When I was about 8 years old, a young man on his motorcycle, came around the corner near my house. I was in my bedroom and I can remember very clearly hearing the motorcycle roaring closely and then I heard the crash, and then I heard silence. He had come around the corner and hit the tree so hard he went one way and the bike went another. I ran out of my house and right up to him, I wasn’t afraid and while it didn’t even occur to me then, I must have had some instinct because I immediately fell to my knees, took the sweatshirt from around my waste and tied it around his leg to catch all the blood. There was so much blood.
I placed his head in my lap, slowly smoothing out his hair and I remember saying to him, "It's okay, I'm here, I've got you," and I told him help was on the way. I am not even sure how I knew what to say, or whether or not help was actually on the way but it seemed at the time, the right thing to say. I remember hearing sirens shortly after and soon paramedics were at the site. A neighbor grabbed me and pulled me away.
I watched as they all moved around him quickly, opening packages of things with paper flying around and sounds of beeping and activity that felt chaotic. I just stood there and watched. I don’t recall being scared; in fact I don’t think I really felt anything at all, except for wondering where his parents were. I kept thinking his parents really should be there. Which is ironic, because my parents were not there, I was not being supported by family. I was on the side of the street near my home, in the arms of a neighbor.
All of a sudden there was silence, and the team of paramedics that were working on him stood up and back away. I watched as they got him up on a gurney, covering him completely and putting him in the ambulance. The police that had arrived during all of this, cleaned up the trash and debris left on the ground. I watched as it took two people to pick up the mangled motorcycle and move it to the side of the road. And then I watched as one of them picked up my ragged yellow sweatshirt that was soaked through with blood and toss it in the trash. Of course I didn’t want it, but no one even asked me if I did.
No one really seemed to know that I was still there, or that this might have effected me somehow, or that I was there when he crashed and held his head in my lap. I imagine now, that he must have died that day, quite possibly while in my lap. I don’t remember anything after that day, any stories that were told, or questions being asked. I don’t remember my family discussing it. I do remember always looking at that tree with a very lengthy gaze each time I passed it by. And now, looking back, I remember how much sense it made to comfort him. I knew what to say to him, and those same words are what I say to patients now.
I was such a brave and fearless little hippie girl back then, filled with so much empathy. I had no idea what death meant, or how permanent it was, but I was always the first one to nurse a bird with a broken wing, getting squished insects to safety, and always feeling bad for anyone with cuts or bruises, or worse, broken bones. But death… I did not have much experience with. That young man, who died after crashing his motorcycle near my house, was my first death and my initial reaction was to run to his side and provide comfort, relieve him of fear, and make sure he knew he was not alone. I truly believe that was the first moment my heart started making itself open to hospice, and that is when my training began.
xo
Gabby
This story is from my book "The Hospice Heart," which is a trip down my own memory lane as I remebered all the experiences in my life that were indications I was being called to do this work. You can find this book here: https://www.amazon.com/Hospice-Heart-journey-didnt-have/dp/1706818599/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?
Comentarios