Trauma

Today I watched a 14 year-old boy die. (It's amazing how fast that has gone from an adrenaline-filled, frantic state to me already thinking "yeah, that's a thing that has happened in my life.")

I have never witnessed someone dying before. It was exactly as I thought it would be. Which is not reassuring. It comported with my preconceptions, right down to the blood flowing from his mouth.

(Will all manners of dying be exactly as I imagined?)

I have had bloody hands before, but this was different.

The paramedics thought I had been injured because of the blood running down my leg from my knee. But I had been kneeling in his blood. I was fine.

That's a problem, isn't it? I'm pretty sure I'm not supposed to be fine.

I have written eight notes in my phone. There are so many poems. But I don't feel like it's really my experience. I could use this, use the description, the fact that something "traumatic" finally happened in my life, and I know I could make it sympathetic. I could write compelling messages. Perhaps I'm not a writer.

I watched a twin sister lose half of herself. I watched a stone-faced father. I told him the whole story.

I watched my father be a hero. Unfortunately, heroes at the wrong time don't have their stories told. I will tell the whole story at some point. But I don't want to forget the sheer respect and admiration I felt for my dad.

People keep saying I don't have to act strong. It's not an act. But I am also very aware I am not strong.

My mom feels guilty for not feeling even worse than she does. She has cried. I have not. I don't feel guilty.

I revel in consoling people. It feels good to know I feel better than someone. I do everything I can for them as penance.

Do other writers feel guilty for telling stories, knowing that the description of events will produce emotions they didn't actually feel?

I knew him for all of 45 minutes. I washed his blood from my body, but it just turned brown. The stains are obviously metaphoric, but right now they are too literal to be turned into metaphor.

I heard the scream of a 14 year-old girl so clearly. I wonder if I should have prepared her for the news. I knew he was dead as soon as I saw the car go over him. None of us wanted to say what we all knew. Somehow, that was the parents' job. As if they didn't have enough on their hands.

We all knew.

That didn't stop my dad from doing everything he could. I pumped on a dead chest for a while.

Squeezing the air out with blood.

I watched the abdomen turn purple and swell. All he was was blood.

I forced a bit more blood out before a car stopped and a medic jumped out. I was waiting for an excuse to leave. There wasn't a point to what I was doing. I could still help my mom. I did a lot of hugging. I held a twin sister. I had to move her head to my other shoulder so she couldn't look at the scene. I shielded her even more carefully when the pulled the sheet over him.

She pleaded to wake up from her dream.

I've echoed that plea so many times.

The dream continues.

And weirdly, I am fine.