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lyricalechoes(fictionalized account of a recent tragedy in our community)
"Honey, I'm off to cut John's grass before supper, OK?" I hollered over my shoulder as I headed out the door.
"Now? Seriously, you know the pot roast is almost ready." She's irritated but I've been promising John for a week.
"His mower's broke, Gina. This won't take but 10 minutes. We can eat right after." I yell back. As the door close, I hear her voice going on, something about "It's good to be kind but ..." but I keep walking to the mower. This won't take long. When I make a promise I keep it.
Back, forth. I love my riding mower. So much power. I cut a wide section across John's yard. I'm getting the corner. Up, now back ...
"THUD."
Oh great, I think. I must have backed into a tree.
I look behind me. No! No! My God!
I'm on the grass, the bloody grass. Shane's blue shirt is turning brown.
"Help, help me! Help!"
I'm screaming. I shove the mower away and pull him out. His ... oh my God. His ...I can see his brain. This grey mass and the pieces ... my God.
"Shane. Shane! Come on, son." How can this be?! My child bloody on the grass, this damned grass.
Eric runs up from his grandma's.
"Call 911! Now! Go, right away!" I scream. Confused, Eric backs away and then runs, sprinting back to his grandma's across the street.
John runs up. "My God! Is he ...?" He doesn't say it but I put my hand on my son's chest.
"I feel it beating" I say. "Maybe ... John, we need the pieces. When you lose a leg, sometimes ... help me! We need the pieces!"
"Oh, Darren, I'm not ..." He still gazes at Shane in horror.
"NOW!" I watch him scurry to pick up the missing parts from my son's head, his face. Doctors can do anything these days, right? If we just keep them for the ambulance ... maybe. If we just ... "
`````````````````````````````````````
Later, they told me I held him for 17 minutes. 17 minutes before the paramedics finally arrive. His heart was still beating but that whole time his blood was gushing. John's wife brought towels, we tried to cover and compress but ....
The paramedics loaded Shane and I grabbed onto the door, to hoist myself ... but the big one stopped me.
"Sir, you can't ..."
"My God, man, this is my son. I need ... I have to be there." I know I'm screaming and he looks scared but his hand doesn't budge from my arm.
"You have to follow in your own car. Ambulance policy." He insisted, guiding me to John. John took my arm, they slammed the doors and headed off. Sirens are truly piercing at close range.
I start running to my car.
"Hey, I drive, Darren, OK? I drive." John's opening the driver door and I mutely hand him the keys. Anything to just get going and get gone. My oldest son and I pile in the back, my wife rides shotgun.
I can't speak. My hands are still red. How can this be? How can I hold my son's blood within my hands and let them take him away? How did this happen? I'm lost in a nightmare, hearing that thud echo in my brain. Why wasn't it a tree? Why was he even outside? Shane had been playing Wii when I left the house and his mom always kept the kids inside when I was mowing.
My hands. So red, sticky. Where was my baby?
A huge "THUD" shakes me out of my thoughts. "Did you hear?" but I look up to see we're ... the car has stopped. There's this pole ... no one is moving.
I open my car and jump out.
I run to the interstate, waving my arms, jumping up and down. A car stops, the window only cracked. "Sir, you ... do you need help?"
"Please ... my son ... in an ambulance. We were following and it stopped. Please! I'll pay you anything. Can I please catch a ride? Crestwood Hospital, now!"
Finally something goes right. He looks at me again and unlocks his door. And we're off again.
"Sir ... your son, will he ... did they say if he'd be OK?" He's watching me like I might hurt him.
"Yes. He'll be OK. If I can get there, I'm sure ... I'm sure they'll find a way. See, I gave them the pieces ... surely they can fix him. He was breathing, you know? He was breathing!"
"OK, OK, well, here's the ER, if you want I can ... Sir! Sir!"
The man's voice trails away as I run. There's lots of people in this room but I sprint for the desk.
"Malone. Shane Malone. Is he in surgery? Is he ok? Ma'm I'm here now, please tell me."
She frowns. "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to sit down."
"No, you don't understand. He's here and he's going to be ok."
