2 years ago:
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And I still vividly about this particular aspect of it:
“You need to call Lindsey, right now.”
“I can’t….”
When Lindsey arrived, she said I was crying out to you, “...come back, Mom!”
Yet the hospital room was completely empty.
This memory has stayed vivid with me since my accident on this day, two years ago.
I have no other memory of the accident, the hospital stay, nor much of the initial weeks thereafter.
Just.
This.
One.
Extremely.
Vivid.
Memory.
I opened my eyes.
There you were, sitting on my bed, staring directly at me.
I will never forget your eyes.
They pierced me.
“You need to call Lindsey right now,” you exclaimed.
“I can’t. I’m restrained to the bed, and the phone is across the room.”
And then you were gone.
It’s as though I sensed you were there and did everything I could to muster my eyes open to see you again.
Lindsey said she received a call at 2 a.m. from the hospital.
It was me.
She recalls that I sounded extremely confused and frantic, begging her to get there—something was happening.
A family member rushed to the house to watch the kids while Lindsey sped to the hospital.
When she arrived at my room, she said I was crying out, “Mom, where are you? Come back.”
Were you always there?
A few who watched part of my recorded crash on video explained to Lindsey, in a confused but certain tone, “...it’s as though Jake was lifted up and held.”
Witnesses rushed to me in the street and draped me in a blanket, calling 911.
They said I stood up, my face completely discharging blood, unrecognizable, and I stumbled in a specific direction, and then collapsed face-first into a pile of rocks, my final destination.
My heart’s rhythm changed.
thump... …
thump … . . .
thump.. . . . .
thump . . . . .
Was I walking to you?
Were you reaching for me?
I don’t know why I’m still here.
I never will.
When it is my time, I won’t have to stumble.
I won’t have to reach.
I won’t have to wonder.
You’ll be there.
And this time, I’ll get to stay mom.
Memento Mori — "Remember you will die."
I still wear it around my neck, not as a warning, but as a reminder. Time is fleeting. Nothing is promised.
It pushes me to live with intention, to love without hesitation, to speak truth and the words that matter. Make Smiles and fuck the frauds, and liars. We win.
One day, I’ll be gone.
But today, I’m still here.
And that means something.
❤️
Jake