6. S O S !

If I knew Morse’s code, I would still remain unnoticed in the middle of а busy foreign city bustling with life around my shipwreck. If not for the friends and family around the world that were among the first ones to sense our trouble and come to our rescue, I don't know what whould happen to us.

I said “sense” because as able as I am, I was completely petrified with shock and had no idea what to do about our abysmal state. All I could muster was to send signals into space to God Almighty hoping for a miracle. I hesitated to call for help. After all, what could friends in Germany, America, or Russia do for me, stuck in France with four little kids, without a car and with my husband in the ICU?! A vague hope was still feeding my imagination, that Scott would wake up soon enough to tell me what to do.

It would have been so much easier if this had happened close to home. Not an option? Ok, then, it would be more convinient to have an endless supply of money in my account, so I could continue renting the apartment on the seaside and have my sweet family’s support every night I’d come home from the hospital. Well, at least, how about coming across a parking ticket or something that would give me a clue to where my car is parked?

If things were easier, our story would be missing this very chapter. Only when things get uber-complicated can we humbly think that God considers us to be his strong and capable students. I am not talking about myself here; I am talking about all the helpful people that got involved. I was very much mistaken, we were not alone in this, and we were indeed rescued.

Kyle Quist, Scott’s friend in Utah, was tracking Scott’s race online and after mile 19 of his marathon, the signal got cut off. Wondering what that meant, he texted me first thing on Monday. First, he thought I was joking. I suppose, he let Scott’s family know about the accident, and that’s how I got a call from Scott's brother Steven saying that he and his Mom, Kathy, would be flying in Nice Wednesday night. Again, I suppose, that Kyle got hold of Dusty Miner, another training buddy of both Scott and Kyle. Dusty called right away and offered - bless his heart! - to come to France to pick up my family and drive them home. 1000 km from Grafenwoer, where he was stationed, to Nice, and then 800 km from Nice to Garmisch!

My sister Kseniya was making calls to the bishopric of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints in Nice to find local members who could provide me with any assistance: lodging, transportation, translation, emotional support... I dialed LTC Butler's number to let him know that Scott was not coming back from his leave yet. He was very understanding and the next person on the line was Royanna, his wife. She got on our case and promised me that the family will have all the help they need back in Germany. Mr. Butler notified the American Consulate in Nice. They, in turn, let the French police know to start the search for our vehicle. Mira spent her free time driving around town looking for a car.

The scale of the event was grand, but the outburst of love and help exceeded all my expectations. As if by domino effect, people learned about us, asked what can be done, offered their time, experience, knowledge, prayers, and even money. My Slovac girlfriend and a nurse, Sylvia Metzger, bacame my personal psychologist. I felt many warm embraces from my sister and many friends and family in America, my brother and friends in Russia and Germany through their frequent comforting calls. But the biggest hero in my eyes was my Mother.

The main idea to bring my Mom from Russia was to have her babysit our children for a week in Germany, while Scott and I would take a Mideterranian cruise. Her coming with us to Nice was a way to thank her in advance. This past spring she had suffered serious kidney problems and undergone a surgery which left a hole in her side connecting her right kidney with a bag through a catheter. She had to carry it around for three months until the most of the kidney stone remains have passed through the tube and into the bag. She was feeling ill and uncomfortable during those months, so I really wanted to take her to Nice with us, so she could be warm in the sun and get all better. I remember her worry about that one week that she would have to watch our 4 kids, two of which were under 2 year old. But she wanted to do this, because she knew Scott and I barely had time for each other since the babies were born.

When her favorite son in law got in an accident, she stuck with me and never let me get completely succombed by my grief. She made sure the kids and I were taken care of; she cooked and cleaned. She cried with me and made me smile through tears. She never backed out when presented with the plan of going back to Germany alone with all the kids. This tells something about her character. No matter how tired, or sick, or poor, or uncomfortable she goes and does what is required of her to make things better. So it was true now; speaking neither English nor German, with only 500 euro in her pocket and four children in tow, she was about to travel to the foreign country with an American soldier, who spoke no Russian. It was a whole other trial on her part, the full account of which she shares with me a little at a time. They are painful memories. Instead of a 2-week planned European vacation she got an unexpected 8-week long hard labor in exile, roughly speaking. She never complained; of course, she got upset, even cried sometimes, but she patiently pulled it thorough. The Russian way. She saved my brood from extinction and I am forever in her debt. I hope I can be a super-Grandma like she is, when I grow up.

