Wake Me Up! Love and The Afterlife

17 Pages·2013·0.2 MB·English

by  Lyn Ragan

One

THE CAUSE OF THE PAIN
JANUARY 23, 2008

♦ This is a true story. Some names, places, and other identifying
details were changed to protect a murder investigation and
individual privacy. The timing of events was compressed to
facilitate the telling of the story.

I would have never thought it. Not in a million years. To
wake up to the sound of love, only to experience
unspeakable tragedy minutes later—it was clearly a day that
would change our lives forever.
At 4:33 a.m. my phone rang. Startled, I shot out of bed. I
was late. I was always up by four o’clock. The phone was
sitting on a table across the room; I picked it up and answered,
sweetly.
“Good morning, my sweetie pie.”
“Good morning, baby doll,” my lover said, enthusiastically.
I adored my daily dose of love.
While I pretended to be up a few minutes prior to him
calling, I continued to move through the house to let the fur-
kids out to potty. I walked outside, watched our dogs do their
duties, and while my sweetheart talked about the night before, I
marched back inside.
Chip was sharing how bad he felt and how he wasn’t able to
get much sleep due to his bad cough. Meanwhile, I brought
down one of our new cups he insisted we buy for Christmas. I
placed it on the counter next to the coffee pot and waited for
the brewing to end.
We were both fighting a bad cold. Chip had an early day at
work planned, so yesterday we decided to take time off to play.
I would leave work at noon, meet him at home, we’d hop in the
new car we bought last week and go for a ride.
“That’ll make us feel better,” he said. But on this day he
didn’t sound so good. In fact, he sounded horrible.
“You’re probably not going to feel like going later, are you?”
I asked him. I thought he might say no, so I was surprised when
he replied, “Let’s wait to see how I feel when that time gets
here, okay?”
As we talked on his way to work, I pictured him perfectly
sitting in the driver’s seat of his big red dually Dodge. He was
holding his maroon Starbucks coffee mug in his right hand
while resting his arm on the middle console. His left hand was
hanging over the top of the steering wheel while he talked
through his Bluetooth that was connected to his left ear.
I didn’t hear him stop to unlock the gate. Nor did I hear
him take the cooler from his pickup and put it into his semi.
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What I did hear—was him starting the big truck. I heard the
sound of the engine turn over and I know with certainty I said,
“I heard you start her up, sweetie.”
“Yep, we started her up,” I know he replied.
I then pictured him hopping down out of the semi needing
to start his pre-trip inspection. He never skipped that part of
his routine. But on this one morning—he only took one or two
steps forward before our lives changed forever.
At this moment in time—I knew nothing.
Once I heard the truck start, I imagined him still sitting
inside realizing something went wrong. The reason I assumed
this—only seconds later at approximately 4:45 a.m. his voice
growled out two big words.
“Oh Shit!”
I instantly thought something was bad wrong with the truck.
And I asked, “What’s wrong, sweetie?”
But he didn’t reply.
I then pictured him getting out of the truck to lift the hood.
I knew that was the first place he’d go. He’d have to release the
latches on each side of the hood in order to lift it.
But how did he lift that hood so fast?
What I heard next was a horrific loud sound blasting
through the phone. I had to take it away from my ear. I
couldn’t hear anything but a horrible noise that sounded like a
lawnmower engine. It was deafening. I couldn’t fathom
anything under the hood sounding like that, but again, I still
didn’t know anything.
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I asked again, “Sweetie, what’s wrong with the truck?”
How can he hear me if I can’t hear him?
Through the loud noise though, I continued to ask, shouting
now. “Chip, can you hear me?”
Something felt wrong. As I paced back and forth in my
living room, I decided he needed my help. I ran into the
kitchen and grabbed my keys off the counter. At that exact
moment, the sound of the lawnmower engine slowly tempered
off.
“Sweetie, is everything alright? Are you okay?”
But I got nothing back.
Suddenly I heard what I thought was Chip sniffling. I knew
then he was still on the phone.
