December 7, 1998--- Let Me Know What You Think

Grandma Cozie’s white mini van pulled into the Emergency Room parking lot. Grandpa Chuck helped my younger brother, Nick, and I out. I glimpsed up at Grandma’s face. Her brow knit with concern and heartache. The entrance to the ER peaked my 10-year-old senses. Doctors with blood-shot eyes scurried from partitioned room to open gurney. The soundtrack consisted of moans, mumbling, and monotonous beeping. The place smelled of Clorox, plastic, and sickness. The pit of my stomach hit my toes. My throat constricted. Taking short, fearful breaths I searched for something familiar. Seconds later I saw my father trudging towards me, emerging from the chaos. My stomach tightened, and my throat began to sting when I saw his tears.

Dad grasped Nick and I into a desperate embrace, mumbling an assurance to himself, “My kids. Oh my kids.” My eyes raced over his shoulder from stranger, to machine, to curtain, searching for hints. Dad slowly released us, took our tiny hands, and led us into a secluded area of the emergency room. Now my eyes began to sting. My stomach tightened once again as my anxiety soared.

Where is Mom? I want Mom.

Dad drew a curtain around us and took a seat. Tears cascaded down his face as he choked out a single word. “Cortney.” The gadgets and equipment blurred in my vision. The single word was the only explanation I needed. My fifth grade intelligence understood what Dad couldn’t explain. My baby sister was gone. Although surrounded by alien objects and unfamiliar people, I was alone.

Hysteria. My breath was ragged and unsatisfying. Tears tumbled down my cheeks, and a deep void filled my gut. The pain was physical and emotional. I ran. I had only one thought.

I NEED MOM.

Dad caught up and held me. Our embrace said all the words neither of us could utter. His sobs echoed mine. We helped each other cry. Finally I felt something familiar. I feasted upon his scent of clean laundry and masculinity. As his scruffy cheeks tickled mine, I allowed the emotion threatening to overtake me.

I was her big sister. It was my job to watch over her. I failed.

Dad led me back through the mayhem to the curtain hiding the rest of the family.

She sat in the middle of the group grieving, eyes muted and screaming the aloneness I felt. She gripped my five-month-old sister in her arms. Silently she rocked, her face stained with black mascara. She shuddered as silent tears fell from her cheeks into her lap. No blanket or embrace could deter the chill of despair that surrounded me. A porcelain doll, wrapped in a canary yellow hospital blanket, gently rocked in my mother’s arms. Cortney was gone.