***

Tuesday night I met with Bishop Lafitte and his wife Karen. They came straight to L’Archet -2 when I was there for the first time with Mira. They brought 2 missionaries with them. I was with Scott when they entered the ICU room. Remember, only one visitor at a time. An English speaking nurse with a Russian name Nadege (French version of Nadia) has arranged it so that Scott could receive a priesthood blessing. After that Frederic and Karen took me to my apartment. When I got out of the car at Lascaris 19, Karen gave me a big hug and said, that tomorrow, when I send my Mom and the kids to Germany and turn in the apartment keys, she will pick me up and I'll be staying with them. My heavy burden has just become lighter. The Lafittes felt like family to me. It felt so good. Plus, they spoke both French and English. I am so thankful they were quick to offer their help and support after knowing me for only a couple of hours. I am so thankful that the Church is really what brought us together.

Wednesday night Scott's brother and Mom flew into Nice. Dusty came from Germany that same night. Dusty had no car seats in his van which meant we either had to find my car by tomorrow, or go purchase the car seats first thing in the morning. Exhausted from their travels, Dusty and Steve still went into the night to look for our vehicle. They returned at 1 am. No luck.

So, it is Thursday, June 30th, the day we must get out of the apartment, by noon. We packed our suitcases, cleaned a bit and waited for Steve and Dusty to come back from their yet another quest for my van. Around 8 am they entered the apartment triumphant - they've found it!!! It turns out they woke up before 6 am, and after saying a prayer they set off to look for the car one more time, before they would go to the store to buy car seats. But they did not have to buy the car seats any longer!!! It happened like this: they walked into the second random parking garage and clicked the button on the car key remote. And there it was, blinking at them, waiting to be picked up. It was like finding the pin in a haystack; in such a busy city, with Mira, police, and Church memebers searching too. Of all the people, it was found by two Americans who were totally unfamiliar with the city, and, most importantly, at the very critical time! Now the babies could go home in their car seats, and I had my van to load up my stuff and Scott's bike right when we
needed to get out of the apartment.

Perhaps, these are small things, but "by small means the Lord can bring about great things." (1 Ne. 16:29)  In fact, we considered finding the car - a great thing, a MIRACLE, if you want. This was a good sign, that God was mindful of us and our needs.

***

Dusty, Steve, Frederick, Karen, Mira, Mr. and Mrs. Butler, my dear Mother and everyone who have promptly picked up our SOS signal, please, know, I am forever grateful for all of you and your service! It seems to me that I was not the only one being tested during this summer. Perhaps, God wanted to make sure, that there are enough wonderful, selfless, willing, worthy people who still walk this earth. And really, life goes on because of the people like you. Thank you!

5. Hanging by a Thread

I have been asked recently what if Scott had not made it. Would I still write about this in my blog? Would I still keep my faith?

I don’t know. Thank goodness, I had not received that ultimate trial of faith. I know it would be hard. Nо matter how much has beеn written about it, we know nothing about death. We see it as an ugly monster, because we've never experienced it. Unknown stuff is torturous and fills us with unquenchable fear.

What I know, is that I've walked in the shadow of death for 8 weeks straight and God is my judge on how I handled it. But I feel that I've learned a bit about this part of our life. No, I was not even close to solving the puzzle of death, but I grew stronger and more courageus witnessing many close calls this summer. I think I've figured out what faith means. It took some time, my eyes were not open at once. Let me remind you, I am only covering day 2 of our trial. At that moment, despite my knowledge of the gospel, I realized, my faith was very weak.

