_{I've never understood the need for alarm clocks.}

^{Some day, somewherre, someone decided they could make a lot of money selling devices that woke people up. Someone tried it, liked it, and the rest is history.}

I was always able to program my body to wake up within 10 minutes of the time I established. That's the key, by the way --establishing a specific time. When the library had me on their next day's schedule, I would say to myself, "Samantha, you will get your butt out of bed tomorrow at 7." More often than not, I was up with five minutes to spare.

And then I had Teddy and quit my job to raise him. That's when he took over all wake-up duties.

Each day, at just about 6 a.m., I would open my eyes to the sound of babbling coming from the room painted with yellow balloons just one door down from mine. Teddy wanted his bottle.

When he got strong enough to stand up, I would find my blonde ambition bouncing around in his crib, pointing to the balloon that looked as though it were about to float right out the door. I had thought I was quite the artist when I created his decor, carefully mapping out each spot where a splash of paint would rest, and I took great pleasure in his daily appreciation of it.

It's been 10 years now since I painted over those balloons for the retired couple who had purchased our home with no use for a nursery. The sale of the home was contingent upon a fresh paint job and other minor repairs. Something deep inside my gut still aches when I think of me there on the drop clothes, on my knees, swishing white over yellow. Covering up. Closing out.

Looking back, my mind protected my heart with a wonderful denial for three days after the accident. Three merciful days. I reacted more like a grieving pet owner who had lost her cat to a lengthy illness than a grieving mother who had received a horrific call over lunch about her baby. And I can still remember the precise moment I came out of it as though I had captured it on video and worn out the tape.

The first moments of Wednesday, March 1, 1991, wore the mask of normalcy.

"Mommmmmmaaaa. Mommmmmaaaaa."

I groped the round maple nightstand next to my sleigh bed for my eyeglasses and smiled knowlingly as the digital clock across the room came into focus.

Yep, it was 6:07. Bring on Teddy.

"Momma. Momma."

I usually lay there a moment, hoping he would return to dreamland for a little while. But that was not to be this time. As I sat up and dragged my feet out from my red polka dot covers toward my slippers on the floor, it hit me.

It hit me with all the force of the train that runs along the tracks behind our home on Tuesdays and Fridays. A  safety group once held a neighborhood meeting about that train. It seems that no matter how slow one appears to be going, it cannot stop to save anything in its path.

My God. My God Teddy. Teddy is gone.

Of course I had not heard him this morning. He was gone. Gone down with the plane. Down with Daddy.

I was rocking back and forth on my bed cradling my pillow, my blonde hair soaked from what must not have been a good night's rest, when Mom came in. Yes, I had forgotten about that too. When I had insisted on going home, Mom had insisted on coming along. As I look back, I'm unsure what would have played out in her absence.

There Mom was, another member of the losing team, with defeat spelled out in the three veins that popped out on her forehead. A tissue, shredded from overuse, hung from one hand, with another pocket-full bulging from her robe.

I talked to no one as much as to Mom.

"Teddy is hungry. It's time to feed Teddy. Please bring him to me."

Mom closed the gap between us with a single sob as she took me into her arms.

"Samantha. Oh Sam. I don't know what to do to help you. Baby, tell me what to do."

"I never should have left him on that plane. I knew he was too young, and I let him go. I let him go."

My husband John and Teddy had been traveling from our home in Ohio to Florida to visit his father. It was to be a short trip. Fun. John couldn't wait to show Teddy the ocean.

I had no idea what happened aboard U.S. Air flight 322 just three days before. I don't think anyone really did for months. But I had visions. Visions of people with their mouths wide open -- where sound could not find it's own voice. I hope John was holding Teddy.

Body parts were still being identified. I had received that call about my baby, however, the previous day -- the only child.

I don't recall getting out of bed, but I found myself wearing a circle into my crimson carpet.

"Can you see Momma, sweet baby? Momma misses you!"

And that's when Mom did a drunken dance into the bathroom holding her hand over her mouth. I could hear the toilet seat slam up against the tank just before she lost whatever it was that she had managed to swallow.

My husband, John, he was the center of my universe. I cannot say why I pocketed that grief for another time. Perhaps I knew I couldn't give two tragedies the attention they warranted in a single month.

"John, you never should have taken him," I yelled in that tacky room, looking up at the ceiling fan wearing the  most bitterly ironic t-shirt  someone had given me with the inscription, "Mom on Strike."

"Don't you forget about next Monday John. You can't forget his biiirthday. Remember, I ordered that little smiley cake for him. He was gonna mash it with his chubby little patties. Who's going to eat that cake now?"

At some point, I realized Mom was back. She had gone to get a toothbrush and was standing there with the handle hanging limply from the left side of her mouth, frozen still, with her head cocked to the side like our old dog Arthur when he was spooked.

I found myself back on the red bedspread, rocking, with sweat and tears dripping onto my sheets.

Mom bumbled downstairs for backup, and just a few short hours later, I was heaily sedated.

That was the shortest day of my life. And the longest. I was out of denial, and it was the beginning of a whole new period for me. I had lost my mind.