Twelve steps are for lazy people; there are seventy-four steps to our Rehab. The steps are physical steps that take you up the bank of Lake Cushman to our west side property. We purchased the property with two wonderful families to build friendships and create memories for our kids. At night, we cook meals and laugh over food and fire. In daylight, we hit the water for skiing, tubing, or just finding the Sun. Rehab is six adults (term used loosely here) and seven children aged four through ten living their weekends together and building an extended family.
I have difficulty falling asleep. Whether it’s my wife’s curious way of stampeding into bed, or her heavy sighs of exhaustion, or my minimal brain activity—I just can’t tune out the “noise”. What works best is a combination of ear plugs and alcohol, but alcohol is very expensive and makes me pee a lot. Ear plugs physically shut the noise out, but then I just hear my own voice in my head, and if you haven’t figured this out yet; I say some pretty stupid shit. So I lay awake, wide-eyed and deaf, but hearing my own voice telling me I’m stupid…How helpful is that? Ear plugs are a cap to my brain much like the cap to a fine bottle of Peeno Greegio (that’s not a miss spelling, since I’ve used alcohol as a sleep agent, I’ve learned to drink the really cheap shit—and most of that comes with a cap that a drunk, stubby fingered, retard can open while passed out in a hay field). Ear plugs lock in sound as well as they lock it out. I’ve loved them, I’ve relied on them-- and I’m never going to use them again.
Before heading off to bed, we had S’mores by the fire. We chatted about the Big Dipper and helped Cyrus find it above the tree line to the north and west. Kids seem to have little concept of distance and time. They complain about how long it takes to make the thirteen mile drive up the bumpy forest service road to Rehab, but also think we could just fly to the Big Dipper in a few minutes. But in a couple of hours, I’d understand just how long that road was; when the hospital seemed as far away as the Big Dipper.
We carted the kids off to bed after the four of us boys pee’d on the fire- man, that stinks bad. They climbed the ladder to the loft and Gwen and I pulled our bed down from the wall. I grabbed my ear plugs; we lay down, said our good-nights, and drifted off to sleep. Yeah, right. We tried to drift off, but it was a lot of this:
“Ok, it’s bed time and we have a big day tomorrow. You boys keep it down up there. Drake, stop saying, “poop”.”
Laughing.
“Seriously, you guys settle down and go to sleep. Turn off your DS’s and go to bed!”
Giggling. Whimpering. Silence. Screen glow fades to black.
I asked Gwen what her plans were for tomorrow— but I don’t know what she said. I love her voice. It doesn’t matter if it’s cackling at something I said, or whispering mean things to the boys (she’s done it), or told me what I meant to her. I just love to hear her. She asked me what I had planned and I told her boating, drinking, pooping, but not necessarily in that order. I mentioned I looked forward to lunch, dinner, and a couple of night caps around the fire. We kissed. I deployed my ear plugs for the last time.
My truck broke traction as we exited our Rehab driveway. The clock read 3:02AM. I noted the time for two reasons: 1) I’m sure the doctors would want to know the approximate time the accident happened. And 2) I wanted to see how fast I could get him there. It’s a guy thing. But I know me, and I hadn’t felt what I needed to feel yet. I knew that would come later. I was focused on getting him to a hospital. At that moment, in my head, my driving cautiously wasn’t going to help anything; I had a 10 year old boy telling me he loved his brother, a 4 year old wondering where his Woody was, and a 36 year old wife trying to keep her 8 year old son awake, and alive.
I rumbled down the mountain, tuning out Odin’s cries for his brother, and blocking the disconnected conversation Gwen had with Cyrus as she tried to keep him awake. Fuck your Woody, Drake. I blocked all of it. I focused on the fog covered road which looked like kicked up dust from a vehicle I would never catch. I knew the pot holes on this forest service road better than I knew how to barricade a loft. The quick rumbling over the nasty road was nearly soothing. I drifted into my recent memory, focused on driving, hearing nothing, feeling everything, and wishing for none of it.
I kept replaying the muffled sound of scratching from above as the crate lid we used for a gate was pushed aside in an effort to exit the 9’ tall loft. However, I didn’t know who it was or even what it was at the time. Surely, it couldn’t be a child. I sat up, removed my right ear plug as the scratching sound changed to ruffled sliding. I could see only silhouette as a mass raced down. Then a mangled thud, a bunch of screaming from Gwen, and complete darkness-- I removed the other plug and lunged off the bed.
Gwen kept screaming and she couldn’t find the inverter to restore power. I found the face of the body and licked my own upper lip and pushed it under his nose. No air.
“Turn on the fucking light!” I cursed.
“I can’t find it! Gwen cried back.
I reached back and pushed the button on the inverter and the lights were restored. Turning quickly back to the body, Cyrus’ lifeless body lie heaped on the wood floor-- motionless, and folded. His arms bent up and out like a Praying Mantis, his legs collapsed under him. I lifted him to the bed and felt under his nose again.
“Cyrus, breathe. CYRUS, can you hear me?”
Stirred by the commotion and yelling, Odin was now leaning over the loft railing, screaming...
“Cyrus, where’s Cyrus? Is he OK?”
“I don’t know!” Gwen yelled back.