She looks at me. I can see her looking at my hands. My bloody hands. There's grass sticking to my fingers.
"What is the name you said?"
"Malone, Shane Malone."
"Sir, I see a ... I see a Gina Malone. Is that family too? What happened? Car wreck?"
"Gina? What does it ... ? Gina? Why is she ...what happened?"
"Says here she's in SICU. Do you know a Gina?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
They say I screamed again. All I know is they took me to this room to wait. Two doctors came.
"Sir. Shane ... Shane was dead on arrival, Sir. We tried our best."
"No ... no he can't. He just ... he was breathing."
"But we have some good news, sir. Your wife ... she'll need surgery. She's critical but stable."
"You keep talking about Gina. What happened ... we were just coming here."
"When you hit the pole, sir ..."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`
The story unwound. And so I sit, holding Gina's hand. I can't believe that man ran a stop sign. I can't believe John's swerve meant we hit a telephone pole. John broke his ankle. My oldest son broke his arm.
They tell me Gina will live. They say we should think about a funeral, Shane's funeral.
I can't. Gina has to be there. My mistake cost us our son. I can't also take away her last chance at goodbye.
Life, job, food. Everything has stopped. My son ...he was so cold when I said goodbye. Lying on a bed like this one, as still as Gina is now but his hand was cold.
His first ball game of the season was tonight. So excited ... this year the players woudl pitch and he couldn't wait to hit that ball.
"Beep, beep." I watch the montitors, watch his mother breathe.
I've washed my hands but everytime, everytime I close my eyes, I see blood. Grass. His beautiful, ruined face. Please, God. Shane ... he can't be gone.
`````````````````````````
A photo of his dad (center) at a candle light vigil at Shane's elementary school:
An article about Shane:
http://blog.al.com/breaking/2010/04/dad_remembers_8-year-old_son_a.html
```````````````````````````
This is...I know Eric's mom and others involved in the situation. This is... somewhat fictionized version of what happened though many, many details are true.
Our community is very, very upset about Shane's death. I know several people who knew Shane. It's so hard to watch grown men cry.
No disrespect is meant by this entry.
"Honey, I'm off to cut John's grass before supper, OK?" I hollered over my shoulder as I headed out the door.
"Now? Seriously, you know the pot roast is almost ready." She's irritated but I've been promising John for a week.
"His mower's broke, Gina. This won't take but 10 minutes. We can eat right after." I yell back. As the door close, I hear her voice going on, something about "It's good to be kind but ..." but I keep walking to the mower. This won't take long. When I make a promise I keep it.
Back, forth. I love my riding mower. So much power. I cut a wide section across John's yard. I'm getting the corner. Up, now back ...
"THUD."
Oh great, I think. I must have backed into a tree.
I look behind me. No! No! My God!
I'm on the grass, the bloody grass. Shane's blue shirt is turning brown.
"Help, help me! Help!"
I'm screaming. I shove the mower away and pull him out. His ... oh my God. His ...I can see his brain. This grey mass and the pieces ... my God.
"Shane. Shane! Come on, son." How can this be?! My child bloody on the grass, this damned grass.
Eric runs up from his grandma's.
"Call 911! Now! Go, right away!" I scream. Confused, Eric backs away and then runs, sprinting back to his grandma's across the street.
John runs up. "My God! Is he ...?" He doesn't say it but I put my hand on my son's chest.
"I feel it beating" I say. "Maybe ... John, we need the pieces. When you lose a leg, sometimes ... help me! We need the pieces!"
"Oh, Darren, I'm not ..." He still gazes at Shane in horror.
"NOW!" I watch him scurry to pick up the missing parts from my son's head, his face. Doctors can do anything these days, right? If we just keep them for the ambulance ... maybe. If we just ... "
`````````````````````````````````````
Later, they told me I held him for 17 minutes. 17 minutes before the paramedics finally arrive. His heart was still beating but that whole time his blood was gushing. John's wife brought towels, we tried to cover and compress but ....
The paramedics loaded Shane and I grabbed onto the door, to hoist myself ... but the big one stopped me.
"Sir, you can't ..."
