Bad Saturday Morning & Spencer (Part 1)

 I was married and living in the Brigham Apartments. My oldest son, Michael, was 2 years old and I was pregnant with Juliana. I woke up early that morning and started heating up the frying pan to cook bacon for my husband and Michael. My phone started ringing and it was my dad. 

"Shantell?" The tone in his voice meant something. My first thought was "please don't tell me someone is dead." 

"Shantell, there has been an accident and your brother is being rushed to the hospital." I don't handle bits of information so well. I need to know everything. Right now. "WHAT? Who? What brother? What happened? Is he going to live?" My dad loves reactions. It's gross and he plays on them. He likes to think that if he can make you cry or react that he won or something. I have always been quick to cry and I remember the most insane headaches when I knew my dad needed a reaction and I would fight my tears. "Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry." Those are the words that are on the forefront of my brain every time I communicated with my dad. Well, the flood gates opened and the tears came gushing when my dad's response was "It's Spencer. He's unconscious and I can't answer your question about if he will live or not." 

I don't know if I had another thought after that. It was as if this massive ringing went on in my head and everything was spinning around me. I only remember burning the bacon. I don't remember if Tim, my then husband, drove me down to Utah County to the hospital, or if I drove myself. That part is a complete blur and I was probably a sobbing mess. 

I made it to the hospital before Spencer even arrived there. I was in the emergency waiting room with my mom and whoever else was there from my family. That part is a bit of a blur too because I saw the paramedics rolling my brother in on a gurney and his head had to have been double his normal size. Going back there in my memory now is painful. I have always had a fear of being and feeling alone. Because I have this fear, I assume everyone does and so I do things that I would want done for me. I barely left that hospital from that Saturday on. I just couldn't. I would panic that Spencer might feel alone. He was in a coma, but I've watched those movies where a loved one is in a coma and they come out of it saying that they had spiritual experiences or they heard their loved ones voices. If my brother could possibly hear of feel anything I didn't want it to be silence. They would only let 2-3 people in the room at one time. The extent of his brain injuries could be deadly and the doctor was strict on making sure his room was peaceful and not stressful for him. The last thing Spencer needed was to feel stressed while his brain was bleeding and trying to heal. Sitting in the ICU waiting room was bleak. We weren't the only family there. It was a community of families that had loved ones behind those doors fighting for their life. I don't remember leaving the hospital much. My husband was upset and wanted me home to attend my mother duties, but I couldn't leave Spencer. I slept in the waiting room some nights. The nurses were great and brought us blankets and my mom's ward members would bring us food. I couldn't take a bite out of anything. I am an emotional eater and I feel physically ill when I am emotionally hurting. Aaron came to the hospital and I just cried and cried in his arms. We both went back to Spencer's room. Charmaine was back there and probably my mom too. We would always try and get around the rules by getting more of us in that room than what was allowed. I don't know what thoughts were going through my brother Aaron's mind, but when we walked out into the waiting room together he said "Shantell, that should be me. I'm the messed up one of the family, not Spencer. I wish that was me and not him." 

He left to go shower and clean up. Aaron came back and he was there a lot. We gather as siblings when there are harsh family events and we really pray hard together. The only way I knew that I was going to get through all of this with Spencer is to write it all done. As it was happening. I hoped Spencer would wake up and be able to read everything that was going on from an outside perspective. I would just sit next to him while a machine breathed for him and write. I would say things like "Well, the nurse just came in and put more morphine in your drip." I would write down any visitors that came in. I wrote down the expressions everyone had on their faces and their emotions that they expressed. It was all about Spencer. Oh, Spencey, you are so loved. It wasn't too long after he was in the ICU room that my mom's bishop and home teacher showed up to assist in giving Spencer a blessing. I couldn't be back there, because it was too many people. They all came out, my dad included, to tell us their thoughts and impressions. It wasn't hopeful. I felt no hope after they told me that they basically told Spencer that it was his choice as to live or return to our Heavenly Father. Ugh! Can I choose for him? Spencer, please stay. Please fight. Please don't leave us. I didn't fully understand the recovery my Spencer would have to go through if he did stay. They warned us of all possibilities and all of them were negative. He may never be able to talk again. He my never be able to write again. He may never know how to use his motor skills, period. I was selfish and wanted him here anyway. Please don't go Spencey. I react to stress by not eating and praying. I don't think I've ever prayed more than I did during that time. My mom would keep encouraging me to eat. "I can't mom. I feel sick." Then she would pull the pregnancy card. "Shantell, this isn't about you. You have a child in your womb that you need to eat for." I tried. I nibbled on bits of a muffin every now and then, but when I would move my mouth in any kind of eating motion, I would want to throw up. I felt ill watching my brother lay there like that. Spencer was the good one. Spencer was a book warm and very smart. He talked a lot and asked too many questions about everything. He loved Disney movies and was obsessed with Pocahontas as a child. I don't know if it was me or someone else but we hid his little Pocahontas character that he loved so much. All those mean things start flooding your mind when you see him laying there. You start crying and asking him for forgiveness knowing that he wasn't going to respond. Spencer was that child that never asked for anything. He would wear his shoes out the most. His shoes were always too small and sometimes had holes in them. There was a time that he wore his shoe down so much that the back metal pieces of his shoe would cut the back of his ankle. That had to have been painful. He loved and adored my mom. Idolized her. He would not be the one to stress her out by asking for new clothes or shoes. I worked at a Pizza joint at the time when Spencer told me that he was made fun of for his pants. I drove to St. George and walked around looking for jeans for an 8/9 year old. I spent my entire paycheck on getting him jeans and buttoned up plaid shirts. I still have pictures of when I made him try them all on. I remember telling him that his butt looked good. Girls liked to hear that so I figured it was a great compliment. All of those thoughts start going through your mind. Thoughts of what I wish I had done better and more of. I didn't put my pen down much and would feel bad if I slept or left the hospital. I remember my dad gathering us and we all walked to the hospital cafeteria to eat. I stopped at the bathroom and as I sat there, I started bleeding. I'm pregnant and bleeding is not a good sign. I didn't want to tell anyone so I didn't right then. It's not about me. That would only stress me and others out more. I knew if I told anyone that they would worry and I didn't want to take that attention from Spencer. I love attention, but not in these circumstances. Never. I don't seek for it at all. When I would pull my pants down to pee throughout the day, there would always be blood. Spotting and then sometimes more. I knew that it was going to be my fault if I lose my baby. I was pretty far along and showing big time. I finally told my mom that I was bleeding and like I knew, she made me rest. I kept writing Spencer's journey but always sitting down. I didn't walk much and would just sit or lay down in the waiting room. I would go to my mom's house 15 minutes away to shower and then back to the hospital. 

It came time when they gave my parents the choice to remove the breathing tube. They warned us. We knew what we were in for because in the waiting room was another family that we were sharing the space with. They had a loved one in their teens that was in an ATV rollover. They said it wasn't that bad of a roll, but when they removed the breathing tube, he passed. I didn't want to watch and I was scared. We all were. I sat on the chair on the right hand side of Spencer with my pen and paper and started writing. 

"They are getting the equipment gathered now. They are waiting on the doctor now. Spencer, your whole family is here. We love you. Whatever you choose. We love you. The doctor is here now. Here goes." I described every little detail as they were doing it. It was the only way I could process things too. I'm better at communicating through writing than words. As I'm typing this now, I'm feeling sick. I feel lightheaded and tears are starting to fill my eyes. This blog is really pulling things and emotions that I thought were no longer there. They pulled that tube and we all watched. Your chest filled up with air and you took a breath. Thank you, Jesus!