I have been hesitant to write about this, because there are some things that deserve privacy. The things that are only between a husband and wife. I have been debating whether this is one of those things. Would he mind me telling you what I am about to tell you about him? I am not 100% sure. I’m pretty sure, though, that he would tell me to do whatever seems to help, so I’ve decided to go ahead. Hopefully he would understand that me revealing this part of him doesn't make him any less of a great person, any less of a man - it just makes him HUMAN.
In a marriage as long and ultimately successful as ours, you figure out how compromise an awful lot, and agree to disagree about the things that don’t really matter. We had done that about everything except for one thing. It was the only thing remaining in our marriage that could still cause occasional friction, the sole thing we had not yet come to full compromise on. What was it? Whether or not we needed to always know where the other one was, so we knew whether or not to worry. He said yes, I said no.
To even begin to understand how big of a deal this was to him, you have to know about some things that happened over twenty years ago. I don’t remember the exact sequence of these things, but they all happened within a short period of time. One was a very bad car accident in which a friend of his, Joe, ended up in high grass in a deep ditch off the Thruway, below the eye level of other drivers. It was a one vehicle event that no one witnessed. Joe lived alone, and so no family member knew he was missing. He was very badly hurt, and could not get out of the car. He stayed trapped in the car without help for over 24 hours until a trucker who was up high enough to see the car called the police. He barely survived, and was in the hospital for months. Kirk visited him almost every day – long after everyone else except Joe’s family had moved on with their lives. He saw the slow and painful recovery Joe went through, and understood more clearly than most how narrowly he had escaped death. The second event was the death of another friend, Eric, from cancer. Eric had suffered from a very upset stomach for quite a long time. He worked for Kirk at the time, and Kirk pressured him pretty hard to go to a doctor. Finally, he did, and was diagnosed with stomach cancer, with not very good odds of survival. He was given only a few months to live. The only hope was a treatment regime that included surgery, which was performed very soon after the diagnosis – I think a week or two later. There were unexpected complications from the surgery, and Eric died within a day or so afterward. Kirk was extremely distraught – he blamed himself for Eric’s death. He felt that even though the cancer would have led to his death eventually, by persuading Eric to go to the doctor, he set in motion a chain of events that cost Eric the last several months of his life. The third event was the sudden death of another friend, Pat, who died in a car accident. His wife barely survived the accident. It happened after they fell asleep at another friend’s house, then woke up and decided to go home because they had a new puppy and didn’t want to leave it home alone all night. They had not been drinking, and felt they were fine to drive. Like Joe, they too were not found for some time. Pat’s wife watched him die while they were trapped in the car. Kirk’s sadness and distress over the deaths of Eric and Pat lasted for many months.
These three events so close together had a profound impact on Kirk. First, they significantly compounded his fear of death itself. He had always been uncomfortable with the topic of death – he never wanted to talk about it or plan for it. He was actually superstitious about it. These events made his fear of death much worse. If there is perhaps any “blessing” in the manner in which he died, it is that he had no reason to anticipate it. If he had died from a long illness or something that gave him time to contemplate the end, I know it would have been a very fearful time for him.
Second, and most significantly, these three events caused him to develop a hyper-awareness of the randomness of life. All three of these friends suffered something terrible that happened suddenly and without warning. Even Joe, who survived, was saved only by the fact that the trucker looked over at just the right moment. Had he not seen the car when he did, it is virtually certain that Joe would not have survived much longer.
The impact from these experiences was that for the rest of his life, Kirk thought about accidents and death a great deal more than the average person. He knew from personal experience that things change on a dime, that life is fragile and can be snatched away suddenly.
For quite a while after these events, the fear almost paralyzed him – he worried constantly. Not that something would happen to him. His fear was always that something terrible would happen to me or the kids. Over the next few years, the fear eased somewhat, but it never fully went away. Within our relationship, it manifested itself by him needing me to keep him informed about where I was and when I would be home. Having a sense of this reassured him that he need not worry. If I failed to call when he expected, he would call me. If he couldn’t reach me, he would worry.
Over time, this evolved to a rhythm that for the most part we could both live with. The communication routine pretty much constituted calls in certain situations. On workdays, a call late in the day with an estimate of when I would be leaving work. If I didn’t call him by about 5:30, he would call me. I would call him again if that original estimate was going to change by more than about 30 minutes. And then a call when I got in the car to come home. On non-work days, if I was out running errands or at the movies or something, I would estimate before leaving the house when I would be home. If I was gone for the bulk of the day, I would usually call and check in somewhere around halfway through. Then a call to him when I was on the way home. He always communicated the same way to me. There were many times when I remember him calling to tell me where he was or when he would be home and I thought to myself that although I was happy to talk to him, the “report” was completely unnecessary. But I learned for the most part to set aside my frustration at the need to check in with him, and came to see it as just one of the things you do for the person you love, even though you think it’s unnecessary, and (to be very honest) somewhat of a burden to have to think about.
Once in a while though, maybe twice a year, it would flare up between us. It was always precipitated by me slipping in my commitment to call him. Usually it was that I hadn’t called toward the end of the day with a time estimate, and then didn’t answer when he called me (usually because I had stepped away from my phone, or had forgotten it was in silent mode). Or when I had given him an estimated time I would be home, and then ran way later and didn’t call to tell him. If this happened a few times he didn’t get upset. But once or twice a year, I would get lax and not call several times in a period of a few weeks. Inevitably, I would come home eventually to find him upset with me. I can still hear him. He would always say that he asked very little of me (true), and that he was okay with whatever time I came home (also true) as long as I just called him. He would say it’s not too much to ask (true again). He hated that he needed me to do this, but the fact was he did. I never argued back, because I knew he was right. He never yelled – he would just say over and over “Just CALL me. That’s all I ask.” I would be frustrated that he still needed this, but I would agree to be better. And I would be – for another six months or so. Still, it seemed so irrational to me.
Turns out he was right. Life is random. Things do change in an instant. We all know that right? I certainly knew it. So why am I so shocked that it actually happened? Because this time, it was us. Until now, the terrible randomness of life had touched people we cared about, and we mourned for them. But we remained untouched, in our little cocoon of safety and love and normal life. He knew all along, though, that we weren’t completely safe – that it could happen to us. If one of us can’t find the other for four hours, terrible things actually may have happened. The fear that the person who hasn’t called and doesn’t answer the phone is in the hospital – or worse – is not completely irrational at all.
