Impact

Time.

I wondered earlier what it would be like to have the power to slow it down, speed it up? Well, it turns out that in states of trauma, your mind does that on it's own.

I remember when we lived with Joe, it was late at night so I was waiting at the bottom of this big hill at the bus loop for the bus to take me up the hill to our house. We didn't live in the safest of areas, so it was scary walking in the dark that late at night. Waiting for the bus, I watched as a semi-truck that was at a stop light got the green light and proceeded to advance in to the intersection. Anyone who has been in a vehicle on the road knows how long it takes for bigger vehicles to start moving, so he couldn't have been going very fast when a Chevrolet Astro flew through the red light, getting t-boned.

I ran to assist, not really ready for what I was about to see. I got my cell phone out and called 911 right away. I stayed on the phone with the operator as long as I needed to, but panic started to creep in. What was taking the ambulance so long when the hospital is literally a five minute drive down the road? This guy really needed help. She promised me that they are on their way, that I'd actually only been on the phone with her for two minutes. I closed my eyes and heard all of the sirens. Time moved so slow, it felt like I was there for hours. I watched the jaws of life start up, I looked up at the flood lights giving the first responders light and could swear I saw every single rain drop as it passed through the cascading light. It was only when my eyes connected with Rob, who had run down the hill to me, did time restore to it's normal flow.

Two minutes.

A lot can happen in two minutes or less.

A baby can be born, a first kiss can happen. The sun can shine it's last rays of warmth and then disappear in the sky for the night or a rocket can launch into space. A van can run a red light, causing a crash. You can be upstairs in another room, downstairs getting your things, back upstairs, in your car and be driving away in two minutes.

You can pull a trigger and end a life in a fraction of that time.

I remember barely being able to start my car. I hit the Bluetooth button, waiting for the car-lady to say a command. "Call Rebecca on mobile." Calling Rebecca on mobile, she repeated to me.

The pause between when the phone connected to the network and the ringing actually started was excruciatingly long. Each ring sounded longer that it should have been. "Hi. Are you on your way?" she answered. I could hear Rob talking in the background, but no kids. Rob sounded serious, but definitely not in the despair that I was hearing in the first phone call. He's alive. He's hurt, but alive, I thought.

"I am. Who's Rob talking to?"

"Sarah, please just get home safe. You'll hear everything when you get here," she explained.

"I'm driving and paying attention just fine, Rebecca. Who is Rob talking to? Is Joe okay?" I asked as that familiar lump started to rise in my throat again.

"He's talking to the police. Please just get home, I need you to be safe."

She's tippy-toeing around something. She doesn't want to say it because I'm driving. She doesn't want to be the one to say these words to me. You can't blame her for that, I thought.

Suddenly the phone shifted and the deep voice of my husband came on. The voice he uses when he's in Sargeant mode, business mode. It's a voice that can make anyone feel like they are five years old and in trouble with the principal all over again.

"Where are you?" he asked.

"I'm just driving up towards Fraser right now, I'll be there in ten minutes. Is Joe okay?" 

The line went silent, then he spoke again with a bit softer of a voice. "I need you to get here and we will talk about it all then."

"Whether you tell me in ten minutes or now isn't going to change anything. I'm driving on a straight road, I'm driving safely, and I'd like to know. Just tell me, is he okay? Is he alive?"

His voice went stern again. "No, he's not." The phone connection between us went silent, like both of us were holding our breath, afraid of what the other might say or do next. That lump in my throat started to rise farther and farther.

"Thank you for your honesty," I said quietly with a shaky voice, the tears starting to fall uncontrollably out of my eyes, "I'll be there soon. I love you."

"I love you, too. Drive safe, please," and the call ended.

I sat there quietly for a moment. I have given birth to two children, and nothing could have prepared me for this kind of pain. My brother, my Broseph. The only person who understood the darkest parts of my brain. My daughter's godfather. My son's uncle. One of my husband's two best friends. Nadine's husband. No, no, no. I gripped the steering wheel at 10 and 2 like you do when you're learning to drive, slowly rocking back and forth in the driver's seat, trying to pay attention to my speed as I barrelled down the road needing to get in to my husband's arms.

In that moment, every smile, tear, harsh word, future plan, inside joke, apology, and hug - the feeling of being just encompassed and squished in to his chest when he hugged me tight - ran through my mind, and I screamed.