The date is July 21, 2014.

The clock reads 9:49.

I lay in my bed with my headphones in, my black Nike shirt with green lettering on, music blaring in order to block out the world around me, my futon folded up to resemble a couch. Just as I begin to drift off into the black abyss of sleep, the door to my room swings wide open and the harsh, yellow light from the hallway peels my eyelids back, effectively burning my irises as I am ripped away from what could have been a good night’s sleep. I was fully prepared for my first opportunity to get a night filled with restful sleep since my mission trip, from which I just returned. I grumble as I pull my headphones from my ears. With one eye open and the other forced shut by the bright light that invades my room, I faintly hear my mom scream for me to “get up, we need to leave.” I am confused and frustrated. I sure as hell have no intentions to get out of my warm bed. After seeing that I am not going to budge, my mom yanks my blankets off of my body and let's six words escape her mouth that will haunt my memory for the rest of my life: “Your dad is at the hospital.”

The clock reads 9:51.

I snap awake and throw my soccer shorts and flip flops on which is not a normal fashion choice for me, but the moment prompted me to grab whatever I could find lying on my floor. Sadly, hospital visits are quite common in my family. Just three months before, I got a call during my Freshmen English class that my sister had been rushed to the ER because she had an ovarian cyst that had burst. Two years before that, on March 3rd, I received a call from my dad when he told me that my mom's head had gotten stuck in one of his precision machines at his machine shop and a blade had cut her forehead all the way down to the skull. She was being rushed to the hospital for an emergency surgery to close the wound before she bled out. Although I am just as worried in this situation as I had been in those, I am also confident in my family’s ability to withstand an impressive resume? of hospital visits. My mom and I jump into our Toyota Tundra and sit with it running in the middle of the road, just waiting for my sister to get home from a friend’s house. Luckily, we do not have to wait too long. Soon, Jenna has parked in the driveway and is launching herself into the front seat of our truck, and before the door is even closed my mom starts to drive away from the house and towards the hospital.

The clock reads 9:58.

Jenna's eyes are beginning to water as she tries to figure out what could have gone wrong for us to be forced into a situation such as this. My mom is nearly hysterical. I scoff at the idea that my dad could have been seriously hurt in whatever incident he was involved in. My mom explains to both of us that my dad “had been biking up Deer Creek Canyon to train for the Copper Triangle.” This is news to me. “He was supposed to be home by 8:45, but at 9:48 the Swedish ER called me and told me that he was involved in an accident. He is in intensive care.”
The clock reads 10:02.

Bile begins to build up in my throat, but I continue to have faith that my dad is as strong as, if not stronger than, Superman. I reach forward from my perch on the edge of the back seat and firmly grasp both my mom's and my sister’s shoulders in assurance. Confidently, I remind both of them of the fact that he had been hit by a semi-truck in college and he was fine. I remind them of how he even asked mom on a date later that week, after she had been tending to him in his Physical Therapy. “I promise, he is fine. I bet he just hit a rock or a tree and maybe broke a bone. He can handle anything.” Once I say this, they both look at me with tears streaming down their faces and give me a nod in agreement. I am in a state of confidence because I am in denial of anything bad happening. Despite my faith in my dad, I am glad that my mom is driving at a speed that most police would consider reckless. I need to see him. We are winding along Santa Fe, past the bowling alley where a group of high schoolers are meeting in the parking lot to begin their last game of the summer. We pass a Subway where friends enjoy a late dinner. On the left side of the road, we see a movie theatre where two lovers buy tickets for the newest romantic comedy. All of these people are oblivious to the terror rising in the atmosphere of our car. The drive took a mere 16 minutes, yet it felt like an eternity.

The clock reads 10:18.

We walk slowly at first, then each step becomes a little bit faster than the last, and soon all of us are at a full sprint towards the double doors with a blaring red EMERGENCY sign above it. By the time we get inside, both my sister and I are incapable of formulating a full sentence, fear has gripped our throats and stricken our tongues dry like sandpaper, my mom approach the front desk and ask the woman sitting there where Neil Bradford, a 43 year old male who was just brought in from a bicycle accident, could be found. She gives my mom an ambivalent look and asks us all to sit while she contacts the doctor to follow up for us. We continue to stand. A full 30 seconds pass agonizingly slow as each tick of the second hand of the clock burns inside of me like fire.

The clock reads 10:19.

A tall, blonde male in baby blue scrubs walks towards us and introduces himself. His name blows past my ears as a meaningless whisper. He asks us to follow him, and we do so anxiously. All three of us are expecting to be taken back towards the patients’ rooms. Instead, we take a quick left and immediately right into a small room with no windows, two small tables, one lamp, one trash can, and seven chairs. The doctor ushers us inside as a woman in matching blue scrubs with long brown hair pulled back into a tight ponytail and soft brown eyes joins him by his side. Just as they begin to shut the door, an aged hand reaches towards the frame and catches the door just in time. An elderly man dressed in all black with a bible tucked under his arm humbly apologizes for being late as he lets the door click shut behind him. My sister’s and my mom’s bodies both buckle into two chairs that are side by side. They grasp each other's hands so hard that their knuckles turn white. I stand and demand to see my father. The doctor gestures for me to take a seat as my mom tugs at my shirt sleeve. Reluctantly, I oblige.

