The night Rory died.
The ambulance and paramedics arrived.
They relieved me from the chest compressions.
One of the paramedics pulled me aside and asked for details of the situation.
I said, “I don’t know. She was throwing up. That’s it. I don’t know.”
He asked about fever or any other symptoms.
“No. She was throwing up. Then she went limp in my arms.”
He left me and joined the rest of the paramedics who were busy trying to save my daughter.
Then more uniformed officers arrived. Police included.
A policeman pulled me aside and asked similar questions.
I said again.
I don’t know. I don’t understand. She was throwing up. That’s it. Throwing up. I don’t know. I don’t understand what happened.
He followed up. “Why was she in the garage?”
“I tried to get her to the emergency room. Then I realized it was too late so I laid her down and called 911.”
Then after time of death was called, we went to my parent’s house. While we were there I had multiple people tell me that our ecclesiastical leader, who was also a lawyer, was watching over our house while people were there.
I just kept saying okay.
After a long night of conjecture and questions, a police officer stopped by the next day.
He knew why Rory died.
He said something like this. As police officers we’re trained to look for the worse case scenarios all the time. We have to look for things that are out of place. And investigate.
Then he followed it up with, he didn’t have to go there with our situation.
He was so sorry for our loss. She died of appendicitis.
It took me until that moment to realize it.
They had been investigating me for Rory’s death.
I understand it.
But it was and is a sobering thought.
I would’ve given almost anything for her to have survived that night.