Morning of June 28th I called Saint Roch hoping to get better news on Scott. Thе same doctor as yesterday was nervously shouting in the receiver about Scott’s condition. “He is worse. Last night his temperature went high again despite our attempts to bring it down. His organs have started to shut down. His kidneys failed! His liver failed! It’s very bad! We are transferring him to a different hospital right now. You can call them in about an hour, I'll give you their number...”

...

I cannot hold my pain. I am bursting in tears, drowning in grief. With much effort I repeat to my family what I've just heard on the phone. Mom, Nadia and I fall on the couch, holding each other, sobbing out loud like at the funeral. David could not handle this and dissappeared somewhere. Unsuspecting babies continued to run about their business. As for us, girls, we were mourning Scott, who was so close to being dead. I could not get enough air, and I remember, I kept on saying as if in trance: "Oh, God, it hurts... I'm so scared..."

...

Again, it was my 10 year-old daughter, who, after wiping her tears, was the first one to comfor us: “It’s still ok. We will be together forever. If he dies, he’ll just have to wait for us in Heaven.” First, I wanted to shout out that she was much too young and did not understand anything. But instead, I hugged her and silently admired my daughter's faith. In the most difficult moment my child has become my strongest example! I wanted to be like my Nadia. Where is my faith?! THIS was the time to trust in the gospel completely and wholeheartedly! Hold on to it for dear life! I must truly believe in what I've taught my children.

We stopped crying. We tried to be brave, though time and time again, we would glance at each other to see tears running down the cheeks. It’s hard, who are we kidding?! Losing a loved one is hard. Human nature is such that we strive for family ties and yearn for our family members that leave us. Feelings of affection, that God has granted us, demand the continuation of our relationships in the next life. That is why eternal families make perfect sense and are so essential in the scheme of eternal bliss. I am so thankful for Temple marriages. We will be together forever no matter what.  And not even death will do us apart.

But death or no death, we needed to go grocery shopping. Faces are washed, shoes are on, we are walking downstairs. Our Bob stroller spent the night on the first floor by the front door. It was too heavy for me to drag it upstairs the night before. It's standing by the wall, all folded up. I even took one wheel off of it, making it inconvenient to steal. As I unfold my wonder-stroller I discover that one more wheel is missing. Actually, here it is, just on the floor. But the fastener is missing, and I can’t put the wheel on without it, it simply slides right off. We search for it all over the hallway and stairwell, we even checked the garbage cans. This is so unfair! So mean! Who could do such a thing?! Talk about series of unfortunate events. Based on a true story too.

We did not have a choice but to carry our babies in our arms to the store. And then carry them back, along with groceries.  David, the oldest man in the family at the moment, did not complain once, but carried the biggest bag.

I called the hospital where Scott was transferred to and talked to the doctor, who informed me that Scott was intubated and on full life support.

Mira picked me up as soon as she could and we went to L’Archet-2, a newer and bigger hospital in Nice. Mira has never been here before; we were a bit lost in many corridors, staircases and elevators. Soon we were standing before the door for the ICU of the Deprtment of Surgery and Organ Transplantation. I was shivering. Mira pushed the buzzer and explained to them what we wanted. The door opened automatically and we went inside. Before we could go any further, we had to stop at the small locker room and put on a hospital robe on top of our clothes and spray sanitizer on our hands. It could be because there is not a single window in the whole unit, or serious medical equipment, "breathing" and beeping all around, the feeling is truly dark and depressing. The main reason it felt like that, is that I came here to my beloved and very sick husband, whose life was hanging by a thread.

Gosh! Scottie, is that you?! All yellow and swollen, his face is deformed, hardly recognizable. The ventilator tube comes out of his mouth; many other tubes are attached to his neck and wrists. He is so cold! So, his liver, the oven of а human body, does not work. It is so horrible to be by the side of your loved one, who is barely alive, and still hope for his recovery. Never in my life have I experienced such a mighty battle between my mind, that was feeding me with fear, and my heart which, like a defeated, choking and bleeding warrior, kept on whispering with broken voice, that it is not the end, that there is no way I should be giving up.

