We were already working in this because Katie had decided that she wanted to try high school in Oklahoma living with her dad. Her words: Mom, if I don't live with Dad now, I'll never live with him. One month from waving at her as she rode away with him, leaving Wisconsin, boxes in the back of his Suburban, I got the call from Dad. "You've gotta sit down, Shannon. There was an accident. She's gone," he said. "I'm so so sorry. I tried so hard to fix her."
She was driving one of those overgrown golf carts (like the ones at the zoo). She was by herself on their 20 acres on her way back from quiet time, reading, watching the deer. It has been ruled by the police as a mechanical failure, not operator error. The steering shaft (rod? seriously, my brain is mushy) broke--probably metal fatigue, which should have never happened on a machine that new. She tried to turn. It didn't. She hit a fence. It flipped on top of her. There was no roll bar. The rest is history. It was instant.
The first was a fog of grief and disbelief--I'm still there a lot of the time. I'm processing a little at a time, marking milestones. A day. Two. The trip to Oklahoma for the first of two funerals. The trip back to Wisconsin. The second funeral. 10 days. My baby's attempt at returning to school. Two weeks.
Counseling appointments. Casserole delivery. Cards. But no Katie.
No comments:
Post a Comment