THE CALL

It’s evident that certain phone calls can haunt us, triggering waves of anxiety every time the phone rings. For me, it started on June 23, 2018, during a seemingly ordinary evening with loved ones. We were outdoors, engrossed in the movie “Dunkirk,” when online conversations hinted at a tragic accident near my parents’ house. The uncertainty hung heavy. As helicopters buzzed overhead around 7:45 pm, the air thickened with tension. By 8:30 pm, the house phone rang, heralding a moment that would etch itself into my memory as a source of ongoing PTSD events.

From Tragedy to Tribute:

Amy, my wife, answered the phone, and her tear-streaked face conveyed the devastating news. Alyssa, our dear one, didn’t survive the wreck, and Makena, her sister, was being airlifted to Memphis with an unknown prognosis. The shock was paralyzing. In the midst of processing this unthinkable reality, our daughter Haley crumbled to her knees, unleashing gut-wrenching screams and tears that still echo in my mind. The movie “Dunkirk,” innocent until that moment, became an inadvertent trigger. I’ve never watched it, and stumbling upon it while channel surfing catapults me back to that fateful evening, raw with grief. Alyssa’s boyfriend also airlifted, succumbed to his injuries. Makena mercifully, survived with a treatable leg injury. This tragedy, however, extended beyond the accident itself, fracturing our family on my father’s side. One of the other drivers, connected by marriage to our first cousin, initially disclosed the truth about the incident but later altered his statement to the highway patrol. One year post-tragedy, he astonishingly filed a lawsuit against Alyssa’s mother and father for an injury to his pinky finger and purported stress to his family. Four years later, the state of Tennessee honored Alyssa and Alex by designating that stretch of road, the “Alex and Alyssa Memorial Highway.”

From Graduation Joy to Health Emergency:

The next pivotal phone call struck on May 11, 2021, around 5:45 pm. Engaged in the simple task of cleaning our small koi pond, I received a call from my mom on my cell phone. Her words cut through the normalcy — she had summoned an ambulance for my dad, who lay on the floor struggling to breathe. The twist of fate was jarring. Just two hours before, I had spoken with my mom about my dad’s last chemo treatment, a seemingly routine conversation that took a stark turn.

Earlier that day, he had completed his final chemo session and, by all accounts, was in good spirits. He even drove himself home, expressing joy to his cousin about the relief of finishing chemo. The news from my mom caught me off guard; surely, it couldn’t have escalated this quickly. As I hastily gathered my belongings, the distant wails of the ambulance racing through town underscored the urgency. My dad arrived at the hospital with a blood oxygen level of 55%, revealing the severity of the situation.

Amidst this crisis, we were also preparing for our daughter’s high school graduation, just three days away from that fateful call. The juxtaposition of celebrating a milestone while grappling with a family health emergency added layers of stress, especially considering she was our only child. In the days that followed, I assumed the responsibility of shuttling my mother to and from the hospital to be with my father. The details of that week are intricate and emotional, marked by the rapid decline of my father’s health. Dialysis became a lifeline, tethering him to a medical apparatus that now became a constant presence in our lives.

I work for the company that provides dialysis at our local hospital. The phone call and being on one of my machines causes me some PTSD to this day. On May 18^th, my father died. I was in shock as I always believed that he would recover and come home. That was the first time he had ever been admitted into the hospital for being sick. I still have flashbacks often of all the events that took place during those seven days.

From Graduation Joy to Health Emergency:

Saturday, August 14th, 2021, unfolded with a call from my best friend, revealing his positive COVID-19 diagnosis and the overwhelming pain he was enduring. “Everything that can hurt is hurting,” he lamented, his fever soaring at 102.7 degrees. Compassion flooded me as I empathized with his suffering, mirroring the agony of my recent loss—my father, just four months earlier.

A week later, another call sent shivers down my spine: Terry, my best friend, was admitted to the hospital, connected to a bipap machine, mirroring the haunting similarity of my father’s journey. On August 27th, the chilling news came that Terry would be airlifted to Memphis. I stood at the hospital, watching the chopper ascend with Terry on board. The devastating call on September 14th shattered my world—he didn’t make it. The void left by Terry seemed irreplaceable, his absence echoing in every corner of my life.

Then, on May 1st, 2022, eight months after Terry’s passing, my mom’s call struck with the news of her positive COVID-19 test. Fear gripped me as I grappled with recent losses. Her condition deteriorated, leading to airlift to Jackson, TN, and the use of bipap. The heart-wrenching call on May 24th at 2:45 am from Nurse Kayla at Jackson Madison County General Hospital delivered a cascade of difficult decisions. As they prepared to place another chest tube due to a collapsed lung, I was asked to decide on resuscitation and potential ventilation. At 3 am, they informed me about the procedure, and by 3:15 am, “the call” revealed that my mother did not make it.Numbness consumed me. In just one year and six days, I had lost my father, my best friend, and now my mother. The weight of grief seemed insurmountable. Questions echoed in my mind—how much can one person endure? To this day, the understanding eludes me, but I cling to the belief that it was part of God’s plan.

The underlying purpose of this narrative is to shed light on the pervasive impact of PTSD. It’s crucial to recognize that one doesn’t need to be a military veteran to experience PTSD; trauma can strike anyone, anywhere, at any time. In contrast, therapy has been transformative in addressing my PTSD; episodes persist, underscoring the ongoing struggle.

A vital takeaway is the reminder not to take anything for granted. Tomorrow is not guaranteed for us or our loved ones. Each interaction should be approached as if it might be the last, emphasizing the importance of treating everyone with kindness and understanding. Life is ephemeral, and the future is uncertain.

James 4:14 ESV encapsulates this sentiment: “Yet you do not know what tomorrow will bring. What is your life like? For you are a mist that appears for a little time and then vanishes.”

Reflecting on this verse prompts contemplation about the transient nature of life. If you have a story to share or if you find yourself in need of support, please don’t hesitate to reach out. Email us at rentfreemedia@rent-freeliving.com. This blog is intended for those seeking help, feeling alone, or believing that nobody cares. You are not alone, and your story matters.