I don’t believe that it was destiny, or that he had any foresight. I think it’s just ironic. Ironic that the very thing he worried most about happening is how he died, despite the fact that we all would have reassured him that his fears were ungrounded. Ironic that although he was right, he was also wrong – he wasn’t the one who needed to worry. He was the one who wouldn’t come home, not me or the kids. And ironic that his fear of something terrible happening is exactly why I knew something had. Given his diligence at communicating, I knew very early in those four hours that for sure something was very wrong. When the neighbors all thought he was just hung up somewhere, this is how I knew they were wrong. There was NO WAY he wouldn’t have called. His respect for the fragility and randomness of life was too powerful, too much a part who he became as a result of those earlier tragedies.
If it had been me in the accident, for four hours he would not have known if something had happened to me, or if it was just me being insensitive to his requests again. That four hours makes me understand in a whole new way what he went through when I failed to call, or pick up the phone when he called, every six months or so. His goal for all these years was that he wanted to know whether or not to worry if he couldn't find me. In the end, what he accomplished was ensuring I knew that I should worry when I couldn't find him.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
Deep Thinking
Let me start by saying that this is not a sad post. I suspect sometimes you can’t quite tell what my mood is when I am writing. Right now, if I had to describe what I am feeling it would be “observing myself with amusement.”
I have an outside these days that has no relation to the person on the inside. I work, and am back to doing as good a job as ever. I run errands, and interact with people as if I were ordinary.
That’s the outside me, who functions and smiles and works and buys milk. To observers, she looks in control and relaxed. The inside me, though, is in a crazy state of turmoil all the time. Not always bad or emotional turmoil. Just a constant state of thinking – kind of like a massive bee hive. This is the me I am laughing at.
I know it probably comes as a surprise to no one that I am in this state. My friend Cheryl, who also used to be my boss, used to call me her “deep thinker.” Probably a very nice way of saying I can make a science project out of the simplest task. But grieving has launched this deep thinker into warp speed. While the outside me has the illusion of normality, the inside me is in thinking overdrive.
So what is occupying all this mental energy? Analysis, of course. Of everything, both large and small. Where Kirk is, what he is, why David Cook was driving that way, what do the dogs feel, how to help the kids, what will come next, how to invest the insurance money, why do I feel bad about the insurance money, whether David Cook’s parents have responsibility, should I have Lasik surgery, when will I want to dance in my car again, why doesn’t he give me a sign, how can I give back to everyone who has helped me, how am I going to remember the heartworm medicine every month, are people really upset that I haven’t called back, how will I ever be able to move away from this house, the pros and cons of buying the ingredients I will need for Thanksgiving now, who can I give his important things to that will care about and use them the way he would, can I handle washing the sheets finally, is the weight training I am doing too much or too little for me to handle, how can I find someone I can cry in front of and who can drive the boat so I can have one last day on it, why why why doesn’t anyone here ask about him, do I look a million years old, when will I be happy again, how much more do I need to save for retirement without his income, why the heck don’t I have any imagination about cooking, should I pay someone to clean the house for me, what car should I buy, what should I do for his birthday in two weeks, where do I want to be on our anniversary, are the massages I am getting worth the money and will they have a cumulative good effect or only the pleasure they bring while they are happening, should I have New Years Eve at our house like always even though everyone will be partnered up at midnight except for me, can I handle going to the wedding I am invited to, on and on and on… Every single one of these thoughts is accompanied by mental lists of pros and cons, alternatives, options, etc. The only break I get is when I stop long enough to laugh at how ridiculously analytical I am.
So why am I amused right now? Because I realized today that I was deep in thought about – maybe you guessed it - analyzing why I am so analytical :). I mean really thinking hard about it - was it my childhhod, is it innate, is it a coping mechanism to keep me sane, etc., etc. If Kirk can see me, he is laughing and shaking his head and wishing I would just RELAX a little. Whenever he looked at me and I was in heavy thinking mode, he would say “Stop it or your face will freeze that way.” And I would realize my face was all scrunched up. He was right, by the way – the deepest old age line I have is in between my eyebrows right where my face scrunches when I think hard. It really DID freeze that way. I predict it will soon be the size of the Grand Canyon.
My Aunt Marcia has a t-shirt that says “Does ‘anal-retentive’ have a hyphen in it?” I love that t-shirt. I am not anal-retentive, but I think my analysis problem is not too far removed. If anyone sees a t-shirt for crazy deep thinkers, send it my way.
I have an outside these days that has no relation to the person on the inside. I work, and am back to doing as good a job as ever. I run errands, and interact with people as if I were ordinary.
That’s the outside me, who functions and smiles and works and buys milk. To observers, she looks in control and relaxed. The inside me, though, is in a crazy state of turmoil all the time. Not always bad or emotional turmoil. Just a constant state of thinking – kind of like a massive bee hive. This is the me I am laughing at.
I know it probably comes as a surprise to no one that I am in this state. My friend Cheryl, who also used to be my boss, used to call me her “deep thinker.” Probably a very nice way of saying I can make a science project out of the simplest task. But grieving has launched this deep thinker into warp speed. While the outside me has the illusion of normality, the inside me is in thinking overdrive.
So what is occupying all this mental energy? Analysis, of course. Of everything, both large and small. Where Kirk is, what he is, why David Cook was driving that way, what do the dogs feel, how to help the kids, what will come next, how to invest the insurance money, why do I feel bad about the insurance money, whether David Cook’s parents have responsibility, should I have Lasik surgery, when will I want to dance in my car again, why doesn’t he give me a sign, how can I give back to everyone who has helped me, how am I going to remember the heartworm medicine every month, are people really upset that I haven’t called back, how will I ever be able to move away from this house, the pros and cons of buying the ingredients I will need for Thanksgiving now, who can I give his important things to that will care about and use them the way he would, can I handle washing the sheets finally, is the weight training I am doing too much or too little for me to handle, how can I find someone I can cry in front of and who can drive the boat so I can have one last day on it, why why why doesn’t anyone here ask about him, do I look a million years old, when will I be happy again, how much more do I need to save for retirement without his income, why the heck don’t I have any imagination about cooking, should I pay someone to clean the house for me, what car should I buy, what should I do for his birthday in two weeks, where do I want to be on our anniversary, are the massages I am getting worth the money and will they have a cumulative good effect or only the pleasure they bring while they are happening, should I have New Years Eve at our house like always even though everyone will be partnered up at midnight except for me, can I handle going to the wedding I am invited to, on and on and on… Every single one of these thoughts is accompanied by mental lists of pros and cons, alternatives, options, etc. The only break I get is when I stop long enough to laugh at how ridiculously analytical I am.
