On June 20 of this year, I got that dreadful phone call that my 20-year-old son was shot 17 times. I lived in Vermont, while he lived in Washington state with his girlfriend. The phone rang at 7:30 a.m. my time, as I was getting ready for a doctor’s appointment. The person on the other end informed me that my son had died twice. One while en route to the hospital and once while lying on the operating table. My heart dropped to the floor.
I can’t explain the fear I felt as she told me I needed to get to Washington ASAP. So I booked the first thing I could find and left that evening.
Upon arriving, I just knew I was coming to the state to make funeral arrangements. I did not know where he was shot or if he even were still alive. It felt like someone reached in my chest and kicked my heart and soul off the planet.
My son was fighting for his life, and I couldn’t do anything but pray. Now, 77 plus days in, we are still in ICU, trying to save him.