The clock reads 10:20.

The Chaplain introduces himself, but I do not care what his name is. I begin to get angry. I want answers. Without warning, the doctor sighs and deflates like the weight of the world is pressing down on his back. It is clear that he had seen horrors beyond his years. He pauses for a brief moment, then looks into my mother's eyes and tells us what is going on: “Neil was biking down Deer Creek Canyon. As he passed the neighborhood entrance, a man turned left onto the road and collided with Neil. Responders to the 911 call were dispatched at 8:45 when a young woman drove up on the road seconds after the accident took place. She immediately began to attend to Neil while she waited for the ambulance. The ambulance arrived at 8:59; once we got him to the hospital at 9:22, we did everything we could, but his heart stopped at 9:55. I’m sorry but his injuries were too severe. The Chaplain is here if you three have any requests.” With those final words, the two doctors walk out of the room.

The clock, and all time, ceased to exist.

My world comes to an abrupt stop. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice that my mom and my sister have collapsed into each other, shaking with grief. Tears spill out of their eyes, off of their cheeks and into their laps which are pressed so firmly together, they appear to be one. Jenna grips her own hand and digs her nails into her palm, trying to wake herself up from this nightmare. My mom's eyes are immediately red and bloodshot as they look up to Heaven and beg God to not let this be true. I, on the other hand, am surprisingly numb, to the point where I do not feel as if I am a part of this family that is so suddenly stricken with pain. Slowly I stand up with dry eyes and ask the Chaplain to pray for us and then to dismiss himself.

I wrap my arms around my mom and my sister. Their tears attack my cheeks, to mask the absence of my own. Their hands dig and claw into my back as they search for some security in their lives as they watch it fall apart. The grief washes over me like a tidal wave that rips me off my feet, yet I cannot cry. I feel the urge to vomit instead. Time is still a strange concept . . .the next moment, I realize that my mom has pulled out her phone and has begun to contact all of our family. Between sobs, she manages to tell us that my dad’s sister is on her way to the hospital. My sister balls herself up in a corner between the last chair in the row and the wall until she is at the perfect angle to kick the trashcan; I feel like there is no such thing as reality. I wander around the two hallways that intersect in front of the room that will signify death for the rest of my life without a sense of movement or purpose. I need to call Ben, my boyfriend and best friend, to demand that he be waiting at my house when I get home. I know that I cannot bear this pain without him by my side. Without delay he answers the phone and is on his way to my house. My thoughts slosh around as my picture perfect life drowns before my eyes.

It is not until my aunt arrives and all time seems to begin once more, at 11:06, that my tears find the courage to escape. The exact moment that I see her my trance is shattered; my knees collapse, my chest concaves, my lungs and heart feel the pressure of death strangle every bit of happiness from my body. My aunt catches me as my world explodes before my eyes and I fall to the ground.

Today

I do not remember two weeks after July 21st. I was numb and unresponsive, like I had glared Medusa in the eyes for an extended period of time. I do not remember any specific details of those last days of summer. I do not remember who all came to pay their condolences and to grieve with my family. I do not remember the pain of getting my tattoo in memory of my father. I was too numb to truly experience any of it. 

Early in my grieving process, I separated myself from my family because I did not respond the same way that they did. I reflected back onto those first few minutes and wondered if something was wrong about how I reacted, I was guilty that I did not cry, I was ashamed that I did not breakdown. Does my reaction mean that I do not love my father? Not in the slightest bit. Grief is an interesting state of mind to walk through life in, but it has been a constant companion of mine every day since the day that I lost my father. Grief affects every person in a different way, as it did with me, my mom, my sister. Somehow, the pain of losing my father disguised itself as a hard shell for the first 46 minutes of my loss until I let go and allowed the grief to penetrate and wash over me. Grief is unpredictable, and because it is so there is no telling how to best support anyone in pain. My grief is specific to me, as that rings true for everyone else. It should be recognized that anyone struggling with a hard situation needs to handle it their own way and their process needs to be respected, even if it is not the normal way to carry through the situation. I have loved my dad every day since the day I was born. I yearn to hear his voice again every waking moment since the day I lost him. I will continue to memorialize him and look forward to the day I join him in heaven. Though my grieving process is not one that is highlighted in television or in books; from my perspective, it is one that exemplifies my personality. I grieve every day, though it may not be the way that is normal to grieve, it is my way, as grieving should be.