So why am I amused right now? Because I realized today that I was deep in thought about – maybe you guessed it - analyzing why I am so analytical :). I mean really thinking hard about it - was it my childhhod, is it innate, is it a coping mechanism to keep me sane, etc., etc. If Kirk can see me, he is laughing and shaking his head and wishing I would just RELAX a little. Whenever he looked at me and I was in heavy thinking mode, he would say “Stop it or your face will freeze that way.” And I would realize my face was all scrunched up. He was right, by the way – the deepest old age line I have is in between my eyebrows right where my face scrunches when I think hard. It really DID freeze that way. I predict it will soon be the size of the Grand Canyon.
My Aunt Marcia has a t-shirt that says “Does ‘anal-retentive’ have a hyphen in it?” I love that t-shirt. I am not anal-retentive, but I think my analysis problem is not too far removed. If anyone sees a t-shirt for crazy deep thinkers, send it my way.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Just a Stone
I just saw photos of his tombstone (like “died,” tombstone is another word I am only barely beginning to use). I wasn’t expecting them when I opened the email, and it was a shock. I knew the place that made it had installed it last week. They said they would send me a picture, but somehow I still wasn’t expecting it.
I don’t know how I expected to feel, but now that I’ve seen it, I feel confused and depressed that it is just a stone. Why do we call these “memorials?” How can it tell anyone anything about him? I wanted something very simple, because that’s what he would have wanted (and what I want, since I’m on it too). I specifically didn’t want anything with pictures or poems or fancy words in it – they work for other people, but they are not right for us. Yet now that I see it, I realize it doesn’t really say anything about him. I am not disappointed with the stone itself – they did a good job with it. Nor do I wish I had ordered something different. I guess I am just realizing what a limited way it is to capture a person for eternity, or to tell a stranger walking by anything at all about who he was. Somehow I had this expectation that once the stone was there, it would be a record of him, it would tell the world something.
Instead, it just says he was here, and that we were married for a long time. Not that he was smart, or funny, or a great cook, or a good son and father, or a friend you were lucky to have. Not that the long marriage that stretched between the years carved on it was better than we could have hoped for, or that this is the person I was/am crazy about.
When I go to the cemetery, I always notice the graves (unsayable word #3) that have lots of stuff on them – Yankee caps and photos and Happy Birthday balloons and toys and flags and flowers, and often you feel you know something about the person from what others have left there. I like that they make me feel I know something of that person. But ultimately I don’t care for those graves. They often end up looking messy and sad, because they are impossible to maintain. Sometimes they are tacky too. And what would I put there? I can’t imagine having his spot covered in taxidermy and golf clubs and fishing poles and Cowboys junk, and he wouldn’t want that either. But instead I have something that doesn’t tell anyone anything.
Maybe in the future, cemeteries will be interactive. People will scan a chip on the stone with their phone or something, and be able to hear audio about the person, or view pictures on their screen. Pretty soon there will be an app for that. It probably sounds awful to you, but I kind of like it. They probably already have audio for places where famous people are buried, but what about everybody else? This has made me realize that everyone has a story, and they all deserve to be told if someone wants to stop and listen.
I think I’d like to know the story of those who lie near him. They are kind of like his neighbors. There is a little boy buried next to him. That grave has a large stone, with a carving of the little boy and a big Elmo on it. When I go there, my first reaction is always that it’s nice that he has a little boy next to him. Then I realize that is an awful thought and I feel sad that a little boy died. There is a gentleman one row down from him who was a veteran - I met his granddaughter there one day. A few rows over are the father and the brother of one of Erika’s best friends. And a little way down from that the grandparent of Matt’s first girlfriend. Also nearby is the grave of one of Matt’s friends who died in a car accident about a year after graduation. Kirk coached him in baseball for many years, and liked him very much, and if they both have to be dead I am glad they are near each other. I will be buried on the other side of Kirk, and his dad and Sandy will be on the other side of me. A whole community of stories.
When I was trying to decide what I wanted the stone to look like, I looked at lots of other stones in the cemetery. The only one I really remember is one where the husband died long before the wife, and they had a shared stone. I looked at the dates and calculated that she had lived 22 years longer than he had. I was shocked and sad for her – I thought “How could she go on for 22 whole years without him – how hard that must have been.” It seemed like an eternity to live without the person you loved so much. Then I realized that unless I die in my 60s, it will be longer than that for me, maybe much longer. It makes me so sad and also makes me really realize that I actually do have to make a new life, a life on my own. 22 plus years is too long to just wait, too long to just pass the time, and too long to be lonely and sad.
I don’t like the idea that if there’s an audio/video story about me some day, there will be many chapters without him in it. Maybe the last line should be “And she loved him even more than she realized.”
I don’t know how I expected to feel, but now that I’ve seen it, I feel confused and depressed that it is just a stone. Why do we call these “memorials?” How can it tell anyone anything about him? I wanted something very simple, because that’s what he would have wanted (and what I want, since I’m on it too). I specifically didn’t want anything with pictures or poems or fancy words in it – they work for other people, but they are not right for us. Yet now that I see it, I realize it doesn’t really say anything about him. I am not disappointed with the stone itself – they did a good job with it. Nor do I wish I had ordered something different. I guess I am just realizing what a limited way it is to capture a person for eternity, or to tell a stranger walking by anything at all about who he was. Somehow I had this expectation that once the stone was there, it would be a record of him, it would tell the world something.
Instead, it just says he was here, and that we were married for a long time. Not that he was smart, or funny, or a great cook, or a good son and father, or a friend you were lucky to have. Not that the long marriage that stretched between the years carved on it was better than we could have hoped for, or that this is the person I was/am crazy about.
When I go to the cemetery, I always notice the graves (unsayable word #3) that have lots of stuff on them – Yankee caps and photos and Happy Birthday balloons and toys and flags and flowers, and often you feel you know something about the person from what others have left there. I like that they make me feel I know something of that person. But ultimately I don’t care for those graves. They often end up looking messy and sad, because they are impossible to maintain. Sometimes they are tacky too. And what would I put there? I can’t imagine having his spot covered in taxidermy and golf clubs and fishing poles and Cowboys junk, and he wouldn’t want that either. But instead I have something that doesn’t tell anyone anything.
