The Phone Call

When it was all said and done, my oldest son said to me, "Please don't write about this in your column, Mom."

Tuesday evening, the phone rang. It was right around the time my son would be calling letting me know he was leaving work. I'd told him before he left that I didn't think I needed anything from the store, so he didn't have to call before coming home.

Usually, though, he calls anyway and lets me know. He didn't that evening, though.

I heard background noise...wind, an animated discussion, and what sort of sounded like laughter.

"Hello?" I said into the receiver, a little miffed. It drives me just this side of insane at times when he calls and he's carrying on like a teenage boy in the background with his friends. Far be it for me to be bothered by things like that, but it does. If you're calling to speak to me, shut up the others in the background and talk to me. It's not that my time is oh so precious, but it's one of those pet peeves of mine.

"Mooommm, oh god, moooommm," he said. I couldn't tell if he were laughing or crying, but it's not unusual for him to be giggling. He's a spirited kid with a great sense of humor who loves to laugh. Conversations have started many times like those when he's calling to tell me something funny that he's seen or heard.

"My truck. I wrecked. It went on it's side and we rolled it."

"Are you okay? Is your friend okay?" I asked.

"We're okay. My hand, I think it's broken. My truck. I rolled it. I wrecked, Mom. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to. I started to slide. I hit a wet spot," he continued.

"Where are you?"

"I'm up the road by grandma's house. I'm sorry, Mom. My truck. Oh god, mom, don't be mad at me."

"You're by grandma's?" It was becoming all like a bad dream.

"Out by grandma's, just up from her house," he responded. "We're okay, my hand, it hurts. I think it's broken."

"I'll be right there," I said, and tried to hang up.

"I didn't mean to. It was wet, I hit a slick spot."

"Okay, I'll be right there. I love you, I'll be right there," I said in my ever-growing panic.

Grandma's is only about a mile and a half away. My husband, of course, was out of town for work because no kind of disaster ever strikes when he's home. I'm convinced if he didn't work out of town, life would be smooth sailing without turmoil.

My youngest son had taken off on his motorcycle a few minutes earlier. I ran out the door, bellowing his name at the top of my lungs. Likely, if he hadn't been several blocks away, he would have heard me even above the roar of his engine.

The neighbor, I thought. I should let him know that something has happened so he can tell my youngest son where I went.

I think it took three steps perhaps to make it across the street to his front door. I'm not sure I didn't levitate above the ground. His girlfriend answered, and invited me in. They were hosting a birthday party for her little girl, and above the commotion of excited toddlers, she got his attention.

I managed to ramble something about a wreck, not knowing where my youngest was, over by grandma's, probably a broken hand, rolled truck. Since I wasn't speaking fluent English, he told me he would go along. I started to run to my car. "Get in my truck," he instructed.

I was shaking so badly I don't know how I managed to call my husband on my cell phone. The scenery flew by the windshield due to our speed, and I thought I might throw up. My hands shook so badly I could barely hold the phone to let my husband know what was going on.

When we arrived, a guy I knew from my youth was waiting with my son and his friend. I made sure they were okay, and got the low down on what happened.

The road is chip and seal. It had just rained. The tar that comes to the surface, making it shiny and slick, caused him to fishtail. I could see marks on the road where he lost control and never regained it.

The truck set in the edge of the field. They'd flipped it upright after they crawled out. The tires on the driver's side were flattened as it is set on its rims.

A few minutes later, the other boy's parents showed up. We stood there deciding what to do once we had assessed that neither of the boys were seriously injured. My son's hand continued to swell as we waited for the sheriff to show up to file an accident report.

The truck was really the least of my worries, but my son continued to freak out. He was worried he was going to be grounded. He was worried about having nothing to drive to get to work. I really didn't care about this. All that mattered to me was that the kids hadn't been seriously injured or worse. I was also thankful they were both wearing their seatbelts.

I called my brother, who was luckily home just a mile away. He arrived to help us out. While waiting on the sheriff, I was sent home to get ice and warm clothing. The temp had dropped dramatically and the wind whipped. I hardly realized that I had goosebumps and was freezing.

After the second phone call to the sheriff's dept., someone arrived. "You sure you don't want the EMS?" he kept asking me. "You really should get him to the ER," he kept suggesting.

Well, yes, I really should have 40 minutes prior to this, but I couldn't necessarily take my child and flee the scene of an accident.

On my trip home for ice, I found my youngest son. My neighbor's sister also drove me back in my car because I was still shaking and rambling on incoherently. Even in those early moment, the "what ifs" played in my mind.

What if they'd been going faster, flipped, and rolled repeatedly and had been really hurt. What if they hadn't been wearing their seatbelts. What if they'd been pinned and unconscious.

The "what ifs" can really mess with your mind.

By the time we finally left, half the town had been there at one point to make sure everything was okay and that we didn't need anything. There's a lot of negative things one can say about living in a small town, but in times like those, it makes it all worth while. My neighbor didn't leave until the truck had pumped up tires on it and they were able to drive it to my brother's house. He kept an eye on my youngest son until I got home. I thanked him repeatedly, and aplogized profusely for crashing the birthday party.

We got right into the ER. The x-rays revealed a broken hand, though they couldn't put a cast on it because of the swelling.

The accident happened around 7:30 that evening. It was after 11 when we finally got home. I tucked my son in, much like I had when he was a little guy, making sure his arm was elevated and he had what he needed. I returned to his bedroom a few times to check on him like I did when he was a babe to be sure he was still breathing. I peeped in on my 17 year old son, just as i had when he was a fragile, tiny newborn.

Sometime around 2 a.m. I finally drifted off to sleep, my head still full of those what ifs while I came down off that adrenaline high.

I had a similar call back in the winter, when he slid off a road and put his truck in the ditch due to icy conditions. Those phone calls are the ones that a parent dreads getting. Since Tuesday evening, I think I nearly jump out of my skin every time the phone rings.

I wonder if it's possible to direct both of the children back into the womb where I can watch over them, knowing where they're at, and protecting them.