Mira called me to meet with doctors. I was scared. I thought, they'd ask me that terrifying question: "do I give my permission to turn off the machines?" I am so glad, I am not alone in this, that Mira is next to me. Dr. Tran, who I spoke with on the phone, and the head of the department Dr. Gouboux were waiting for us in their office. Dr. Tran is really young, tiny brunette with huge eyes, full of either compassion or anxiety, I can't decide. In any case, she is very worried:

"Scott was transferred here, because we specialize on liver and kidneys. Last night, when his temperature went up very high, it caused a multiple organ failure. Since he's gotten here, his kidneys have started functioning a bit, but very poorly. The biggest problem is liver. Did he drink alcohol?" I shake my head negative. "Did he smoke?" The same answer. "Did he suffer from diabetes, high blood pressure?..." And more similar questions, followed by my "No" answer.

"How old is he?" - "38."

"There is hope that his liver will start building itself back. If it does not start regenerating in the next 48 hours, liver transplant is necessary to save his life." 

"And how long is the wait in case, it does not regenerate?.." I ask with trembling voice.

"We will put his name first on the emergency list which goes out nationwide, usually we have a liver within 48 hours."

Man, this is SO serious!

Dr. Gouboux picked up where Dr. Tran stopped: "The problem with liver not working is the complications it causes in brain, namely what we are observing in Scott. Water is accumulating in his brain, which swells up the brain and can cause pressure against the skull, which is fatal."

Thank you, doctor, for one more horrifying picture in my mind. I gulp. The most important thing now is not to pass out. Ok, continue, bring it on! Tell me more bad news. I am getting used to it.

“But if his liver will start working again, then it will drain all the excess water from around the brain, and that should put brain back to normal. We have very important 48 hours ahead of us,” he smiled. There was a twinkle in his eye that instantly wrapped me in hope, like a warm fuzzy blanket I needed so bad.

With that I am ready to wait for the next 48 hours and not get used to him being on his death bed. He must be somewhere in the realms of eternity, but only temporary. Maybe, he is there to see his Dad and his Grandma Helen Thompson, who had actually passed last week. Her funeral was held yesterday, on Monday, June 27th in Utah; naturally, we were not there. Maybe this was a way to say good-bye to her. Maybe, I made all this up. But wherever he was, I made a decision to fight for my husband's life. While doctors and nurses were keeping alive his broken body, I was pleading with the Lord to please let his spirit return to his body, fix his organs, help his liver regenerate and eventually bring him back to us. Amen. 

4. Dumbstruck

“Madame? Madame… “We rushed to the fence. I could not see people’s faces; they were standing away from the light. There were about four of them speaking in broken English:

“He is not here. He is in l'hôpital Saint Roch. Do you know where it is? Do you have car?” I shook my head no to both questions.

“What’s wrong with him? Is he ok?” I asked. 

“We don’t know. We don’t know anything. Only that he is in l'hôpital. Sorry. Good luck.” As if electricuted, we almost ran to find a taxi. I almost spaced it out that first, I needed to take the kids to the apartment.  Oh, no! Nadia’s sobbing. How I wanted to cry too, but I tried to convince her (and myself)that Daddy is probably just dehydrated and they are putting IV’s in him. It is a common thing among the endurance athletes. By now, he must be sitting in the hospital, waiting for us to pick him up. Don’t cry, my sweetheart. After a few silent steps I hear her calm and confident voice:

“He is ok. If not, the doctors will help him and he will be fine. I just said a prayer and got an answer that he’ll be ok. I know it.” I clanged to her words, they gave me such hope. And not once later will I remember this surety in my child's voice. I believed her.

We walked home fast. It must have been after midnight when we approached the building. My Mom was on the balcony waiting for us: “Where is Scott?”

“In the hospital.” My small voice carries the sad news through the dark empty streets.

My Mom was in shock from our story. After the kids were in bed, I started searching for Saint Roch Hospital phone number in the yellow pages. Got it! I dial, I wait, while worrisome music is playing in my ear. Then, a doctor picks up the phone and starts speaking to me in an agitated and urgent sort of way while my world begins to crumble like it never did before.