Maybe in the future, cemeteries will be interactive. People will scan a chip on the stone with their phone or something, and be able to hear audio about the person, or view pictures on their screen. Pretty soon there will be an app for that. It probably sounds awful to you, but I kind of like it. They probably already have audio for places where famous people are buried, but what about everybody else? This has made me realize that everyone has a story, and they all deserve to be told if someone wants to stop and listen.
I think I’d like to know the story of those who lie near him. They are kind of like his neighbors. There is a little boy buried next to him. That grave has a large stone, with a carving of the little boy and a big Elmo on it. When I go there, my first reaction is always that it’s nice that he has a little boy next to him. Then I realize that is an awful thought and I feel sad that a little boy died. There is a gentleman one row down from him who was a veteran - I met his granddaughter there one day. A few rows over are the father and the brother of one of Erika’s best friends. And a little way down from that the grandparent of Matt’s first girlfriend. Also nearby is the grave of one of Matt’s friends who died in a car accident about a year after graduation. Kirk coached him in baseball for many years, and liked him very much, and if they both have to be dead I am glad they are near each other. I will be buried on the other side of Kirk, and his dad and Sandy will be on the other side of me. A whole community of stories.
When I was trying to decide what I wanted the stone to look like, I looked at lots of other stones in the cemetery. The only one I really remember is one where the husband died long before the wife, and they had a shared stone. I looked at the dates and calculated that she had lived 22 years longer than he had. I was shocked and sad for her – I thought “How could she go on for 22 whole years without him – how hard that must have been.” It seemed like an eternity to live without the person you loved so much. Then I realized that unless I die in my 60s, it will be longer than that for me, maybe much longer. It makes me so sad and also makes me really realize that I actually do have to make a new life, a life on my own. 22 plus years is too long to just wait, too long to just pass the time, and too long to be lonely and sad.
I don’t like the idea that if there’s an audio/video story about me some day, there will be many chapters without him in it. Maybe the last line should be “And she loved him even more than she realized.”
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Acceptance?
I am starting to use the hard words. Like “died.” I am trying to get used to saying it – Kirk died. Until recently, I couldn’t say it at all. I would say “the night of the accident” or “since it happened” or “since I lost him” or sometimes even “when he was taken” (that’s how it feels – like he was taken). Once in a while, in my head, I have even found myself saying “since he left me.” I knew that at some point, I needed to start saying the real word – died. I don’t like that word.
So why say it now? I think because I am beginning to accept it a little. Not “accept” as in it’s okay – just “accept” as in starting to believe it’s for real. The absolute inability to understand that this is forever may be starting to fade. I use the word “inability” intentionally. It is not an unwillingness to accept forever – I have actually been mentally and emotionally unable to comprehend the permanence of this.
I thought “acceptance” would somehow be easier than the initial shock and denial. Instead it is just different. It is more subtle, less of a roller coaster. The sadness is different – not as many tears, just quietly depressing. Even yesterday, the day I wrote about the night of the accident, was a relatively quiet day in my head – not as emotional as you might have thought from reading what I wrote.
If this is “acceptance,” it also feels more isolated. Lonelier than before – I think until recently I was so packed with rioting emotion that it took all my energy to get through a day, and the loneliness was there but was not the biggest issue. And because I couldn’t get that he wasn’t coming back, I think subconsciously the loneliness seemed temporary. Now as the extreme emotion becomes less demanding of my attention, I notice the aloneness more. I have known that I would eventually need to start new habits, new patterns, but so far I haven’t done too much about it because the time didn’t seem right yet. I think the time may be coming.
The really strange thing is that at the same time I begin to accept what has happened, I am starting to have episodes where I forget that he is gone. Before now, I didn’t grasp the permanence, yet I never once tried to call him or do anything else that indicated I truly forgot he was gone. I would think “I would have talked to him about that” or “I wish he could be here for this.” But I never actually tried to call him, or forgot he wouldn’t be there when I got home.
Now, I am starting to actually do things as if I thought he was here. Over the weekend, I was feeling so sad about everything, and I thought “I’ll talk to Kirk about it when I get home.” That made me feel better for an instant until I realized I couldn’t. This morning, I reached for the phone to call him. I remembered in time, though.
I don’t understand why when I couldn’t believe he was gone forever, I never forgot for a minute that I had lost him. And now that I am starting to accept that I have lost him, I sometimes forget he is gone. Grieving is the single most confusing thing I have ever done.
Nonetheless, I am doing okay right now. I do laugh, I do smile, I do not cry all the time. I sleep okay, I actually cook sometimes (the most popular question after How Are You Doing is What Are You Eating). Still no joy or deep down real happiness, but I am not a mess anymore. At least not lately.
So why say it now? I think because I am beginning to accept it a little. Not “accept” as in it’s okay – just “accept” as in starting to believe it’s for real. The absolute inability to understand that this is forever may be starting to fade. I use the word “inability” intentionally. It is not an unwillingness to accept forever – I have actually been mentally and emotionally unable to comprehend the permanence of this.
I thought “acceptance” would somehow be easier than the initial shock and denial. Instead it is just different. It is more subtle, less of a roller coaster. The sadness is different – not as many tears, just quietly depressing. Even yesterday, the day I wrote about the night of the accident, was a relatively quiet day in my head – not as emotional as you might have thought from reading what I wrote.
If this is “acceptance,” it also feels more isolated. Lonelier than before – I think until recently I was so packed with rioting emotion that it took all my energy to get through a day, and the loneliness was there but was not the biggest issue. And because I couldn’t get that he wasn’t coming back, I think subconsciously the loneliness seemed temporary. Now as the extreme emotion becomes less demanding of my attention, I notice the aloneness more. I have known that I would eventually need to start new habits, new patterns, but so far I haven’t done too much about it because the time didn’t seem right yet. I think the time may be coming.
The really strange thing is that at the same time I begin to accept what has happened, I am starting to have episodes where I forget that he is gone. Before now, I didn’t grasp the permanence, yet I never once tried to call him or do anything else that indicated I truly forgot he was gone. I would think “I would have talked to him about that” or “I wish he could be here for this.” But I never actually tried to call him, or forgot he wouldn’t be there when I got home.
