HOW IS TIME MEASURED?

June 20, 2011

How is time measured? Is it by a clock or by the beats of the heart? What is an eternity? Is it measured in time or in breathes taken? Five a.m. to ten-thirty-one a.m. As measured by a clock that is only five hours and thirty-one minutes but for me it was an eternity. Five a.m. Christian calls me in Nevada; 5:10 a.m. the first gunshots are heard. Time becomes a blur. Only the pounding of my heart tells me that time is passing.

I do not know how much time past between the sound of the first gunshot, a second gunshot, and the phone going dead. I called the home phone over and over and got no answer. How long until I was able to reach my ex-husband to have him contact the police in the town I live in to notify them that shots had been fired. I had tried to call them myself but couldn't get through to the Washington State 911 operators. How much time wasted in that attempt.

How much more time past until Patrick called me to say that he and Christian were okay and were driving out to the ocean to avoid a confrontation with the police. His exact words were to "avoid a shootout with the police". (What am I hearing? The possibility of my baby exchanging gunfire with the police? The world is upside down and has gone crazy!) How long before the first cell phone call from Christian and the second call. When did his girlfriend call and say that she could talk him down. It seemed only minutes before she called back and said she thought Christian had shot himself. I know at least 45 minutes past between the time I spoke to Patrick and he confirmed that Christian had indeed shot himself and the medics were working on him but it didn't look good and the time that I called Patrick back and he told me Christian had died. The coroner pronounced him dead at 10:31 a.m. It would have taken him at least 30 minutes to get from Shelton to the place on the side of the road that would become Christian's Memorial Site.

Five hours and thirty-one minutes burned into my memory. I remember every detail, every sound. But when my mind plays it back, it only takes minutes. All the waiting time is deleted. Those hellish minutes and hours. Time when I was aging and dying, struggling to breathe, and praying my racing heart wouldn't fail. Did I pray? did I stop praying even for a minute? A prayer without words - only agony and fear, no words. The type of pain that only God can understand and feel.

I can remember what happened the first half hour after learning of my beautiful, cherished son's death - making the necessary telephone calls to his sisters and brother - but the hours after that are like I was sleep walking. I was looking at my self from a distance. I could see myself washing clothes and packing but I no longer felt connected with my body. I don't remember being that person getting ready to return home. The next thing I remember clearly is being seated on the plane flying home late that night. I was seated next to a very nice, pleasant man. A compassionate man. That is where my memory picks up again.

It was only today, one year, five months, two days, and forty-five minutes later, that my mind opened up enough to wonder what had happened on that day or the day preceding that made him choose that particular day to die. I had heard from other parents of children that died by suicide that their child was not themselves on the day they made their final decision. That was true of Christian. I had never heard him sound the way he did during that first phone call that morning. His voice was so full of rage and hurt and determination as he screamed into the phone, "Today is the day. Everything ends today!" Later he would sound more composed, more gentle, more quiet, more himself. He told me in his gentle voice that he was going to do it but I began to think that maybe he would change his mind and everything would be okay. He no longer sounded enraged or out of control. He sounded good and as loving as always.

I do not know what his girlfriend said to him that made him get out of the car, put the gun to his head, and pull the trigger. She told me later that she had talked him into it. She said he wanted to die and she had just helped him along - that she had done nothing wrong. Did him a favor actually. I know that she had bragged to others that he had killed himself over her. It reminded me of big game hunters who, after they had bagged their kill, hung their trophy on the wall for all to see. But her trophy was my child ....my beloved child - my heart, my soul, my sun in the morning, the moon in my night, the twinkling stars in my mind's eye. My everything. My son that I had loved and nurtured since his conception suddenly gone. And I wasn't there to cradle him in my arms and look deep into his eyes and tell him I loved him and everything was going to be okay. To press my lips against his warm cheek and close his sleeping eyes.

How is time measured? Is it by the number of times a heart is ripped and torn and left battered and bloody? What is an eternity? Is it the time that passes between one breath and another? One heart beat and the next? When does time end? With the last heart beat and the last breath. I will love you forever my treasure and miss you everyday of my life. Momma