Saturday, September 24, 2016. It sucked. I started out ok. I went to volunteer to help a friend from church with a tiny little Fall Festival. I make the coffee. I had my daughters with me. It was quaint, and healthy. Then I got a call. It all came back.
I forced myself to replay the entire conversation aloud. The cops have drastically changed their story. The first officer told me that he was definitely killed. He told me that my son was walking where he should have been- off the shoulder and facing traffic. He told me the car obviously went off the road to hit, and kill, my son. The officer I talked to last Friday told me that he could see everything from “the kids” point of view. All the evidence to exonerate this “poor kid” is collected. Any information that implicates him in killing my son, is “still being investigated”. He went into graphic detail about how my son was broken and then killed.
“First of all, the car broke both of his legs, right here. Then there would have been blood all over the place, but his head was broke wide open and I didn’t see any blood. That means his heart stopped instantly when it slammed against his rib cage.” I was lost all over again. I fell completely apart.
But then he went on about how being a police officer doesn’t pay much so he had to start his own asphalt company. He just works afternoons, after work.Then he wanted me to feel sorry for, get this- him because he had a lot of work to do. So that’s why when people complain about not enough patrol cars, it’s because they’re busy. (I saw three no less than three cops sitting on the side of the road in downtown Whitmore Lake over the next 24 hours).
I couldn’t get it, me, back all the way. Then I ran into someone I knew from Ann Arbor when Ambrose was just a baby. She heard the news. She wished me condolences. She held me a moment. For some reason, I always feel like I’m consoling the other person when they hug me and tell me something sympathetic. I wasn’t crying. I didn’t initiate contact. Then they hold me until they feel better. It is quite traumatic when someone you care for is stricken with immense grief. I understand the compassion. It is a harrowing and unique experience when someone kills your firstborn; your son. I am consoled by many kind thoughts and prayers.
I am finishing this post three weeks later from when I started. I am haunted. The ghost of my joy looms outside my thoughts. It is never far away. It is never unacknowledged for long.
Sometimes I feel peace. Mostly I feel like I have no skin so that everything burns me. Everything is unbearable. I just do it anyway.
Morning is the worst part of my day. I lay there without interruptions drenched in the remorse for Ambrose. I count how many days it has been since I last saw my son. I replay days, years of his life in my mind until my phone sings me the “get out of bed and do this for your daughters” song. Then I crawl to the coffee maker.
Every day starts with agony. Then I go through a few motions. Sean does the rest.
Every night, I fall asleep knowing that the real nightmares will start as soon as I wake up.
Last night, I woke up over and over again. Each time holding in my tears as long as I could before sobbing again. I kept waking Sean up. That’s no good.
I can’t shake this awful feeling about the cops coming to my house with a sympathy rant for the person who killed my son. Something tells me that someone is going to get away with murder because he is the senior quarterback. Why ruin two lives? Because an eye for eye. My life, and the life of everyone who ever knew Ambrose is forever mangled by this person’s carelessness. There will never be enough eyes for me.