“Yes, Scott Thompson is not ok. We are working on him right now. His temperature is 41 degrees and he is in coma. His kidneys are bad, he is very critical.”

I asked him if I could come now.

“Yes, you... you must come now!”

Critical? Must come now? Is there a risk of him dying tonight? I hang up and started searching for taxi phone numbers. The first few numbers I called, they spoke exclusively French to me. English was not even an option. I could not understand why they were so angry with me:  that I was speaking English, or that it was 1am, or both? I finally got lucky getting hold of an English speaking girl, who sounded very sleepy. She was kind enough to agree to give me a ride BUT it had to be no earlier than 8 in the morning.  Ok. I am so tired and wrecked emotionally to plead with her. I walk the hall back and forth covering my ears with hands, trying to supress the doctor’s concerned voice echoing in my head, making me tremble inside and out. I go to my Mom’s, fall next to her on the bed and cry my fears to her. My poor Mom, like she had not had enough to deal with in her own life.

I follow her advice and try to fall asleep, but can’t. This is what a nightmare is. You are so tired and exhausted you can’t function, yet so tense that there is no way you can relax and get that knot in your chest to melt away and let you fall asleep. It was the most horrible night I have ever lived through. I was crying, praying, and then for a moment drifting off to sleep, when another wave of a new reality would flood me with despair and again I was in tears. My brain, trying to overcome my fears, would keep on sorting out all possible outcomes and options for dealing with them, which only sent me back to my fears. What to do, how to live, unfamiliar town and country, how long are we staying here, what about the kids? What about Scott? What if he dies?!  

The next morning I don’t even look in the mirror, I know make up would not help me, and who cares anyway? I leave my Mom and the kids in the apartment and go down to meet my taxi ride. She is here right on time. She is Mira from England; she runs her own taxi service called “A Friend in France.” As she listens to my story, she changes in her face and I can tell she feels bad for not coming last night. But she insists to not only drop me off by the hospital but take me inside and translate for me. Mira’s become my first friend in France.

After some waiting they let me in. Scott is in the Intensive Care Unit of Saint Roch Hospital. I see him lifeless, in coma, no reaction to my voice or touch. Even no reaction to many bags of ice covering his body. I grab his cold hand and tears burn my eyes.  Flashbacks of Scott’s Dad dying in the ICU 6 years ago are drilling through my head. “This is different,” I keep telling myself, ”he’ll wake up.” But how could this happen to my strong healthy husband? And what exactly happened to him?! Somebody, tell me! The nurse could not give me any update. The doctors were about to do their morning rounds, after which I could come back and discuss Scott’s condition. “Until then you must leave, s'il vous plait.” I wandered around in stupor trying to remember my way back to the hospital which is in the middle of Nice. It’s an old building, looking somewhat rundown. Mira said it’s because French people have a 100% medical coverage guaranteed by the government. They don’t pay anything when it comes to health care, so hospitals don't have extra money to look nice. “But the care is really good here,” she says, and adds “even better than in Britain." I sure hope so.

When I come back in an hour and a half, like they told me, I wait impatiently by the ICU door. The doctor greets me in good English. It is the same doctor I heard on the phone the night before. He is young and very serious. He leads me to the room, designated for talking to relatives. It is so depressingly yellow and cold there. So, please, tell me good news, doctor.

“The situation is very, very serious,” he starts. “What we think happened is when Scott was running a marathon, he collapsed from a severe heat stroke. When we picked him up he was comatose and had a very high fever. His kidneys are not working well. Because he was not able to breath on his own for some time, we are really concerned about his brain. The scan showed that he's got a brain swelling. All of these things are life-threatening.”

I summoned some courage and breathed out: “Do you mean people die from it?”

“Yes, depending on a person, 40% die from a heat stroke of that kind. He is young and healthy, so we have hope. He is stable right now, but in a very critical state.”

