They say a child begins to have memories around age 3. I have never understood why some memories stick more than others. How is it that I can't remember what I had for supper two weeks ago but I can remember the first time I rode my bike when I was five years old? Maybe it's because our mind chooses what's important and what's not. Maybe it's because whether we did or didn't realize it at the time, there are moments that permanently leave an impact on our life. I have come to the conclusion the worst memories are the ones I can't seem to forget or move past. It's always easier to remember the hurt than happiness. I wish I could forget. I hate my memory.
Three years ago today was one of the worst days of my life. I used to think a bad day was waking up late for work or getting caught in a down pour with no umbrella. It's funny how the things I used to think were "bad," are now acceptable and almost welcomed. A bad day is having to carry a lifeless infant across the room to place in their mother's arms for the last time. A bad day is offering condolences to the family of a 32 year old man who died in a motorcycle accident and left behind his pregnant fiancé. A bad day is when you watch someone die and there's nothing you can do. I now know what a bad day is.
Starting in grade school I was taught if there's an emergency to call 9-1-1. My curiosity as a child always got to me. I always wondered what would happen if I called 911. I think part of me hoped for a situation where I needed to. I never had to until the night my friend was murdered. It all happened so fast. In the blink of an eye a fight between two people turned deadly and now I close my eyes and hear screaming. "He has a knife," "Oh my God you stabbed him," "He's bleeding," "Someone call 911," "Oh my God someone please help, please help us," "He isn't breathing," "He won't stop bleeding," "There's so much blood," "Oh my God Ian please don't die," "Please Ian, please don't die." I tried answering all of the questions thrown at me on the phone. "What happened?" "Where are you?" "Who was stabbed?" "Who stabbed him?" "What does he drive?" "What direction did he go?" "Where is he bleeding from?" "Is he breathing?" "Can you stop the bleeding?" "Can you stay on the phone with me until help arrives?" "Are there any officers on scene?" I tried to stay calm. I tried not to panic. I told my friends Ian would be okay. I told them he would live. I told them he wasn't bleeding that much. It looked like a lot of blood but it wasn't really that much. Ian would be okay, he was in good care and he would be okay.
Screaming and crying. Lots of screaming and crying and blood. So much blood. My friends all covered in Ian's blood. My mind is stuck in that moment of time. It replays over and over again in my head.
But he wasn't okay. He was stabbed in his heart and was dead before the ambulance even arrived at the hospital.
I was alone in an office by myself at the police station. My friends were all being interviewed. I knew Ian died when I heard the screaming again. I didn't cry. I just sat there, alone in an empty office and listened to the screaming. I couldn't react. I couldn't feel anything. He was dead. He can't be dead. He had help and they were going to take care of him. I just saw him and he was alive. Nothing made sense.
I didn't want to talk to anyone. I just wanted to go to sleep and never wake up. I wanted to pretend nothing had happened. I went to work the next day. I was expected to be okay. I am strong, I should be okay. I wasn't okay. I'm still not okay.
I remember walking into Ian's visitation. The face I saw first was my sister's and I started to cry hysterically. This can't be real, the only thought that kept crossing my mind. I won't ever forget Ian's dead body lying in the casket. His nails were still covered in blood and he had too much highlight cosmetic on his cheeks and nose. I just kept focusing on his fingernails, why did they not clean the blood off?
Ian just wake up.
