Monday, May 28, 2012

MFF#11: by Angie Ballard

Welcome to Unwritten's  May Flash Fiction challengeEvery story (600 words max) begins with this sentence: 

 I never expected to be in this position so soon, saying goodbye to my son. 

I found today's flash fiction by Angie Ballard to be very appropriate for Memorial Day. As people from across our country remember their lost loved ones, my heart especially goes out to those who have lost a child. No one's prepared for that, no matter what the circumstances. Read about this mother's heartbreak and feel free to share about any lost loved one you're thinking of today.
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I never expected to be in this position so soon, saying goodbye to my son.  I thought he was at the “safe age” - too old for SIDS or incurable childhood cancers but too young for high school car wrecks with their middle-of-the-night phone calls.  But there is no safe age, no safe place, no guarantee that a mother will outlive her child.
We’d been led to a small room in the far corner of the recovery room, the only one, I’d noted, with real walls instead of curtains.  The white sheet and blanket were pulled neatly to his chest, and his arms, covered in downy hair, lay at his sides.  That’s when I knew he was truly gone.  My Jack has always slept tangled in covers, half-hanging off the bed, dirty feet on pillows with the rest of him hidden under the comforter.  His hair was combed, neatly parted at the side, which made my heart crack open just a little wider as I remembered telling him not to comb his hair down over his forehead, to part it and comb it back so the oil from his hair wouldn’t make his acne flare up.  His few pimples looked purplish on his blue-tinged skin, and when I grasped his large hand in mine it was cool.  I knew he’d have been cool to the touch even if he’d made it through the heart surgery, and I’d talked bluntly to Michael as we lay in bed the night before about what to expect when Jack got out of surgery.  As a nurse, I’d seen the tubes, wires, monitors, and immobility of postop patients frighten families who hadn’t been prepared.  I thought we were ready.
Jack’s mouth was closed, but its shape was slightly distorted by the braces he’d worn for a year and a half.  They were due to come off next month.  I thought of calling his dentist, who’d known him since he was a toddler, and couldn’t imagine telling them why I was canceling his appointment.  I’d never see his new smile.  No one would.  Not the cocky grin of a sixteen-year-old with a new learner’s permit, not the sheepish grin of a self-proclaimed nerd who’d gotten up the nerve to ask a girl to the prom, not the confident smile of a young man whose parents had just hauled all his belongings up three flights of stairs into his freshman dorm room.
He would forever be thirteen, the awkward, self-conscious age.  The age where we fought about grades, TV, video games, cell phones, and everything else that didn’t matter.  He wouldn’t be in his older brother’s wedding pictures next year, and the hand I was holding would never slip a ring on some lucky young woman’s finger.  Michael sobbed softly from across the bed, and I reached for his hand so that the three of us formed a circle, but I couldn’t meet his eyes.
I was the one who’d assured Michael everything would be alright, who’d smiled at John as they wheeled him off to surgery, saying we’d see him soon.  From the day at the pediatrician’s office when they first heard the murmur I took charge.  I selected his cardiologist and his cardiovascular surgeon carefully, I did all my research.  Jack’s wasn’t a rare abnormality, and the surgery itself was fairly straightforward, as open heart surgeries go.  But something went wrong.  I saw it in the surgeon’s eyes as soon as he opened the door to the private conference room we’d been put in.  I’d been prepared for everything else, but not this.  Never this.

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Angie Ballard is a nurse, mother of sons, and dog-lover who got started writing with her blog, The Jammie Girl, which is part chat with a girlfriend over a glass of sweet tea, part conversation overheard in the grocery store checkout line, and part Thanksgiving dinner with the crazy branch of the family.  Although her only published work to date is a frugal cookbook she is currently writing her second novel in the Women's Fiction genre when she's not wasting time on Facebook and Twitter.

17 comments:

  1. This is very sad. my daughter will be 13 in Oct. and I can't imagine losing her. I have a heart murmer and it was discovered when I was 10, The doctors watch it and I am supposed to have it checked once a year, but no one has ever suggested surgery. Is this a true story? If so, I am so sorry for your loss.

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  2. Jeannie, this is not a true story, thank God. I do have a thirteen-year-old who was found to have a heart murmur during a routine check-up and this is the scenario that went through my mind in the twenty-four hours before he was seen by a cardiologist and proclaimed to be in perfect health. But it was cathartic to share my fears in this way.

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  3. I use to lay awake in bed imagining what would happen if I lost my son. The thoughts were so vivid, I would have to get out of bed to go check on him. I would cry and blow my nose and tell myself I needed to stop doing this. Eventually, the thoughts waned. He now takes care of me as I get older and don't get around as much. So glad to have him near.

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    1. Parenting is so full of fears - I'm just starting to let my fears for my 20-year-old wane, but I suppose none of us can ever let go of all our fears for our children no matter how grown up they are.

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  4. My son just medically retired from the Army last year because of injuries sustained in Iraq. I'm so thankful that I have him safe at home today. This was a reminder to me what could have been. It's really sad.

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    1. I can't imagine the fear you must have felt for him while he was away serving our country. You must be a proud mom to have raised such a brave son!

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  5. Wow, Angie. That was powerful stuff. Your brilliant characterization of the deceased child through his mother's memories and shattered dreams for his future really drove home the emotional impact of his loss.

    I have no children, so I can't relate on a personal level, but I can appreciate the wonderful job you did here.

    Thank you for being willing to share it.

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    1. Thank you so much - and thanks for the re-tweet, as well :)

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  6. I enjoyed your story, Angie, and so much more when I read that it wasn't a true experience.

    I hope I never go through the agony of outliving my children.

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  7. Wow, Angie. I've read your blog and listened to you read some of your fiction at our writers meeting - and you are just as powerful here as in your other work. I, too, am very thankful that this is fiction, for your sake!

    For those who have lost sons (or daughters) through any tragedy, but especially in the military on today, Memorial Day, prayers for comfort in a loss that will always be a gash in your hearts.

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    1. Thank you so much, Leslie! Memorial Day always makes me think of the parents who have lost their brave children in service to our country.

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  8. OMG Angie!!!! This cut me to the bone!!!!! You rock, writer girl and please, please, please tell me there is no truth behind this particular story.

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    1. No truth other than an innocent murmur found a few months ago and the twenty-four hours I spent imagining worst-case scenarios before John was declared completely healthy :)

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  9. This tale "bleeds" emotional energy -- beautifully composed, gripping and a great ending. Also happy it isn't real for you but it certainly reflects reality for some.

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    1. Thank you so much! As a nurse I've seen too much of this reality first-hand, and my heart breaks for the family each and every time.

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  10. Angie, my sweet, you are on your way. Beautifully written!

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    1. Thank you! From your mouth to God's ear (or at least some agent or editor!)

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