The thing was more like a space-aged portal. Which is funny because the brand was “Laser Aperture”. Which I’m sure means nothing to any of you, but my son A is a huge “Portal” game fan and the corporation in that game is “Aperture Science.” And the theme song? “Still Alive.” Yep, totally had that running through my head as I laid there.
When they do this scanny thing they have to put dyes in your bloodstream to help the scanner see what’s going on in your organs. The nice guy explains that it doesn’t hurt, it’s just “uncomfortable.”
Have we yet noticed a trend with the hospital and their inappropriate use of the english language?
This one took the cake.
When he shot that dye into the IV in my hand it freakin’ hurt worse than anything else – it burned and it just plain HURT. And apparently at that point I had enough drugs and crap going on that I was no longer attempting to be a good and quiet patient. In other words, I let the nice man know.
“FUUUUUDGE!!! THAT HURT!!! I don’t think you know what UNCOMFORTABLE means! You need a THESAURUS!!!”
He wheeled me back out, and on the way the nurse at the station said, “We heard that didn’t go too well?” Ha, guess I won’t be getting that Patient of the Year Award.
Back in the room, the saintly nurse came to talk to me. She explained that my chest x-ray was “Not good” and since they didn’t have a lung specialist on staff, they needed to transfer me to another hospital. In Norfolk. BY HELICOPTER.
Here’s where I should explain to you that I have a thing about helicopters. As in, I think they are death traps. And I have said many many times, “You would have to kill me before I would ride in one of those.” And while I was mostly dead, I was not all dead and therefore I intended to keep that particular vow.
“Do I have to ride a helicopter? Can’t they take me by ambulance?”
The awesome kind nurse actually went and asked.
No go. I needed to get someplace with better facilities, and fast.
“Can Hubby go with me?”
Nope. No room. Sorry.
Commence panic attack. Which was undoubtedly less severe than it normally would have been, thanks to the multiple traumas of the day and a whole lotta drugs.
The doctor brought Hubby and K in to see me and explained to both of them why I needed to be transferred. K looked panicked and very worried. I probably wasn’t helping with that, what with the “get me out of here” look I gave both of them. The doctor showed us K’s chest x-ray. It was nice and clear. What a blessing for me to see that, and to know she really was okay. Then she showed us mine. It looked rather like those images they show high schoolers when they are trying to convince them never to start smoking. Not so much clear, is what I’m saying.
I said good-bye to K, and gave her a hug. “I’m sorry mom,” she said again. “No. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I told her. After she left the room the nurse told me I shouldn’t feel so bad. Apparently it had been a very bad day on the Outer Banks beaches – 10 “near drownings” in one day. She said the guys in the rooms on either side of me were both near drownings, and one had a much worse chest x-ray than mine.
There was more waiting, during which they gave me something in my oxygen mask that was supposed to help with my lungs until I got to the next hospital – a steroid I think. Also they pushed a bunch more nausea medicine into my IV.
Hubby came and asked if I wanted him to wait with me or get started driving to the new hospital. His dad was staying with K and Hubby was going with me. I can’t even put into words what a blessing it was to have the extra family there to help – to know K was well cared for (FIL is a doctor, which is a big bonus in situations like these) and Hubby could be with me gave me a lot of peace. His sister brought him some clothes (He’d been in a swimsuit and rashguard shirt all that time) and the nurse gave him directions to the new hospital. I told him to go ahead and go.
And then, it was time for the helicopter ride.
Moved from the bed, to another gurney. Strapped down. Rolled out the doors to the parking lot where they had blocked off an area for the helicopter. Weird, thinking it was blocked off, just for me. Really weird. The helicopter was a lot smaller than I expected. The size of one of those traffic copters. The ceiling was just above my head, and there were knobs and buttons all around. The flight medic told me to expect it to be really loud. And that we’d have a nice view of the sunset. Oh goody. As if I’d actually be looking out the window?? Nope, I closed my eyes, tried to relax, and attemped to remember any scripture verse or hymn I could get into my head. Sad really how few came to mind, but I recited Proverbs 3:5-6 a few times, went through “Shine Jesus Shine” at least twice and I don’t know what all else I thought. Though I do remember praying “Please don’t let us crash”. A lot. (Surprisingly it was a very smooth ride. Better than a lot of plane rides I’ve been on. But then, I don’t generally get nausea medicine pushed through an IV before getting on a plane. Hmmm… ) As we circled Norfolk I was able to get a glimpse of the city out the window across from me. It was a very nice view. But I was still rather glad when I opened my eyes the next time and realized we were on the ground. Flight Medic reminded me it would be very loud, this time the helicopter was still running as they took me out. Have you ever seen that episode of ER where the doctor looses his arm to a helicopter propeller? Yeah, not a great image to have in my head at a time like that. But soon I was outside again, and rolling through another parking lot, about to enter yet another hospital.
The Near Drowning: Part I
We’ve had incredible weather here in the Outer Banks, NC. Sunny, mid-80’s with a nice breeze. Truly, it’s the exact weather I’d order for a summer vacation at the beach.
Our rental house is just across the street from private beach access, so we’ve spent a few hours there each day. It’s so different from the Jersey Shore where I always go with my family. Way less crowded, the water is much much warmer. And there are no lifeguards. Well, there’s the Beach Patrol, which is basically a guy on an ATV who goes zipping past once an hour or so. But other than that, you’re on your own.