Now, I am starting to actually do things as if I thought he was here. Over the weekend, I was feeling so sad about everything, and I thought “I’ll talk to Kirk about it when I get home.” That made me feel better for an instant until I realized I couldn’t. This morning, I reached for the phone to call him. I remembered in time, though.
I don’t understand why when I couldn’t believe he was gone forever, I never forgot for a minute that I had lost him. And now that I am starting to accept that I have lost him, I sometimes forget he is gone. Grieving is the single most confusing thing I have ever done.
Nonetheless, I am doing okay right now. I do laugh, I do smile, I do not cry all the time. I sleep okay, I actually cook sometimes (the most popular question after How Are You Doing is What Are You Eating). Still no joy or deep down real happiness, but I am not a mess anymore. At least not lately.
Monday, August 24, 2009
"No, Ma'am."
Four months today. It is as good a time as any to write about that night. I have needed to get this out for a while now, but couldn’t quite face it. I think about it all the time, but whenever I thought about writing it, it seemed too overwhelming. But the time has come to spit it out, and hopefully it will be an easier burden to carry going forward.
A word of caution: I re-read this before posting, and you should think carefully before you decide to keep reading – I think it is a very tough entry to take.
It was Friday. I had a phone meeting late in the day. I hung up about 5 p.m. While I finished up some things at work, I debated whether to go to the mall after work or go home. We had a formal charity event to attend the next night, and I didn’t have anything I was willing to wear. I decided to go home. I really didn’t feel like shopping, and I could always go the next morning. I was looking forward to the end of the week and to spending time with him.
I remember thinking as I wrapped up that it was funny he hadn’t called me. He would usually call around the end of the day to see when I was leaving so he knew what time he should plan to have dinner. Before I left my office around 6, I called him at home and on his cell to say I was leaving. No answer. That was even more unusual than him not calling. I decided he must be at home but outside working in the yard or talking to the neighbors, and the cell was in the house.
When I got to the car, I texted that I had left. I did this every night, because even though we normally would have talked from my office, I am notorious for saying I am about to leave and then not actually leaving until much later. The text was always the proof that I had indeed left work and am heading home. He always texted back, “Yea!!!” Earlier in our texting days, we had debated whether the proper spelling was “Yay,” “Yeah,” or “Yea.” He settled on “Yea” followed by many exclamation points. That night, he did not answer. This is when I started getting really concerned. There was no way that it would get to be after 6 and we still had had no contact.
The whole way home I tried to call him, with no luck. I kept telling myself I would find him hanging out in the neighbors’ yard. At 6:30, I pulled in the driveway, and the car wasn’t there. That was the moment that confirmed something was wrong. It was a complete impossibility that he would not be home at that time and also be unreachable unless something had happened.
I went in the house and looked for a note or a message. Nothing. I called Pam and Jim from across the street – the neighbors he talked to the most. They were not home, but I talked to their adult daughter. She hadn’t seen him, but would have Pam call when she got home. She reassured me that he was probably just hung up somewhere.
I was calm. Why? Because he was hurt or sick – I just knew it – but soon someone would call me and tell me where I needed to go. I just had to wait for the call.
I fed the dogs. Normally they are always fed at 7, but since I was sure that I was going to get a call any minute telling me he was in the hospital, I figured I better take care of them now. I noticed that Codie did not have enough medicine to get through the weekend – had he gone to the vet? Too late to call them and check – they were closed.
I wrote out instructions on how to feed the dogs – how much food they each got, what medicine to give Codie. One of the neighbors would need to feed them the next morning while I was at the hospital. Then I went and changed. As I was deciding what to wear, I was careful to pick something that would be comfortable while I was at the hospital – I figured that if I got any sleep it would probably be in a chair. I also chose layers so I could take them on or off depending on the temperature there. I picked a new shirt I had never worn before. I love the shirt, but have not worn it since. It is hanging clean but otherwise untouched in the laundry room – I can’t bring myself to put it on, put it away, or get rid of it.
I came back out into the kitchen and took out the phone book. We live out in the country, so we just get the little skinny phone book that doesn’t list all the regional hospitals. I could look online, but I didn’t even know the names of the local hospitals, and also had no idea where he had been, so I didn’t know what to look for. Besides, I really thought that if he was already at a hospital they would have called me. He carried good ID and we were listed so it wouldn’t have been hard to find me. I was really thinking that he was hurt or sick in his car somewhere and in need of help. I thought it could be a heart attack. I called the one hospital in the phone book – he wasn’t there. I don’t really know why I didn’t keep calling hospitals. I think I was avoiding facing it for real.
I decided that if I hadn’t heard anything by 8, I would call the police. In the meantime, I would keep busy until the hospital called by cleaning the kitchen. He was notorious for picking up the dishes but not wiping down the counters or sweeping the floor, and sure enough, there were crumbs everywhere. I figured I’d clean up so it would be in better shape when the neighbors came to take care of the dogs. Every few minutes I called him – no luck.
8:00 came – still no call. I knew that when I called the police they would just think I was some worrying wife. How could I make them understand how predictable he was, and that it was impossible that he was fine but just delayed? I decided to go next door – the couple that lives next to me, Bobby and Kim, are both police officers, and I thought maybe they could tell me what I needed to say to make someone listen. I took my cell phone in case he called, and went looking for them.
Bobby was at work, but another neighbor told me Kim was a few houses down at another neighbor’s house. As I started walking there, Pam, the neighbor I had left a message for, came home. I told her what was going on and asked if she had seen him. She said no and asked if I had called the hospitals. I explained that I was going to call the police after finding Kim. She and I walked to the house where Kim was.
By the time I found Kim, there were about 5 neighbors giving their input. They were reassuring me. Without meaning to, they were dismissing my concern. He’s out having a beer with friends, he ran out of gas, he’s shopping for that riding lawn mower he decided to buy, his cell phone is dead. I kept quietly saying no – he never lets the tank get below ¼ full, he never loses the charge on his phone, and he would never choose lawn mowers or bars over being there (in the kiss chair) when I got home. I’m sure they thought I was ridiculous – what husband doesn’t do those things sometimes? Inside I knew they were all wrong.
