What seemed like just an ordinary day of t-ball would later turn out to hold the worst moment in my entire life. The moment starting with my grandparents driving down from New Jersey the night before. When they had finally arrived, it was so late at night I was in what seemed like a permanent comatose. I wish I had stayed in that permanent comatose.
It was May 1st, 2004. I woke that morning ecstatic, finally ready to see my grandparents. Bouncing at the bed of my brother, Greg, at around 7:30 in the morning, he awoke as well. We sprinted through the hall to the spare room my grandparents always stayed in when they visited. The morning was filled with back-cracking hugs and joyous laughter. Grandpa and Greg went outside to prep for his t-ball game later in the afternoon. I went out to join them. It was a beautiful day. A day that really looked like the postcard spring in Maryland. Light pearl clouds stretched across the bright blue landscape of the sky. I could tell that I was going to remember this day, it just so happened, not in the way I had expected.
We took two cars to the baseball field. I went with Grandpa, Greg, and my dad in our red minivan. My mom and grandma took the silver SUV that they had drove down in. When we finally got to the field we struggled with parking. With such a beautiful day, everyone wanted to go to the park. We finally found two spots relatively close to each other and got out, our feet walking across the broken dirt specked rocks of parking lot. Greg and I sprinted to the fresh grass, water droplets still glistening on them, staining the knees of our pants. Greg ran over to his team- he was the last member to get there. He pulled on a helmet and grabbed the closest bat- ready for another quick warm-up before the game.
I waited for my family to catch up; they had slowed to grab chairs from the trunk of the car. We decided to sit behind home plate. Greg was third to bat. When he came out, I ran to the fence and pulled on it; my hands barely able to hold one rusty link. I cheered when the bat came to his shoulder. He was going to hit this ball and get to first base. A loud pop erupted and I knew the ball hit the bat square on. Greg was gone in a haze of red dust from the sand on the field. I cheered as loudly as I could.
As the game went on, I realized Greg wasn’t enough to carry the team. 5-3 was the final score and it was a hard loss for Greg. Luckily, Grandpa was here to cheer him up. He picked Greg up and swung him around. He then limped over to the car with him. His polio never stopped him from cheering us up.
“Me and Nic are going to take the car over to get some mulch” I remember Grandma telling us. My dad kissed my mom on the cheek and she walked over with me. I got in my car seat and she buckled me in. My dad called over and said something to her. I don’t remember what he said but when she turned around to look at him, I unbuckled my seatbelt; a new trick I had learned just that day. It drove Mom insane. As she turned back to me, realizing what I had done, I stifled a giggle. “What am I going to do with you, Ryan!”, I remember her saying with a laugh. She buckled me in one final time, and went into the silver SUV that my grandparents had driven down in the night before. This was my final memory of her; this was the last time I saw her.
Greg got into his seat next to me and closed the car door. He could get buckled in all by himself. My dad got behind the wheel and turned around to face us. “Everyone strapped in?” he asked. Greg and I said “yes” in unison. I noticed Grandpa’s seat belt wasn’t buckled. "Grandpa, you should buckle your seat belt- if we get in an accident, it'll save your life." A click sounded; as he explained his only reason for living, was us.
We got home and started to unpack the trunk, loaded with collapsible chairs we used at the game and t-ball equipment. I looked at the sky and pointed for Grandpa to look. In the few minutes it took us to drive back from the field, the light pearl clouds across the bright blue landscape of the sky quickly turned into ominous mounds of dark clouds across the depressing grey sky. I was stunned. Never in my life had I seen the weather change so fast. I would never see the weather change so fast again.
The phone rang. Greg and I called for Grandpa to answer. We weren’t allowed to answer the phone by ourselves. The phone kept ringing. Grandpa started to get up from the couch. The phone wouldn’t stop ringing. Grandpa limped over and finally reached for the phone; but not before one final ring. A ring that I will never forget. I ring that has engraved itself in my ears, unwilling to ever be whisked away, no matter how hard I try to forget that ring.
We were thrown into the car. Grandpa had tears streaming from his face. I had never seen my grandfather ever show any signs of vulnerability. Dad got behind the wheel and started yelling a choked yell. I could hear the tears in his throat, hiding from us. He stepped on the gas pedal and we lurched forward. The car was silent except for the sobs of Grandpa and the sound of Dad’s inability to catch his breath.
Sitting in the hospital, I didn’t know what to do. The bland white walls seemed like a prison and the smell of hand sanitizer was more infecting then the germs it killed. Dad had vanished when we first got here and Grandpa, although now able to keep a straight face, still had a steady flow of tears erupting from his eyes. He pulled me and Greg into his arms. Where had Dad gone? Where was Mom? Why wouldn’t anyone tell me what was going on?
We waited for two hours. In that two hours, Grandpa finally explained what had happened. It was too complex for me to understand but I understood one thing. There was an accident. An accident that put Mom in the hospital. Dad came out with a doctor. His eyes were like cotton balls. It would be a lie to say I didn’t cry at all either. “What about the baby?” my dad said hopefully to the doctor. “What baby?” I thought silently to myself. The doctor shook his head. My dad’s face contorted. We got in the car; a broken family. Thinking of the oncoming bad news that must be following this torturous car ride, I stayed quiet. I stayed quiet for many weeks later.
Dad sat us down on the couch outside. The sky, having looked as dark as a raven's wings. He couldn’t say the sentence without crying. I knew in that moment that Mom was gone, until he announced the most devastating news of all. “Your mother was pregnant.”
Something about the way he said “was” stabbed me. It punctured my ribs like a knife, digging into my flesh and twisting into my heart. Mom had died, and along with her, my unborn little sister, Amanda. It was just us now; Ryan and Greg. I knew in that moment something much more mature than my age. That even though Dad was still with us, he wasn’t; nor would he be for a long time. Between working long hours, the few times a day we would see him from then on would be limited to sad conversation, ultimately leading to him locking himself in his room and crying. He tried to stay strong for us but it wasn’t always the easiest thing. Greg and I understood.
Later in my life I read the nurse’s report about her. Everything that she said in the hospital. She held on to her life by a thread, just to see my dad one last time. When he finally got to the hospital, they talked. Mostly about Greg and I. The life we needed to have. She couldn’t hold on much longer, and died shortly after their discussion.
The night of her death, I felt a tap on my window. I looked out and saw a streak of red. I had never seen a cardinal before that day; nor have I ever again. The cardinal was sent from Mom. No, the cardinal was Mom. Mom was telling us she was okay. She was telling us that we had to be okay.
The same week Mom had died, twenty-two light bulbs went out in our house. Mom was watching over us. Whenever her spirit followed us throughout the house, a bulb would blow out. It's a reminder that we have to be okay. A reminder that we have to be okay; not just for us, but for Dad. Sometimes when I think about her and the life I would have had if she had survived, a bulb will blow out. The only signal of her that I know. It means that I am okay. And sometimes, I just need a little reminder.