I have struggled about starting a blog for awhile now.  I think I haven’t started it because I didn’t want to do it until it felt right.  Part of me wanted to pray about it and let God tell me when to begin.  The last thing I wanted was to be a nonsense rambler about her grief.  However, I believe I can help people turn tragedy into triumph and that is exactly what I hope to do.

In November of 2000, I told my mom I was expecting baby #3.  I was 24 years old and a kindergarten teacher at a Catholic school.  I already had two kids, ages 4 and 2.  I felt blessed and scared to death at the same time.  I was already so busy as a working mom of two, and couldn’t believe I was about to add another baby to the mix!  Fast forward 7 months and the day came that I was to be induced.  True to his personality, this jubilant baby boy decided he would come into this world his own way and my contractions began just hours before I was set to be admitted into the hospital.  At 9:04am on June 21, 2001 I gave birth to my son, Dalton “DD” Thomas Palmer.  I held his 9lbs, 13 ounces in my arms for the first time and felt a love so strong my heart might burst with happiness.  I had no idea that God would only lend me this child for 13 years before he would be called home.

Saturday, November 15, 2014, was a completely normal day.  My husband and I had been to the grocery store and I was at home cooking chili and cupcakes for my family.  My oldest, Colton, was at Wal-Mart with his friend and my middle child, Keely, was hanging out at the house.  Dalton had a friend, Tyler, over for the weekend.  Everyday, I pile up my 3 dogs in a Polaris Ranger and drive them to the north part of our land and let them run free on a section of our 105 acres.  That day was no exception.  At around 1:30pm, I loaded them up and headed out.  As I was driving north, I passed Dalton in another Ranger.  We each drove slowly by each other, waved, and in typical Dalton fashion, he gave me a head nod.  I laughed at him and snapped the last picture that would ever be taken of him.

It was cold that day.  DD was wearing multiple layers of clothing, bright orange gloves, and a skull-looking ski mask.  Anyway, we passed each other and went along our way.  Taking my dogs to run everyday is my quiet time.  I use that time to pray, read, or otherwise just be still as they run about.  On that particular day, I knew something bothered me and I pulled up the picture of DD.  I noticed that his seatbelt wasn’t on.  So, I called him and he picked up (to my surprise).  I asked him if he and Tyler were being careful where they were playing.  We live on a horse ranch where running errands on a Polaris Ranger is the norm.  My husband owned several and I knew Dalton and Tyler were each in their own Rangers driving around.  Dalton has been riding in and driving one for years (though he was only 13 at the time – something I will regret letting him do for the rest of my life), so this wasn’t entirely out of the ordinary.  He assured me that he and Tyler were both driving slow and that he would put on his seatbelt asap.  That satisfied me.  He told me he loved me before we got off the phone.  I came home around 2:30.  At 3:00, as I was putting the cupcakes into the oven, Dalton whizzed by me in the kitchen to tell me he came back into the house to get some gloves for Tyler.  It was your typical brief encounter with a teenager that was like so many you have had before.  Except, this would be our last and it will be a time stamp of my memory forever, as I would never see him alive again.

Somewhere around 3:30, my brother called me.  He is a police officer/fireman in our small town and was off duty at the time.  His tone was urgent.  He said a call had come in where someone had reported an ATV accident on our land involving an approx. 17 year old.  My first thought was “how horrible for someone.”  I took a quick inventory of my children.  Colton was at Wal-Mart, Keely was in the kitchen with me, and Dalton is far from being 17.  I decided I needed to check things out, gave instructions to Keely on when to take the cupcakes out of the oven, and hopped on my Ranger to go see who was injured.  I still felt pretty calm as I drove out to where the accident had been reported.  From hearing my brothers directions, I knew to drive out to the cross country course where the horse owners often take their horses riding.  I pulled up and saw a sheriffs officer immediately.  Somewhere off in the distance, a few people stood.  I remember seeing Tyler sobbing.  For some reason, the last place I looked, I saw him.  A paramedic was already attending to Dalton as he lay motionless.  I wanted to get closer, but the sheriff’s officer wouldn’t allow it.  I didn’t understand.  Shock took over.  Wasn’t it a 17 year old kid who was hurt?  How did that get misinterpreted?  How bad was it?  Why couldn’t I get closer?  Then I looked over the officer’s shoulder at my son.  I know I screamed and asked why he was so still.  The officer insisted they were “working on him.” When I asked if he was breathing, the officer replied, “it isn’t good.”

Somewhere during this time, I know Keely and my husband showed up.  Dalton had been laying there for at least 15 minutes with me getting no answers from anyone.  I started praying.  That’s when it happened.  My senses had kicked into overdrive and shock started taking over.  I saw Troy (my husband) run to where Dalton was laying, scream, and punch the side of the ambulance.  Several fireman and sheriff officers attempted to comfort me and instruct me on following the ambulance to the nearest hospital.  The sounds of everyone’s voices sounded like they were talking in a tunnel.  We loaded up in Troy’s jeep and followed the ambulance as instructed.  The hospital was located about 15-20 min away.  That now totaled at least 30 minutes of not having a clue how he was.  That car ride was the longest of my life.  We screamed, we prayed, we sped, and we screamed some more.

We arrived at the hospital and were quickly ushered into a small waiting room.  I had long enough to make a phone call to my best friend to tell her what was happening.  I remember seeing my brother.  I don’t know who else was waiting with us.  Maybe my parents, maybe Troy’s parents, I don’t know.  What I do know is that it took about 10 minutes after our arrival for the worst news of my life to come.  In a very matter of fact manner, a short doctor entered the room, shook his head, and said he “tried everything he could.”  I remember not having immediate tears.  I remember not recognizing anyone’s faces in the room. I remember the denial of the news.  Not my kid.  Not my life.  Not me.  Not Dalton.  I found my husband.  I held him.  We screamed together.  After saying “no” about 100 times, I remember my first words.  They were immediate and raw.  They held no specific meaning to me at the time, but after reflecting on that day 1,000 times since, I see now the importance of my first thoughts.  I kept screaming that “He can’t have him… He can’t have him.”  My immediate reaction was that Dalton was mine.  My DD.  God couldn’t have him.  Why does that seem so important now?  Because, somehow, in my deepest, darkest time of my life, I was calling on the name of God.  I never felt mad at God, and I still don’t.  I was mad at the idea of giving my son to Him when I needed him more.  The truth was I learned at that moment that I had no control over things.  I was powerless.

That normal Saturday afternoon had turned into anything but normal.