How do you live with that? I was closing my eyes slowly trying to fight back tears. The nurse came out and handed me the plastic bag with Scott's clothes, shoes and a tracking band. I left. I needed to find Scott's bike. I don't know how, but I found a booth, one of the few still standing, with Scott's bike in it. I exchanged it for the tracking band. People were asking me about how Scott was feeling, but I was numb with horror. There were also bags with his wetsuit, bike shoes, helmet, energy bars and … water! He didn’t eat or drink during the stupid race!!!

After the sleepless night and in the heat of the day all the stuff I carried seemed so heavy. I finally made it home where I shared with my family what I learned and what I saw. Everyone became quiet. We kneeled and prayed. Then we read from the Ensign. Eyes were searching for some prophetic promise of a happy end but tears were choking that hope with fear. “It is true” – we read, “We live to die and we die to live again. From an eternal perspective, the only death that is truly premature is the death of one who is not prepared to meet God.” That was not comforting. All I cared about was Scott’s recovery. Tell me, God, that he will live. Tell me that everything will be all right. And soon! Because I am not prepared to handle life on my own. I need my husband!!              

I really had no clue what to do but wait. And oh! what a torture it is to wait for the unknown in the unknown place for an unknown period of time. It’s not at all like “waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake or a pot to boil, or a Better Break or a string of pearls, or a pair of pants or a wig with curls, or Another Chance.” It was waiting pierced with pain, paralyzed with fear, enveloped in a cloud of uncertainty. I was dumbstruck; I could not think straight or act normal. I could not eat or sleep. I was holding on to the walls to keep me from falling as I tried to help my Mom to take care of kids. I felt like screaming and crying and was only saving that for later when kids are in bed and don’t have to witness my breakdown. I really thought that we were at ground zero, and things would start looking up from then on. I was so sure that if we kept exercising our faith, saying our prayers and keeping the commandments, God would fix everything and we'll get better news tomorrow. 

Only it is not exactly how God works.    

3. The Race

It looked as if a sea monster was plowing the Mediterranian. The first 15 minutes the swimmers stayed tight together but then they started to stretch out more and more. After an hour and a half I went down to the area where the swimmers were getting out of the water. I was trying to find a good spot for taking pictures. Then I waited. After 1 hour and 56 minutes since the beginning of the race, I spotted Scott. I could tell he had a rough time. He looked exhausted. I cheered for him as he paused for a moment to rinse under the shower. He looked at me with almost a smile and off he ran to his next battle. Ironman race is a battle. A battle of body and spirit. These guys don't compete against each other, they compete against physical pain and weakness. With each mile of the race they are becoming stronger. Not so much physically, but spiritually. It takes an ironwill to become an ironman. Another question - why do they need to go that far?

But let's follow Scott. I am running parallel to the wire fence with him on the other side, shooting pictures, yelling support and encouragement. In the rythm of the race he unzips and gets out of his wetsuit, pulls on his fancy bright green compression socks, then bike shoes and a helmet come on. Every move is a move forward. There is no time to waste, not even time for water and an energy bar. He picks up his bike and after one more smile he is already pedaling in the direction away from me. He is on the way to his new challenges and achievements. Here, in Germany, one of my friends told me: "It's a man's passion to conquer the world, do heroic deeds, prove their abilities." It seems like such an absurd philosophy of men. But nature arranged it so it would work. We love men for this craziness and not for lying on the couch.

Well, with the swim behind us, I started walking toward the apartment, relieved. We have a beautiful day ahead of us. Clear skies, blue coast, green mountains starting their ascend at see level - what a beautiful scenery! Scott will have an opportunity to see 180 km of Southern France! Of course, it's not an easy breezy bicycle tour, but I was a bit jealous.

The kids were already up, raiding the refrigirator. After breakfast we decided to observe the Sabbath and read an article from the Ensign conference issue. I tried to keep kids' attention to the spiritual lesson but kids tv chanel soon prevailed. I did not feel like going out with four kids. It was too hot and crowded outside. It's stuffy and boring in the apartment. But at least, everybody is safe inside and I don't have to constantly count heads. I was angxious for this day to be over. Vacation time is so much more energetic with our Dad.

...

