July 2017

05.07.2015

I'll start by saying I'm OK.  We're OK.  Actually, we're better than OK.  Much better than I thought I would be doing just one short year later.  We have so many blessings around us, and I don't forget that.

But I like to write out my thoughts, get it out there...It's part of my story.

Everyone deals with death in some way or another, and I am no different.  I probably over share, especially on social media...Josh most definitely agrees with that statement.  But it's me, it's how I deal, I guess.  It's not good to keep everything inside, and this blog has sorta become an outlet.  It's a way to keep the memories together, all of the them -- the good and the bad.  I enjoy going back and reading through the past years, remembering how I felt in that very moment of my life.

As I sit here, reminiscing on my life 365 days ago, I can smile.  On this night, I was sitting around a table, beach-side, eating seafood with the ones I love most in the world.  It was picture perfect.  Like what you only see in the movies perfect.  That week, 52 weeks ago, was filled with so many good memories all crammed into 6 days, so much laughter and joy.

There are still tears, lots of them.  But there is less sadness.  I can't say for sure what I've learned from all of this yet (if there even is anything to learn), but I can say that in the last year, I've become a stronger person.  

But I've always been strong, and I will continue to be.  It's how I was raised, it's in my genes.

That I am thankful for.

I've always left out a piece of the story, shielding it from most.  Not ready to share those few minutes with many.

Those minutes that leave me with so many unanswered questions.  And those minutes that I re-live a lot.  Not as often now, as I did in those first few weeks, but they're still around.  Jumping out at me just when I least expect it.  

Just when I let my mind relax..there they are.

One year later, as the eve of one of the best days transitions into one of the worst, I'm reflecting again.  Still wondering, still filled with questions about that day.  Feeling so many different emotions.

What could I have done different.

Better.

But I have accepted that those questions will never be answered in this lifetime.

So here I'll share...

May 8, 2014

around 6:30 pm

It's like I'm watching from above.  I can see it all happening, everything around me, but I'm also on the ground...living it.

I'm standing in front of a McDonald's coke fountain filling up a large diet when I hear it.

"Someone call 911, there's a man down out here."

Shortly followed by Josh yelling, "Lindsey, it's your Dad."

Then it's all in slow motion.

I can remember every.single.detail, down to the clothing.  Me in a deep blue and white tank with turtle doves on it, jean capris, and flip flops with my hair in a pony.  My Dad in his t-shirt and khaki shorts, and the black sandals I bought him years ago.  They were his favorites.

I see him there, lying on the sidewalk, not bleeding, and I know INSTANTLY.

He's had a heart attack.

Within seconds I'm at his side, performing CPR and running a code just like my medical background has taught me.

30 compressions, 2 breaths, head tilted, open the airway.  Repeat. Check vitals, Start again.

Instinct takes over, and I'm thankful for all those years this info was drilled into my head.

But in that moment, I can't count to 30.  You could've offered me a million dollars to count to ten, but I wouldn't have been able to do it.

I can only get to 5.  So I do that.  Counting to 5 six times, followed by 2 breaths.  In my mind, I know the breaths aren't as important in cardiac arrest...it's the compressions that count.  So I'm pushing on his chest with everything I have in me.  So hard that I feel one of his ribs crack. 

Thinking to myself, "Man, he's gonna give me a really hard time about this broken rib when he wakes up."

I'm barking orders, screaming at Josh to get out of my way, to move so I have room to work on my Dad, to get me an AED, to find the kids, does anyone know where the kids are?

I know what to do, and I'm faster than the EMT's that have shown up to help, so I'm taking the equipment from their hands, I'm putting the leads on his chest, yelling "CLEAR", physically removing my Mom's hand from his leg so she doesn't get shocked.

And we still don't have a pulse.  We never did.

I can see my Mom, frightened and shattered and unsure of how to even move.

She's crying.

I can see strangers holding my babies and niece as they watch me, seeing everything.

Over and over I see it.

Wishing things would've been different.

That I could have saved him.

And then the ambulance takes him away with my Mom in tow.  Strangers are hugging me, consoling me, crying with me.  I make the first phone call home...begging for prayers.  

And somehow the bags of untouched food that had been ordered wind up in the car for the kids to eat, as we drive to meet them at the hospital.

For MONTHS, Mason questioned me on why I killed his Papaw.  That's how his little mind interpreted everything he saw. 

Talk about a tough pill to swallow.

It's been almost one year exactly.  365 days.  I used to replay this scenario in my mind hundreds of times a week, now it's maybe once or twice.  So, it has gotten better.  Easier.  I guess that's called healing.

One year later, Mason so longer questions me on why I killed his Papaw.  My kids are resilient and tough, and they seem to be well adjusted.  Vince doesn't remember those minutes, Mason just remembers flashes, and our Jaidie will always remember it exactly how she saw it -- but I've never met a stronger little girl than that one.  And I'm sure her story is different than mine.  

It's been one hell of a year, but each day gets a little better.  This hasn't destroyed us.  But I always knew it wouldn't.

One year later, I can talk to the kids about their Papaw with a smile on my face instead of bursting into tears...most of the time anyway.  We still play "Papaw Monster" as we throw the kids onto the bed after their bath, and we talk about all the good he brought to the world, and to us.

Now, I remember the happy times with my Dad more than the sad, and I think that's a good place to be.  About the best I could ask for.