The Hunt: The Oakmont Saga, Book 2

I know authors often provide a dedication at the front of their books, usually calling out someone special to them, for general support or assistance while the wrote. This one will be a little different, and to me, more difficult. My son died on September 13, 2016, shortly after I had begun writing this story. If you are not able to handle this story, I understand and advise you not to read it. Otherwise, thank you all so much for your support and kindness. May God bless you all.

This story is lovingly dedicated to my son, Joshua Lee Brooks. He was born July 29, 2005 and left us to be with God on September 13, 2016. Although I know he is in heaven, the pain of his absence is incredible. At times, it is impossible to think, the depression being overpowering, but life has to continue.

As Josh’s sixth grade year began, he had become very excited about being in band. Although he waffled a bit, all of us knew he wanted to be a percussionist. He always walked around the house tapping on every surface, and had been for several years. Percussion was who he was.

That school year began with a large number of potential percussionists, however. The band director held an audition to see who would be percussion, since he couldn’t have the 15 or so kids that wanted to do it. Joshua made the cut and was incredibly excited. He was so proud of the achievement, and I was proud of him and for him.

The day he told me, or maybe the day after, I took him to Mike’s Music in Eagle River to get his beginning percussion kit and music book. When we returned home with the bell set, we wasted no time assembling it. Yes, some assembly was required.

He played with it for quite a while, even allowing his brothers to get a few taps in on the bells. Amazingly, I even had some time with it. That was maybe a week before it all happened.

On that fateful Tuesday, September 13th, 2016, he came to me as soon as I woke up. He handed me a white cable, obviously a Wii cable, and asked me to help him hook it up. I went to his bedroom, where he had placed a TV and Blue Ray player on the shelf directly in front of his bed. Rather convenient for him, and not as much for his two brothers.

I hooked the cable up and then wondered why I had done so. “Josh, what are you wanting to do,” I asked him, not seeing a Wii anywhere. “I want to hook up the DVD player,” he replied. A little confused at this, considering I had just hooked up a Wii cable, and he knew the difference, I shook my head and examined the Blue Ray player and the TV. Everything was already assembled and ready to go. Those should have been signs to me, as Josh knew how to hook these things up, at least enough to know if it was or not.

That morning, after I left, he complained of a slight headache, but there was no fever. As a dutiful parent, my wife sent him to school. A little after 9:30, he called my wife’s cell phone from the school nurse’s office crying that he had a bad headache. My wife wasn’t able to answer the phone, so he left his tear filled message on her voicemail.

At 9:47 I received a call from the school nurse, telling me of his headache and asking if it’d be alright to give him some pain reliever. I readily agreed, and asked if I needed to come get him, but she suggested waiting to see if the pain reliever would work. Seven minutes later, she called back, informing me that she wasn’t comfortable giving him a pill, that he was too lethargic to swallow it.

I told her I was on my way, but it would probably be about 30 minutes. I immediately left work, heading to Mirror Lake Middle School from Anchorage. As I pulled out of the parking lot, my wife called and said she had gotten the message and was almost at the school. Although she suggested I return to work, I decided to just take the day off and go to our old house to work. We had just moved the Sunday before, and had a lot to get done.

Just as I crossed over Eagle River, my wife called me again. “His left side is unresponsive and his face is slack on that side,” she said, or something very close to that. She then informed me that EMS was on the way and they were heading to the hospital.

My heart sank at this news. I knew what those signs typically meant, but 11 year old children didn’t have strokes. That was simply not possible, but the signs couldn’t be argued. In actuality, it was his brain under pressure inside his skull, and not an actual stroke, although the symptoms were similar.

There is a little more to the hospital trip, but it isn’t relevant to this story, and I can’t bring myself to think about them. Anyway, by the time I arrived in the ER of Providence Hospital, Joshua was just being brought in. He was unconscious and hooked up to several different things, none of which I noticed or could describe if I had, other than a breathing tube.

At this point, my memory is a little fuzzy, but hopefully I’ll get the heart of it right.

There were a lot of medical people in the tiny triage room with Josh. One man, a light skinned man of some amount of African heritage with greying hair, told them to get him to a CTScan immediately and into the OR. My wife and I were then escorted to a waiting area inside the radiology area.

I needed food, as my blood sugar was dropping, so Dad and I headed to the hospital cafeteria. As soon as we sat down, we were contacted by Mom or Joyce, not really sure which, to come up to the third floor.

When we got there, the same older man in the stereotypical operating room garb was sitting beside Joyce. He informed us that what he saw in the CT was a bleeding tumor, and that he thought there was a very good chance of a full recovery, after a lot of therapy and recuperation. He did tell us that it was brain surgery, which had no small amount of risk, though. He also informed us that the surgery should take about an hour and a half to two hours.

We were then led to a little waiting room just outside the pediatric ICU. There we waited, with the PICU doctor coming and introducing herself, along with a number of other people. The staff popped in from time to time, giving us encouragement and telling us what to expect when he got out of surgery.

During this time, Billy came into the room. He is one of my dearest friends, and I hadn’t seen him in over two months. The reasons for that are a different tale and one that is not for the general public, but it meant the world for him to be there for me and Joyce.

Steve also joined us, as soon as he was able to get away from work. Steve was the Troop Master for our Trail Life USA troop. He hadn’t been at the hospital long when a small group of medical people entered, one of them being the PICU doctor. At this point, Joshua had been in surgery for over three hours.

The PICU doctor broke the news to us that my Joshie had not made it through surgery. That was the darkest moment of my entire life. My existence as I knew it shattered into nothing. Steve held my hand tightly, as I cried every tear I had. My other hand was holding for dear life to my wife. Looking back, I would like to say I was supporting her, but the reality is probably something different. How could I support her, when I was drowning myself?

We were given a few minutes to get past the initial shock before the neurosurgeon came in. He informed us that it was not a tumor, but a giant aneurysm. They were unable to stop the bleeding, although they had replaced his blood three times over, during the course of the surgery. They had also shut down every other operating room in the hospital, bringing those staffs in to try and save my son.

My Joshie was officially pronounced dead at 3:15 P.M. on September 13, 2016. That is the official time that my life and that of my family forever changed, but in reality, it had already changed. We just didn’t know it until then. There is no returning to where we were before that morning, and I pray daily that God will show me...us...the way. I cannot see it right now, through the fog of pain that I live in.

Since his death, there have been numerous little things, and some not so little, that have happened, letting me know that God is still watching over us and that He cares for us. I struggle right now due to the loss, but I still hold firmly to my faith. It is the only hope I have in this life, for He is the only source of real hope.