Kim said there was really no way to get the police to sit up and pay attention with such a short time having gone by. She felt calling the hospitals would be the quicker way to narrow down the possibilities, and then if we still hadn’t located him, try the police. They all offered to help, but there were a million little kids around and I didn’t want the chaos. Pam and I went back to start calling from my house. When we got to my driveway, she went across the street to get her phone book because she had the larger city phone book that would have all the hospitals. As I walked, I sent him this text – “I am very worried about you and know that you would call me if you could. I hope you are safe. I love you very much and I will find you.” I went inside and checked for messages. There were none. Even so, I was calm – he is hurt or sick and I just need to find him. I never ever thought he might be dead.
While Pam was at her house, I went online and checked the bank accounts. No charges that day that would give me a hint of where he had been. I checked his email account. He had sent the bjod (for those who do not know what bjod is, it stands for “bad joke of the day”) out early in the afternoon, so I knew he had been home then.
I saw someone at the door - it was Pam. As I opened the door, I saw she had her cell phone in her hand, and I heard her say “Tell Dad to get over here now – NOW – RIGHT NOW.” I couldn’t figure out why she needed her husband so much. Then over her shoulder I saw a white car parked in the road. It had some sort of emblem or seal on the door. I was trying to see what it said – I stepped out onto the porch (my heart is racing as I write this). That’s when I saw a woman get out of the car and start walking around the back of the car. She was wearing khakis and a polo shirt with an emblem on it. And behind her was a man - a police officer. I couldn’t see it because the porch column blocked my view, but there was a police car in front of the white car.
It was just like being a military wife – I knew instantly why they were there. The way they walked, the solemn, even grim look on their faces – I could see it all the way from the road. They were not here to tell me he was hurt. I doubled over, put my hand against the porch wall to hold me up. Don’t come up here I thought - I held my hand out to keep them away, as if that could change the truth. I started saying no oh no oh no oh no. Pam held onto me; Jim came running across the street.
The woman and the man came up the sidewalk and asked if we could talk inside. I was shaking and breathing so hard – not crying yet maybe I am wrong maybe I will not need to cry after all. But inside me I knew better.
I opened the door and they all came in – Pam and Jim, the man and the woman. I did not look at her shirt, did not want to see what that emblem said. I switched into some sort of surreal control thing in my head. I invited them in, asked them to have a seat. The dogs were going crazy about all the people. I called the dogs and told them to go outside, opened the back door to let them out. They did not want to go. They were agitated – I think they could feel in the air that something was wrong, that something other than normal visitors was happening here. I spoke to them quietly and calmly – told them it was all right, and that they should go outside. Like you would to a child. They went.
I wanted to go right out after them and not look back. Very bad things were about to be said to me. I closed the door and walked back into the room where they all were. The woman was sitting in Kirk’s recliner. The man, the police chief, was standing. I sat down in the chair next to the woman. Pam sat on the arm of the chair and put her arm around me, Jim stood behind me. I said to the woman, “You’re not here to tell me he’s in the hospital, are you?’
I will never ever forget her voice and what she said. She said the two words so quietly, so carefully, so caringly. Perfectly, really, given the situation. She said, “No, ma’am.”
As in “No, ma’am, he is not hurt.” “No ma’am, he is not out of gas.” “No ma’am, his cell phone is not dead.” “No, ma’am, he did not buy a lawn mower or stop for a beer.” And as in, “No ma’am, he is never coming home.” And “No ma’am, you will not get to hold him and say goodbye, or touch him while he still smells like him.” That’s what medical examiners say to people. “No, ma’am.”
From that moment on, that night is a blur, yet in some ways so clear in my memory. She explained what had happened, and what would happen next. An autopsy, then the funeral home. I couldn’t see him before the funeral home – the medical examiner didn’t have the facilities for that (in hindsight I think she was trying to spare me something). She asked if he could have been drinking. I said absolutely not. He loved his beer, but not at that time of the day, when he still needed to drive somewhere. Of course, I proved to be right. Before she left, I thanked her, and told her she had done a really good job. I think she was shocked, and probably thought I was crazy. I meant it though – she handled the worst moments of my life in a way that helped just a little bit. Like I try to do when I tell someone their job has been eliminated, only her job is so much harder.
It was just after 8:30 – he had already been gone for four hours and I had just found out. I had been right - something was not okay, and he was definitely hurt. But I had been oh so wrong about how badly.
More neighbors appeared. Everyone helped. Some worked on travel arrangements, others talked to the police and got more details than I could handle then but would need later, others made arrangements with the funeral home, another found his planner with the names and numbers of so many people we would call in the next few days. Then co-workers started showing up at the door, some from over an hour away. Thye had heard and were worried I might be alone. Later, my friend Cheryl and her family came, after Jackie hunted them down in church. They got so lost they didn't find me until after midnight, but they made it when I needed them.
Throughout the night, people gave me gifts when I most needed them. Not gifts in the traditional sense – what I mean is that each time I felt I was going to crack wide open and not be able to pick up the pieces, someone would bring me back by giving me a little unexpected piece of Kirk to hold on to. First, his wedding ring and wallet, which the police had brought over. A chain to hang the ring on around my neck. Then, the news that he had been planning to surprise me with new jewelry and that’s where he had been that day. A while later, his shirt – the one he had worn the night before, laid into my lap as I cried and cried.
The one thing that gave me any focus was dealing with how to tell those who needed to know. Despite the craziness in my head, the racing thoughts, the pain, it was the one thing I was clear about. The kids, his parents, his sister, they had to be told first. How was I going to tell them? I was especially concerned about the kids and his mom. I knew his sister and his dad would likely not be alone, but Erika and Kirk’s mom live alone, and while Matt does not, he could easily be home alone. I didn’t want any of them to hear without support. On Friday night, Matt is usually at work, Erika was either home studying or out dancing (there’s no in between for her). Who could I count on to be there for them? For Erika, her friend Jamie. For Matt, my sister Jennifer or niece Katie (his girlfriend was out of town). For Mom W., her sister Martha.
I started Pam on a hunt for Jamie. I knew where she and Erika used to work - they were still friends with people there and maybe someone would have Jamie’s number. My plan was to call Jamie in case they were out together, and if they weren't, to have her head to Erika's house. While Pam hunted for Jamie, I called Jennifer. We agreed she would call Katie, who shares an apartment with Matt and might know where he was. While she called Katie, I called Jill, Kirk’s sister. She was the first person I told – I’m sure I did it badly. I had decided I needed her to call her parents. I felt terrible that I wasn’t doing it, but the thought of having to tell them their child was gone was more than I could stand. I also knew my capacity was limited, and I had to focus on the kids. How was I going to tell them? What words to say?
