You know, it’s hard to say. I’d say my watershed moment (see what I did there?) was April 3, 1995. It was 13 days before the bomb was detonated in my city at the Alfred P Murrah Feseral Building. At the time, I had a new infant son, Brendan, and a wife with a child of her own, Eric (4), from a previous marriage. I was leading to be a dad. I had a wonderful example to learn from in my own father, and I think I was getting a good grip on the job.
I was on night school at the Oklahoma County Sheriffs Dept at the time, and working 2 private security jobs from 11p-7a, and the other from 7a-3p tonsupport my little family. We weren’t doing very well, but we were eating, you know? My wife at the time was simply lazy, and refused to work.
I had a rare day off on April 3, 1995, And was planning on sleeping in, and spending the day with the boys.
At 6am, I woke to my wife screaming my name from the living room, not in anger this fine, but in total panic and horror. As I woke up, I finally got some words in her screams, and what I picked up was my name, and the phrase, “He’s not breathing!!” I got up and ran to the living room to find my wife holding my 3 month old son, Brendan, screaming and running in a panicked circle. I finally got her to give him to me, and when she did I told her to call 911. When she handed me Brendan, his little body was cold. I laid him on the floor, being a first responder, I knew what I was doing. I put my finger in his mouth to make sure his airway was clear, and his mouth was dry and cold. His tongue was stiff. I made her give me the phone and I told the 911 operator to tell the rescue units on the way to slow down. There was no hurry at that point, and no need to speed and endanger anyone else. I hung up the phone, and went to my bedroom to put on pants, so I wouldn’t be in my underwear when the rescue guys showed up. Sudden Infant Death Syndrome used to be a lot more common than it is now, the way I understand it. Not completely sure. I never had the guts to try to have another child. With her, or my current wife.
When the coroner showed up and asked if we wanted an autopsy, my wife immediately answered yes, and I let that stand, but didn’t really agree with it. When the coroner told us to pick an outfit with a hat for the funeral, my wife wanted to know why. I didn’t have the heart to tell her it would cover the ugly scar from the autopsy she’d requested.
13 days later, when the bomb went off at the feseral building, they mobilized my class for search and rescue at the site. As I was getting my bag together, my phone rang again, it was Capt Fleetwood from the sheriffs office, telling me that I’d received the call only because my name was in the class list, and that if he caught me anywhere near the bombing site, I’d be a civilian for the rest of my life. My eventual goal was to work in the bomb squad at the department, and Capt Fleetwood was in charge of it, and he was the key to my career. He said, “Troy, there was a daycare in the building. After what you’ve recently been through, you simply can’t be in here, man.” There were a lot of jobs to do down there, though, and I simply couldn’t sit at home while my brothers and sisters from the department helped our community, so I simply had to make sure that Capt Fleetwood didn’t see me. And my other brothers and sisters respected me enough that kept my presence on the downlow. Of course my hat, and the breathing filter masks helped a lot as well.
What I’ve been through has made me who I am, and I have a pretty great life today. Years later, I met my soul mate and live of my life and married her at the age of 35. By the way, my marriage didn’t last a year after the death of my son. I guess that’s pretty common. If could change what happened, I don’t think I’d be able to resist at least trying. My son would be 23, now. I’ll never know what he’d be doing, or the man he would be. But, I’d i were to change what happened then, would I have the wonderful wife I have now? I went on to a career in law enforcement, and retired early due to an on duty injury.
But, I can’t bitch. There’s a lot of people out there have had horrific things happen, and in the grand scheme of things, was what happened all that bad. Every day, while families are wiped in violent ways, Home intruders, etc, right?
Sorry to bring the discussion down, and for writing a novel on here, but the question really got me thinking, and before I knew it, I was writing.
I really don’t know if I’d change anything. How could I not try? He was my son, man! But at the same time, it’s made the person I am. And I LIKE the person I am. Would I be different? I’m sure I would be.