Memories are triggered by so many things.  Passing a particular place as you drive. A smell. Words.

Words I heard on the news this weekend sparked a memory that happened eight years ago today.

When a trauma occurs you later find that there are HUGE chunks of time you can't recall to memory.  What I've discovered, though, is that certain MOMENTS are crystal clear.

This weekend when I heard the words "he's been unresponsive since..." I was immediately transported back to the ICU unit at St. Francis Hospital, November 5, 2005. 

The room was quiet, and somewhat dark, except for the glow of the monitors posted at Paul's head. He was quiet, as he'd been ever since I'd seen him, attached to machines, his body warm, but not moving. I sat on one side of his bed, holding his limp hand, stained and calloused from hard work and guitar playing.

On the other side of the bed sat a doctor.  The only doctor I liked during this entire ordeal (although I have to add that the nurses were all ANGELS, very special to me to this day). He was young & compassionate.  (I found out later he was the neighbor of JoBeth Rood, who told him that Paul used to mow her yard when they lived in our neighborhood, and that she and I are friends.) 

He'd been explaining all the medical facts to me, what had happened, how it affected Paul.  I promise to not tell you all that.

The part of the memory that feels like it happened yesterday, and that the newscaster's words brought me back to were these:

Me: "So, is he in a coma?"

Dr.: "No.  He's been unresponsive since he was brought in."

There was a period of silence as I processed all he'd just told me, along with the answer to my question.  It verified what God had told me hours earlier.  But I had to ask, and the doctor waited, knowing I had to ask. He kept his eyes on mine.

Me: "So. There's no hope."

His eyes continued to look into mine.  He shook his head at the same time he said, "no."

My memory stops at that point.    Honestly, I have no idea if we talked longer, or if he left me alone to cry and ponder.  That's what I mean about huge chunks of memory being gone. 

My friend, Karen Werner, once asked if it was a hard decision to decide to donate Paul's organs.  I said, "No.  The hard thing is to accept the fact that your son is gone and there is no hope."

For me, that was the moment in that dark and quiet ICU room, sitting with my son and a kind doctor.