But why isn’t he talking to me? Is he playing a bad game?
I asked again, “Sweetie pie, are you alright?”
No words came through my ear.
I charged out the front door, leaving the dogs in the house,
and raced to my car. I listened intently for anything he might
say. At the same time I reassured him I was in the car on my
way to him. I lived less than two miles from where he parked; it
wouldn’t take me long to get there.
“I’m on my way, sweetie. I don’t know what’s wrong, but
I’m coming to help, okay? You’re not talking to me darlin, and
you’re starting to scare me.”
I could hear him breathing but he never said a word.
“Are you okay, sweetie?”
I flew down Normandy hitting seventy-five and eighty miles
4
per hour; the speed limit was thirty. It never dawned on me to
slow down.
“You need to say something, darlin. Why aren’t you talking
to me, Chip?” I was getting scared.
There was a lot of traffic out for so early in the morning. At
one point I got stuck at a red light where I sat, behind a white
work truck, listening to Chip’s breathing in my ear. My mind
raced wildly fast.
“Sweetie, do I need to hang up and call 911? Can you talk
to me? You’re scaring me, Chip. I don’t know what’s wrong.
Please say something to me. Please, Chip, say anything.”
Still, no words echoed through my ear.
“As soon as I get around this truck I’m there, sweetie.”
I raced through the last light before arriving at the lot.
“I’m right here, darlin. I’m turning into the driveway right
now, coming to you. I am right here!”
I saw the lights shining across the lot from his truck. The
driveway was bumpy as I passed the office buildings on the
main road. It was so damn dark out.
“I’m here sweetie. Where are you?”
And then, my eyes found him. I could see him off in the
distance lying on the ground next to his truck.
“Oh my God, oh my God!” I yelled.
I heard those words flying all around my head in the thick
air, over and over again. They had no where to escape.
My foot stomped the gas pedal—I raced to his side.
I stopped not directly in front of him, but more off to the
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right. When I slammed the car into park and sought for him to
move, I noticed streaks of blood running across his forehead. I
knew I had to get help fast. I jumped out and ran toward the
road. But then I thought, is he still alive?
I turned around and ran back. I searched for his chest to
move up and down.
Oh, thank God, he’s alive!
Disturbingly though, I saw a large hole in the back of his
head. I rapidly concluded that he must have fallen off of the
truck somehow and hurt himself. There was so much blood.
I knew I had to calm myself down and shut off my thoughts.
It was imperative I help him. Getting off the phone was the
first step.
“I have to hang up now sweetie, so I can call 911. I’ll be
right back, okay? I promise!”
I hit the end button and disconnected us. I saw the blue light
blink twice by his head, glowing brightly through the darkness.
He could no longer hear my voice and that worried me.
I turned and ran as fast as I could. It was vital I had the
physical address to get help—fast. At the same time I dialed.
4:53 a.m.—I dialed 911, but it didn’t go through. I tried
again, but got nothing. I dialed 0, and again, I got no tone
whatsoever.
4:54 a.m.—I dialed 411. I gave city and state information.
An operator answered. I told her I needed 911 but now, she
was gone too. It felt like a lifetime before a voice answered I
was unable to register.
6
I had long reached the road and was waiting in front of the
mailbox, staring directly at the property numbers.
I shouted, “Is this 911?”
She responded, “Yes.”
Immediately I charged it out.
“I need an ambulance at 9501 Normandy Boulevard.”
I repeated it two more times with complete verbal accuracy
and no southern drawl. I insisted on having no mental errors.
There could be no mistakes.
I remember the 911 operator asking me questions about my
relationship with Chip and after I answered, I made sure to tell
her about the large hole in the back of his head.
In my fogginess, all I could think about was how we needed
help fast. But I don’t think I said it out loud. And then out of
nowhere, she put a man on the phone.
He asked if Chip was still breathing.
“I don’t know,” I told him. “I’m came out here to the road
to get this address. I’m going back right now.”
I ran back to Chip as fast as I could. While I was running,
my eyes grazed his truck. The hood wasn’t lifted. It was intact
as though nothing had been touched.