"My God, man, this is my son. I need ... I have to be there." I know I'm screaming and he looks scared but his hand doesn't budge from my arm.
"You have to follow in your own car. Ambulance policy." He insisted, guiding me to John. John took my arm, they slammed the doors and headed off. Sirens are truly piercing at close range.
I start running to my car.
"Hey, I drive, Darren, OK? I drive." John's opening the driver door and I mutely hand him the keys. Anything to just get going and get gone. My oldest son and I pile in the back, my wife rides shotgun.
I can't speak. My hands are still red. How can this be? How can I hold my son's blood within my hands and let them take him away? How did this happen? I'm lost in a nightmare, hearing that thud echo in my brain. Why wasn't it a tree? Why was he even outside? Shane had been playing Wii when I left the house and his mom always kept the kids inside when I was mowing.
My hands. So red, sticky. Where was my baby?
A huge "THUD" shakes me out of my thoughts. "Did you hear?" but I look up to see we're ... the car has stopped. There's this pole ... no one is moving.
I open my car and jump out.
I run to the interstate, waving my arms, jumping up and down. A car stops, the window only cracked. "Sir, you ... do you need help?"
"Please ... my son ... in an ambulance. We were following and it stopped. Please! I'll pay you anything. Can I please catch a ride? Crestwood Hospital, now!"
Finally something goes right. He looks at me again and unlocks his door. And we're off again.
"Sir ... your son, will he ... did they say if he'd be OK?" He's watching me like I might hurt him.
"Yes. He'll be OK. If I can get there, I'm sure ... I'm sure they'll find a way. See, I gave them the pieces ... surely they can fix him. He was breathing, you know? He was breathing!"
"OK, OK, well, here's the ER, if you want I can ... Sir! Sir!"
The man's voice trails away as I run. There's lots of people in this room but I sprint for the desk.
"Malone. Shane Malone. Is he in surgery? Is he ok? Ma'm I'm here now, please tell me."
She frowns. "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to sit down."
"No, you don't understand. He's here and he's going to be ok."
She looks at me. I can see her looking at my hands. My bloody hands. There's grass sticking to my fingers.
"What is the name you said?"
"Malone, Shane Malone."
"Sir, I see a ... I see a Gina Malone. Is that family too? What happened? Car wreck?"
"Gina? What does it ... ? Gina? Why is she ...what happened?"
"Says here she's in SICU. Do you know a Gina?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
They say I screamed again. All I know is they took me to this room to wait. Two doctors came.
"Sir. Shane ... Shane was dead on arrival, Sir. We tried our best."
"No ... no he can't. He just ... he was breathing."
"But we have some good news, sir. Your wife ... she'll need surgery. She's critical but stable."
"You keep talking about Gina. What happened ... we were just coming here."
"When you hit the pole, sir ..."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`
The story unwound. And so I sit, holding Gina's hand. I can't believe that man ran a stop sign. I can't believe John's swerve meant we hit a telephone pole. John broke his ankle. My oldest son broke his arm.
They tell me Gina will live. They say we should think about a funeral, Shane's funeral.
I can't. Gina has to be there. My mistake cost us our son. I can't also take away her last chance at goodbye.
Life, job, food. Everything has stopped. My son ...he was so cold when I said goodbye. Lying on a bed like this one, as still as Gina is now but his hand was cold.
His first ball game of the season was tonight. So excited ... this year the players woudl pitch and he couldn't wait to hit that ball.
"Beep, beep." I watch the montitors, watch his mother breathe.
I've washed my hands but everytime, everytime I close my eyes, I see blood. Grass. His beautiful, ruined face. Please, God. Shane ... he can't be gone.
`````````````````````````
A photo of his dad (center) at a candle light vigil at Shane's elementary school:
An article about Shane:
http://blog.al.com/breaking/2010/04/dad_remembers_8-year-old_son_a.html
```````````````````````````
This is...I know Eric's mom and others involved in the situation. This is... somewhat fictionized version of what happened though many, many details are true.
Our community is very, very upset about Shane's death. I know several people who knew Shane. It's so hard to watch grown men cry.
No disrespect is meant by this entry.