Watermelon juice trickling down naked bellies, sticky hands are everywhere, soggy diapers running around, baby laughs get switched to screams and back. Nap time is over. Nadia and David are spread out on the floor trying to cool off, watching High School Musical for the 3rd time. Time to get out of here. Where is Scott now? I can't wait to meet him at the finish line.

The walk down the Promenade is beautiful. We pass the port with nice boats parked there. The evening sun splashes them with golden orange. The Mideterranian is magnificent torqouise blue. It conveys such serene yet mighty feeling. We steer our stroller around the bend where the whole Promenade is in view and, oh, my! The place is packed! The loudspeakers are booming, beaches are packed with tourists and Ironpeople's support groups.

Nice beaches are not stroller friendly. The stairs down from the bank are steep and the pebbles are challenging even for our 3-wheel drive super Bob stroller. We know that because we actually took those stairs, risking the lives of our babies when stroller got out of control and almost tumbled down. We also learned that pebbles are not only painful to walk on but also can be a deadly weapon in the hands of our twins. Just watch my innocent babies pick up warm smooth rocks only to smack them into my head. Ok, if it's mine. They almost hit a lady peacefully sunbathing nearby.
 
Mideterranian, as inviting as it looks, is quite deep right off the shore. It was another dangerous attraction for my kids. Nadia, a good swimmer, rides on the waves like a mermaid, which did not make me feel any less fearful. David was cautious enough to play right where the waves hit the shore, I just had to hope he would not get washed away. The twins were unstoppable little engines with no breaks. Seriously, these two need a polizei attached to them to make sure they don't hurt themselves and those around them. It's a good thing my Mom was with me. Time can't go any slower. I so need Scott to be done and help us out. Neither me nor my Mom had a chance to swim in the sea, not even once.

Babies are starting to fuss just as we sit down at the French restaurant. The first one we see. David insists on trying the sardines widely advertised in this area. Mom wants soup, and the only thing on the menu is the Poisson Soup (fish soup). It takes forever to get our food. Is it because the place looks fancy or is it because they had to go catch David's sardines?! Babies behavior is starting to draw unwanted attention. Mom buckles them in the stroller and takes them on a walk away from tablecloths and fancy goblets. 8 pm. I am thinking about Scott finishing any minute now, I am so ready to go to the finish line, where is our food?!

Sardines turned out to be a big dissapointment. Too many bones and they smell like "garbage" said Dave. Bread was great. Especially with suspiciously looking Poisson soup. That fish soup was not any old fish soup, it was da bomb! Authentic, French, yummiest one ever! Everyone turned their attention from sardines to my Mom's bowl of soup. We also ordered pizza to go for Scott to eat after the race.

After dinner Mom took Ethan and Levi back to the apartment while we sped through the streets of Old Town back to the Promenade where the finish line was set up. It was getting darker. I was afraid we might have missed him. We found a place where kids could jump out and run the last bit with Dad. He likes that. So here we were, waiting, straining to see our Dad's green socks. . .

It was 9 pm, 9:30 pm, 10:00 pm, at which time the race was officially over. But we stayed where we were, still waiting, because more people were still finishing, and maybe Scott was among them. The fireworks celebrating the end of Ironman Nice 2011 did not feel right. Cheerful sounds of the after the race party moved further and further away from us. It was dark and we were among the last few left, still hoping to see him.

Then, it was time to proceed to plan B. We agreed that in case we don't see each other at the finish line we'll go to our meeting place, which was the naked guy fountain on Malaussena. 11 pm, on we go, our feet are sore from walking, David is starting to whine and Dad's pizza is getting cold.

Scott's not there. I start to panic, but we walk back to the finish line, where we start asking the organizers to check if the yellow bike number 1499 is still there. It is! And the bag with his wetsuit and bike helmet and shoes is there too. It means he had finished the bike! He did not crash! He was either still running or being helped at the first aid station. I asked them to make phone calls to find out where exactly he was at the moment.

Waiting again, eyes fixed into the endless blackness of the sea, holding hands tighter, praying silently. . .