A Message From Your Mother
Brenny,
I don’t even know where to start. I want to ask you why. Why didn’t you listen when I begged and pleaded with you so many times to be careful, to be safe, to make smart decisions? I told you that if something ever happened to you, it would kill me — and right now, this is killing me. Watching you struggle in pain and fight for the life I have tried so fiercely to protect breaks me in ways I can’t explain.
“You are my only child. My legacy — our family’s legacy — ends with you. Without you, I have nothing.”
I still can’t believe the night your dad called me. I remember hearing my phone ring and rolling over to look at it, half-asleep, expecting it to be for your grandpa or maybe Terry, something serious but manageable. Calls in the middle of the night don’t usually bring good news. When I saw it was your father, my heart sank. For a split second, I didn’t want to answer. I wanted to go back to sleep and pretend it wasn’t happening. But of course I answered.
Your dad said, “Sarah… don’t panic. Brennen has been in a car accident and is being flown to Iowa City. He’s breathing.” That’s all I had. I immediately jumped out of bed. Steve was asking what happened, and I yelled that you’d been in an accident and we needed to get to Clinton NOW. I threw clothes on, grabbed only my purse and phone, and flew out the door. I almost left Steve behind.
As we were pulling out of our neighborhood, your dad called again to say you were being loaded onto the helicopter and headed to Iowa City. I took a left, blew through a red light, and jumped on the interstate because I couldn’t just sit there waiting in the dark. I beat you to the hospital and sat in the ED waiting room for 40 minutes that felt like endless hours.
Finally, I heard the helicopter. I turned to Steve and said, “He’s here.” I had been crying before, but the sound of those rotors sent me back to memories from my EMS career — other accidents, other families — and I broke. I went up to the counter, barely able to speak, and said, “My son is on that helicopter. Please… I really, really need to know what’s going on with him.”
They took us to a private waiting room. Time dragged. Eventually, they brought us to just outside the OR, where you were taken after they stabilized you. After what felt like forever — six solid hours — the trauma surgeon came out. His face said it all before he even spoke. He told us it was bad. They had repaired a cut artery to stop the bleeding into your lungs, but it didn’t look good. That’s all he would say. And I broke even harder.
Later that day, pictures of your car started coming in. I saw the wreckage and knew exactly what you had been through. You were tossed around like a rag doll. You probably shouldn’t even be alive. Thank God you were wearing your seatbelt — it saved your life without question. I’ve seen crashes like yours, and most people don’t survive. Your survival is because of so many reasons — luck, strength, and the hands of some incredible people.
You wouldn’t be surprised to know your dad and I knew the EMS crew that responded — and they knew you. My heart broke for them, because I know what it’s like when the patient is someone you care about. But they were incredible. They had a huge part in why you’re still here, and I’ll be forever grateful.
On Monday morning, Sept. 29th, around 8 or 9 a.m., you were moved to the Cardiac ICU. Walking into that unit took everything I had — it’s the same place your grandma Patsy spent so many days. Seeing you for the first time there was… horrendous. Something no parent should ever have to see. Machines everywhere, keeping you alive. I felt helpless. Sick. Terrified. Time felt strange — the clock was moving but everything stood still. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t think straight. Brennen, you are my whole world.
On day three, I sat in your room watching you struggle when a nurse came in with an ultrasound machine to check your heart. The sound took me back to the very first time I heard your heartbeat when you were still inside me. And then I broke again. I thought to myself: I heard his heart when his life first began… is this the last time I’ll hear it? It was almost too much to bear, even though your heart was fine.
That moment — that sound — crushed me. You are my baby. I would do anything to trade places with you. Parents aren’t supposed to bury their kids. I started praying, pleading with God to keep you here with me. I’m not a religious person — I never have been — but something shifted in me. The love, support, and kindness we’ve felt from strangers, friends, family, everyone who knows you… it’s overwhelming. Brennen, you are so loved. Not just by us, but by everyone you’ve met in your 19 short years.
“I am so proud of you. You mean the world to me. I’m so grateful you’re still here. Please, please stay.”
I love you so much.
— Mom