“I love Cyrus, I love Cyrus, don’t die. Is Cyrus dead?” Odin wailed.
I thought he was. I leaned my ear against his chest, looking up at his face to see if I needed to start CPR, when suddenly his eyes opened. I lifted my head as he tried sitting up, he gasped for air. I supported his back and asked him what hurt. He just moaned. He just sat there moaning, crying, and then he flopped back down on the bed. I lifted him back up and saw a large amount of blood on the bed where his head just was. I found the source. He had a cut behind his left ear, I looked for more damage on his head and found none. I was instantly at ease. Clear, visible injuries are manageable. The injuries you can’t see or don’t know about are scary and dangerous.
“Cyrus, does anything else hurt?” I yelled as the screaming from Gwen and Odin escalated.
“Uuuuuugghhhhh, riggghhttt heeerrrrrre.” He pointed to the inside of his left foot. There was a very small scratch. I smiled.
“Ok, Cyrus, I’m going to get a wet towel, just sit here.”
I came back to the bed and dabbed his ear. I felt so much better that he had a cut ear and a scratch on his foot. Gwen calmed herself as best she could, stepped in and asked Cyrus if anything else hurt. His response ended any relief.
He pointed to his head, and said, “My brain.”
The fog cleared and the nasty road ended as we bound onto Skokomish Valley Road, headed for Mason General Hospital. Cyrus and Drake both threw up on a blanket during our plummet off the mountain—the road is that bad, so is my driving. We reached the hospital, went through emergency, and they scanned Cyrus’ head. He had two depressed skull fractures and blood was entering the brain, they ambulanced him to Mary Bridge Children’s Hospital in Tacoma.
Gwen road in the ambulance with Cyrus, I drove the truck with Odin and Drake and our two dogs. I’m the type of person to jump in and get things done, but I’ve noticed that in traumatic situations, I really enjoy being removed. It seems easier to be physically distant while things are happening and then getting an update later on what happened. The ride home was just like that. The drive was calmer, Odin wasn’t screaming, Drake was napping, and Cyrus could be dying in the back of an ambulance a few miles ahead of me...But there was nothing I could do now--- I was removed from the situation, relieved in my responsibility. I wasn’t there. It’s a sick comfort, excused responsibility, but a bit of a relief nonetheless.
“But I am responsible. I am why Drake is sick to his stomach, why Odin now weeps for his brother, and I am why Gwen is in that ambulance. Had Cyrus died earlier when I held him, had his last breathe been taken on my wet upper lip—you wouldn’t be reading this now.”
I dropped the dogs off at the house and took the boys back to meet Gwen and Cyrus at the Pediatric Intensive Care Unity (PICU) at Mary Bridge Children’s Hospital in Tacoma, Washington. We spent the next 29.5 hours in the PICU where Cyrus received his second and third CT scan, 3 stitches in his left ear, pain medication, and constant- nearly smothering- attention from his family. He had some good moments of upright play and other moments of downright pain. The blood between his brain and skull increased ever so slightly, but the blood between his skull and scalp was flowing.
The depressed skull fragment was determined not to require surgery to elevate it off his brain. They have a certain minimum clearance distance and apparently he didn’t qualify. His hemoglobin count was low and continued to decline so they put him on another 24 hours watch, but moved him to the 6th floor. We spent the next 50 hours there, as a family. Friends and other family members stopped by. Cyrus recognized each one. And when you ask him now about who was there, he shrinks down a bit while the corners of his mouth move up and he tells you about each one.
During the first 12 hours in PICU, I had a conversation with him that both scared me and made my heart happy at the same time.
“Dad, were you there at the cabin?”
“Yeah, buddy, I was there.” I replied, wishing he remembered me but glad he didn’t at the same time.
“Was Odin there too? And what was he saying again?”
“Oh, Cyrus, Odin was crying and screaming, “I LOVE CYRUS, I LOVE CYRUS. We kept telling him it was ok, but he just kept saying it over and over again, “I love Cyrus”.”
He shrunk down with a smile and one tear rolled down his cheek.
“Are those happy or sad tears?"
“Happy.”
“Does that make you feel good when you hear that?”
“Yeah.”
It’s been less than a week since the accident. Gwen still cries and feels she should have prevented it by not letting a sleep walker sleep in a loft. I still cry and feel like I should have built a wall instead of a railing and ungated entry. We think and talk about what could have happened, and harbor guilt in ways we probably don’t share. I realize it was an accident; no amount of worry is going to change what happened. But I do wonder if I wasn’t wearing ear plugs, could I have reacted soon enough to get under him and take the fall? I wonder if I’m a responsible parent. I question my selfishness about Rehab, about my focus on getting things done for me and for my family. I even question when I say I’m doing something for my family if I really mean it’s just for me?
I still can’t sleep at night. I don’t wear ear plugs any more. Cyrus sleeps through the night with occasional mumbles and moans. Gwen’s in and out. All three boys have their mattresses on our bedroom floor and we enjoy talking before they all fall asleep. I’m sure I’m getting some rest or I wouldn’t be awake now. I just can’t stop replaying the drop over and over. I make up new scenarios, some worse than the actual, some similar variations of the same outcome. But none of these night time scenarios conclude with it never happening. I want to be there.