My favorite activity at the beach is kicking back in a chair, watching my kids and reading a book or a magazine. Also, I take a lot of pictures. Hubby freaks at the thought of my expensive SLR getting filled with sand, but I’m careful and I just can’t resist all the perfect photo opportunities. So that’s what I was doing yesterday. Kicking back, watching everyone and taking pictures every now and then.
Hubby’s family loves the waves. Especially his mom. It cracks me up, seeing this 60-something year old woman spending an hour or more jumping waves with a boogie board or even just on her own. K and I were watching her and I jokingly said, “gee I hope Grandma doesn’t have a heart attack, it’s not like there’s any lifeguard around to help her.” K gave me an appropriately shocked look and then we laughed it off.
Hubby was out in the waves, for a good long time. A was out for a little while, though he prefers digging huge holes in the sand.
Then K said she wanted to go out and Hubby just came back with his board so I took it and said, “I’ll go with you.”
K was surprised, because I almost never go out in the waves. But the water was super warm and it was easy to get right in. We’d jump over the smaller waves and when a bigger one came along we’d turn our boards around and ride it to the shore. We did this for a while, and after the third time of riding all the way to the shore I said to K, “I’m getting tired. Let’s just do one more set and then go back to the beach.” K didn’t want to go back. She said she’d find someone else to go back out with her when I left. It was just that fun.
So we’re out there, jumping waves, and then I got out farther than K. She called to me, “Mom, You’re out too far.” But there was a sand bar under me and where I was standing, the water barely came to my hips. “It’s fine” I sad.
(Forgive me, my heart is pumping really hard right now, it’s hard to go back there, in my mind. But I know if I don’t get this out, it will just play over and over in my head. It might anyway. But it’s worth a try.)
My eyes were on the waves, my back to the beach. Then, a big wave came along so I turned around to ride it back to the beach.
That was when I realized how far out we were. And the wave was not carrying me back to the shore. K was out nearly as far as me, but a good distance away, more towards where we’d started. I yelled to here that we needed help.
I saw a panicked look on her face. I didn’t want to scare her, but we really needed help.
I screamed as loud as I could, “HELP!”
I’m a very loud screamer. Husband teases me because I scream so loud at concerts. I’m the only one whose voice can carry through our long stretched out house. But my voice was no match for the waves, and the distance was too far. The people on the beach were unaware we were in any kind of trouble.
K kept yelling, and riding the waves.
I kept yelling. The waves were pulling me. Out. To the side. Anywhere but towards the shore.
I got pulled under.
I thought, “This is just like on TV. Only I’m not really drowning. I can’t really be drowning.”
(My heart is beating very hard now. I don’t want to be back here. I never want to be back here again.)
I got back on top of my board. I kicked and tried to steer. The waves flipped me. The salt water went through my nose and down my throat.
I got my head above water. I yelled for Help. I tried to get more air.
I went under again.
I’m really going to die out here. This is not how I want to die.
God, Please, don’t let me die in front of K. Please don’t let K drown. Please, help us.
I expected a peace, or a bright light, or even an angel.
I got more waves, more water.
Then I saw a young man standing in front of me. I reached out and yelled (or was it barely a whisper at that point?) “help”. He grabbed my hand. I went limp, remembering that is what you should do to make it easier for your rescuer.
My board was still attached to my arm. It pulled me in the other direction. The man said, “This isn’t going to work” and dropped my hand.
I thought, “That’s it? He’s leaving me to die here?”
I went under again. I had no strength left.
The next thing I knew, I was being pulled up on the beach.
There were voices all around me.
“Put her on her side.”
My stomach convulsed, and up came seawater.
“That’s good!” someone praised me.
Hands all around me, faces in front of me, asking questions.
“How old is she?”
Husband responded, “38.”
38? He’s aging me again! My birthday isn’t until July!
What’s your name honey?
My voice wouldn’t work. I didn’t want to talk. I just wanted to lay there. And to get the ick and sand off my lips. My stomach hurt. My chest hurt. Everything hurt.
More hands, more faces, more questions.
K! Where’s K? My eyes flew open and I searched the crowd for her.
“Your daughter’s right over there. She’s fine.”
Oh thank God. Thank God. Thank You, God.
“How old are you honey?”
“37″
The woman is laughing. She leans over and says in my ear, “I was expecting you to be 15!”
She must have thought I was the oldest flabbiest wrinkliest 15 year old she’d ever seen.
Soon I was strapped to a board, my neck held in place by foam, an oxygen mask on my nose and mouth. I was lifted into an ambulance.
“Chris, I’m here.” It was Hubby. Where was he? I couldn’t look around, my eyes were too tired and I couldn’t move. But K was there, sitting next to me.
“I’m sorry.” I whispered to her.
“No mom! I’m sorry. This is my fault!”
“No K, No. I love you. I’m sorry.”
My voice didn’t work well, I had a mask on my face. I knew I’d have to tell her again. And again.
Beyond Politics
(I try to keep most of my “political” stuff over on All The News. But this commercial really hit a chord with me in a way that was beyond politics so I decided to post it here.)