I talked to Matt first. It was the worst thing I can imagine telling a child. His dad was gone, snatched away, stolen from him when he should have had him for so many years yet. He was very worried about me and about Erika. He kept saying call Erika, call Erika, call Erika. I promised I would call her right away.
She was home alone studying – I never did reach Jamie. I said it again – your dad has been in an accident. Daddy died. The thing I remember most is that she was breathing so hard, so fast, out of control. I kept saying breathe, breathe, breathe. I was scared she was going to hyperventilate all alone in her apartment and pass out with no one to help her.
It was a long long night. Phones ringing and ringing and ringing. House phones, cell phones. Every house phone battery eventually died from overuse and all we had left were cell phones. People whispering about sedatives and anti-depressants – baggies of pills with dosages written on them appeared. I didn’t want any of them. Deciding what to do about telling Mark and Nancy, Brian and Yvette, Kathy and his SYSCO friends, Jerry. It is long after midnight – might as well let them have a good night’s sleep – I will call them all tomorrow.
Jennifer is coming, flying in tomorrow, she won’t take no for an answer (thank God). The funeral director will be here at 10 a.m. tomorrow. Pam will spend the night. Finally, at 4 a.m., crawling into our bed, on his side, wearing his shirt. Breathing deep deep deep – where is his smell? Up at 7 - no sleep at all just more and more tears. Showering with no lifeguard. Hair and makeup. Why did I care what I looked like? Because I’m still me I guess, and I ALWAYS do my hair and makeup. At 7:30, a shocking phone call – do I want to donate his skin, bones, corneas? I have to decide fast, they have to know soon or it will be too late. I say no – it is too much. This is not the answer they hope for, but they are nice – no pressure or guilt trip. And from then on, the phones ring and ring and ring and Day 2 is underway.
Funny that I hear her voice more clearly than I hear Kirk’s. Life changed forever, hope was taken away, with those two words – “No, ma’am.”
A word of caution: I re-read this before posting, and you should think carefully before you decide to keep reading – I think it is a very tough entry to take.
It was Friday. I had a phone meeting late in the day. I hung up about 5 p.m. While I finished up some things at work, I debated whether to go to the mall after work or go home. We had a formal charity event to attend the next night, and I didn’t have anything I was willing to wear. I decided to go home. I really didn’t feel like shopping, and I could always go the next morning. I was looking forward to the end of the week and to spending time with him.
I remember thinking as I wrapped up that it was funny he hadn’t called me. He would usually call around the end of the day to see when I was leaving so he knew what time he should plan to have dinner. Before I left my office around 6, I called him at home and on his cell to say I was leaving. No answer. That was even more unusual than him not calling. I decided he must be at home but outside working in the yard or talking to the neighbors, and the cell was in the house.
When I got to the car, I texted that I had left. I did this every night, because even though we normally would have talked from my office, I am notorious for saying I am about to leave and then not actually leaving until much later. The text was always the proof that I had indeed left work and am heading home. He always texted back, “Yea!!!” Earlier in our texting days, we had debated whether the proper spelling was “Yay,” “Yeah,” or “Yea.” He settled on “Yea” followed by many exclamation points. That night, he did not answer. This is when I started getting really concerned. There was no way that it would get to be after 6 and we still had had no contact.
The whole way home I tried to call him, with no luck. I kept telling myself I would find him hanging out in the neighbors’ yard. At 6:30, I pulled in the driveway, and the car wasn’t there. That was the moment that confirmed something was wrong. It was a complete impossibility that he would not be home at that time and also be unreachable unless something had happened.
I went in the house and looked for a note or a message. Nothing. I called Pam and Jim from across the street – the neighbors he talked to the most. They were not home, but I talked to their adult daughter. She hadn’t seen him, but would have Pam call when she got home. She reassured me that he was probably just hung up somewhere.
I was calm. Why? Because he was hurt or sick – I just knew it – but soon someone would call me and tell me where I needed to go. I just had to wait for the call.
I fed the dogs. Normally they are always fed at 7, but since I was sure that I was going to get a call any minute telling me he was in the hospital, I figured I better take care of them now. I noticed that Codie did not have enough medicine to get through the weekend – had he gone to the vet? Too late to call them and check – they were closed.
I wrote out instructions on how to feed the dogs – how much food they each got, what medicine to give Codie. One of the neighbors would need to feed them the next morning while I was at the hospital. Then I went and changed. As I was deciding what to wear, I was careful to pick something that would be comfortable while I was at the hospital – I figured that if I got any sleep it would probably be in a chair. I also chose layers so I could take them on or off depending on the temperature there. I picked a new shirt I had never worn before. I love the shirt, but have not worn it since. It is hanging clean but otherwise untouched in the laundry room – I can’t bring myself to put it on, put it away, or get rid of it.
I came back out into the kitchen and took out the phone book. We live out in the country, so we just get the little skinny phone book that doesn’t list all the regional hospitals. I could look online, but I didn’t even know the names of the local hospitals, and also had no idea where he had been, so I didn’t know what to look for. Besides, I really thought that if he was already at a hospital they would have called me. He carried good ID and we were listed so it wouldn’t have been hard to find me. I was really thinking that he was hurt or sick in his car somewhere and in need of help. I thought it could be a heart attack. I called the one hospital in the phone book – he wasn’t there. I don’t really know why I didn’t keep calling hospitals. I think I was avoiding facing it for real.
I decided that if I hadn’t heard anything by 8, I would call the police. In the meantime, I would keep busy until the hospital called by cleaning the kitchen. He was notorious for picking up the dishes but not wiping down the counters or sweeping the floor, and sure enough, there were crumbs everywhere. I figured I’d clean up so it would be in better shape when the neighbors came to take care of the dogs. Every few minutes I called him – no luck.
8:00 came – still no call. I knew that when I called the police they would just think I was some worrying wife. How could I make them understand how predictable he was, and that it was impossible that he was fine but just delayed? I decided to go next door – the couple that lives next to me, Bobby and Kim, are both police officers, and I thought maybe they could tell me what I needed to say to make someone listen. I took my cell phone in case he called, and went looking for them.
Bobby was at work, but another neighbor told me Kim was a few houses down at another neighbor’s house. As I started walking there, Pam, the neighbor I had left a message for, came home. I told her what was going on and asked if she had seen him. She said no and asked if I had called the hospitals. I explained that I was going to call the police after finding Kim. She and I walked to the house where Kim was.
