Every year on May 24, I wonder.

May 24, 1993 is the day my son Danny was born. A little less than three years later I was burying him.

Now, every year, I wonder what he would have been like.

Would he have been an athlete, or a computer nerd like his dad and big brother?

Would he have gotten good grades, been a heart breaker with the girls or would he have been a shy little boy that kept to the indoors and away from the opposite sex?

He would have been 21 years old this year, so would his family have treated him to a trip to Las Vegas to bar hop for the first time?

Would he be a college student or would he have joined the military?

Would he have short hair or long? Would he still have had blonde hair?

All these questions and more run through my head, not just on his birthday, but also on Christmas and other holidays. In fact, nearly every day of the year a question comes to mind and I wonder.

This year was a little different. I not only questioned where my son would be if he were alive, but I wondered where the people who helped the day he died were.

Now, you must be wondering why on earth I would think that, but it's only natural as I prepared to cover the Law and Order Night at the Elks Lodge.

All the responders that day we found my son in a pool, where are they?

Sadly, I don't remember what they looked like, I never got to thank them for trying so hard to save my son, even when it was obvious there was no hope.

All because mom was standing by, hysterical and demanding they do more and more.

Where are the two LDS missionaries who began CPR?

Where are the police who took over? The firefighters who came shortly after? And the EMTs?

I struggled to remember faces, but all I can seem to pull into my mind are snatches of feet, hands, the backs of heads as they tried to breathe life into my son and an overwhelming, vivid memory of exactly what I was thinking.

I remember a first responder telling me to calm down and let the others work. I do know he looked me right in the eye, but I cannot remember his face.

While I sat listening to Elks member Larry Todd speak, I couldn't help but feel a deep regret that I never thanked anyone who helped that day.

I suppose I am not the only one who goes through this. When a trauma happens all you can think about is the person(s) you are worried about and everything else is a blur.

Those who respond do so without complaint, without lamenting the fact they don't get the thanks they so rightly deserve. They see things that would drive other people completely insane within a short time, and continue to do it.

Is it because they love the happy endings, or because they get a thrill of the danger?

Maybe they just want to help the best they can and that's how they choose to do it.

I don't know.

It takes a special kind of person to be on a horrific scene and keep his or her head.

This column has been a long time coming. I have written it several times, only to chicken out and erase it all. I'm not sure why, but it's the hardest thing ever to write about. But, I have been wanting to thank everyone for a long time, and this is the only way I can think of to do it.

Granted, the responders were all in St. George at the time, but I am hoping it will suffice.

Thank you for your help, every day, day in and day out, for all that you do to keep people safe, to save the ones you can and to be brave enough to see the ones you can't off into the next life.

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