Why didn’t I see that before?
I rapidly tried to piece it all together.
So he didn’t go under the hood? What was that noise then?
How’d he get hurt? He must’ve fallen off the truck and hit
something. That’s it, he fell.
Once I was beside him I repeated it again.
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“He has a large hole in the back of his head.”
I couldn’t tell if it was part of brain matter or if it was bone
that was lying on the ground right under his head. Which was
resting in a mud puddle combined with a large amount of his
blood.
I walked around him and squatted beside him, on the left
side of his body. I stared at his face noting how calm he
appeared. I watched him breathe.
His chest moved up and then moved slowly down. He
appeared to be sleeping, yet snoring loudly. I’d watched him
sleep many times before—it was exactly how he looked.
There were streaks of blood that made crisscross marks
across the top of his head.
How did you get these blood marks, Chip? They’re odd.
And I don’t see anything else on your face.
I’d mentioned Chip’s snoring to the man on the phone. He
told me he was gasping for air.
And then he said, “I’m going to tell you what you need to
do to help him breathe easier until help arrives. I will instruct
you step-by-step.”
First he said I’d have to lift Chip’s head back by placing my
hand underneath his neck. I did. I buried my hand in the mud
and pushed as far as I could under his neck, and then I tried to
lift him.
He didn’t move. I couldn’t budge him. He was so heavy.
The man told me again I needed to lift his head back to open
his airways—I kept trying.
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I placed my phone on top of his stomach and I positioned
myself above him with my hands under his neck. With both
hands now locked, I lifted with all my might.
I still couldn’t move him. He wouldn’t budge.
I picked up the phone and asked the stranger a question.
“Are you sure you want me to do this when the hole on the
back of his head is so big?” I was terrified I’d make it worse for
Chip and cause him to lose blood faster.
I don’t think he replied to my question, or either I don’t
remember what he said. The next thing I heard was him telling
me I needed to clean out Chip’s mouth so he didn’t choke on
anything.
By this time my hands were downright muddy. The only
thing I could think of was putting all that mud inside of his
mouth. I wiped my hands on my clothes and tried to clean
them as much as possible.
I leaned forward, closer to his face, and right when I was
about to open his mouth, he took a breath. He scared me and I
leaped back.
God, I can’t put my filthy fingers in his mouth. I can’t
make this worse for him than everything already is.
I knew he was breathing because I was sitting there watching
him. But I felt totally helpless. I couldn’t lift him; he weighed
two hundred and twenty-five pounds. He was almost double
my size. I couldn’t budge him, his head wouldn’t move.
I was so scared—for him.
“When are they going to be here?” I hollered at the phone.
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“They’re on the way,” he shouted back.
And then it hit me.
They won’t see us! Not back here in this darkness.
I jumped up and ran back to the road.
(If you can picture the size of a football field, imagine me
located at the one yard line standing on Normandy while Chip
is located at the fifty.)
Everything felt like it was taking forever.
I paced back and forth on the dark road, looking for lights
to appear. There were none. It wasn’t long before I heard that
stranger’s voice again. He asked if Chip was still breathing. I
had to confess I’d come back to the road to wait for the
ambulance.
“You need to help Chip; you need to go back to him,” he
told me firmly.
I turned and ran. Never questioning if he was right or
wrong. I know they won’t see us. It’s too dark out.
But I ran anyway. Chip needed me with him.
I squatted down in the identical spot where I was before.
I laid my hand on top of his tummy; I needed to be
touching him. While we waited, this time I looked around. I
turned to the right and looked behind me at the truck.
I saw no blood anywhere on the back of it and I couldn’t see
where he would have fallen either. There was no upset on the
ground below or around the immediate area of his truck. I then
studied Chip from head to toe, observing him lying in front of
me.
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