By the time I found Kim, there were about 5 neighbors giving their input. They were reassuring me. Without meaning to, they were dismissing my concern. He’s out having a beer with friends, he ran out of gas, he’s shopping for that riding lawn mower he decided to buy, his cell phone is dead. I kept quietly saying no – he never lets the tank get below ¼ full, he never loses the charge on his phone, and he would never choose lawn mowers or bars over being there (in the kiss chair) when I got home. I’m sure they thought I was ridiculous – what husband doesn’t do those things sometimes? Inside I knew they were all wrong.
Kim said there was really no way to get the police to sit up and pay attention with such a short time having gone by. She felt calling the hospitals would be the quicker way to narrow down the possibilities, and then if we still hadn’t located him, try the police. They all offered to help, but there were a million little kids around and I didn’t want the chaos. Pam and I went back to start calling from my house. When we got to my driveway, she went across the street to get her phone book because she had the larger city phone book that would have all the hospitals. As I walked, I sent him this text – “I am very worried about you and know that you would call me if you could. I hope you are safe. I love you very much and I will find you.” I went inside and checked for messages. There were none. Even so, I was calm – he is hurt or sick and I just need to find him. I never ever thought he might be dead.
While Pam was at her house, I went online and checked the bank accounts. No charges that day that would give me a hint of where he had been. I checked his email account. He had sent the bjod (for those who do not know what bjod is, it stands for “bad joke of the day”) out early in the afternoon, so I knew he had been home then.
I saw someone at the door - it was Pam. As I opened the door, I saw she had her cell phone in her hand, and I heard her say “Tell Dad to get over here now – NOW – RIGHT NOW.” I couldn’t figure out why she needed her husband so much. Then over her shoulder I saw a white car parked in the road. It had some sort of emblem or seal on the door. I was trying to see what it said – I stepped out onto the porch (my heart is racing as I write this). That’s when I saw a woman get out of the car and start walking around the back of the car. She was wearing khakis and a polo shirt with an emblem on it. And behind her was a man - a police officer. I couldn’t see it because the porch column blocked my view, but there was a police car in front of the white car.
It was just like being a military wife – I knew instantly why they were there. The way they walked, the solemn, even grim look on their faces – I could see it all the way from the road. They were not here to tell me he was hurt. I doubled over, put my hand against the porch wall to hold me up. Don’t come up here I thought - I held my hand out to keep them away, as if that could change the truth. I started saying no oh no oh no oh no. Pam held onto me; Jim came running across the street.
The woman and the man came up the sidewalk and asked if we could talk inside. I was shaking and breathing so hard – not crying yet maybe I am wrong maybe I will not need to cry after all. But inside me I knew better.
I opened the door and they all came in – Pam and Jim, the man and the woman. I did not look at her shirt, did not want to see what that emblem said. I switched into some sort of surreal control thing in my head. I invited them in, asked them to have a seat. The dogs were going crazy about all the people. I called the dogs and told them to go outside, opened the back door to let them out. They did not want to go. They were agitated – I think they could feel in the air that something was wrong, that something other than normal visitors was happening here. I spoke to them quietly and calmly – told them it was all right, and that they should go outside. Like you would to a child. They went.
I wanted to go right out after them and not look back. Very bad things were about to be said to me. I closed the door and walked back into the room where they all were. The woman was sitting in Kirk’s recliner. The man, the police chief, was standing. I sat down in the chair next to the woman. Pam sat on the arm of the chair and put her arm around me, Jim stood behind me. I said to the woman, “You’re not here to tell me he’s in the hospital, are you?’
I will never ever forget her voice and what she said. She said the two words so quietly, so carefully, so caringly. Perfectly, really, given the situation. She said, “No, ma’am.”
As in “No, ma’am, he is not hurt.” “No ma’am, he is not out of gas.” “No ma’am, his cell phone is not dead.” “No, ma’am, he did not buy a lawn mower or stop for a beer.” And as in, “No ma’am, he is never coming home.” And “No ma’am, you will not get to hold him and say goodbye, or touch him while he still smells like him.” That’s what medical examiners say to people. “No, ma’am.”
From that moment on, that night is a blur, yet in some ways so clear in my memory. She explained what had happened, and what would happen next. An autopsy, then the funeral home. I couldn’t see him before the funeral home – the medical examiner didn’t have the facilities for that (in hindsight I think she was trying to spare me something). She asked if he could have been drinking. I said absolutely not. He loved his beer, but not at that time of the day, when he still needed to drive somewhere. Of course, I proved to be right. Before she left, I thanked her, and told her she had done a really good job. I think she was shocked, and probably thought I was crazy. I meant it though – she handled the worst moments of my life in a way that helped just a little bit. Like I try to do when I tell someone their job has been eliminated, only her job is so much harder.
It was just after 8:30 – he had already been gone for four hours and I had just found out. I had been right - something was not okay, and he was definitely hurt. But I had been oh so wrong about how badly.
More neighbors appeared. Everyone helped. Some worked on travel arrangements, others talked to the police and got more details than I could handle then but would need later, others made arrangements with the funeral home, another found his planner with the names and numbers of so many people we would call in the next few days. Then co-workers started showing up at the door, some from over an hour away. Thye had heard and were worried I might be alone. Later, my friend Cheryl and her family came, after Jackie hunted them down in church. They got so lost they didn't find me until after midnight, but they made it when I needed them.
Throughout the night, people gave me gifts when I most needed them. Not gifts in the traditional sense – what I mean is that each time I felt I was going to crack wide open and not be able to pick up the pieces, someone would bring me back by giving me a little unexpected piece of Kirk to hold on to. First, his wedding ring and wallet, which the police had brought over. A chain to hang the ring on around my neck. Then, the news that he had been planning to surprise me with new jewelry and that’s where he had been that day. A while later, his shirt – the one he had worn the night before, laid into my lap as I cried and cried.
The one thing that gave me any focus was dealing with how to tell those who needed to know. Despite the craziness in my head, the racing thoughts, the pain, it was the one thing I was clear about. The kids, his parents, his sister, they had to be told first. How was I going to tell them? I was especially concerned about the kids and his mom. I knew his sister and his dad would likely not be alone, but Erika and Kirk’s mom live alone, and while Matt does not, he could easily be home alone. I didn’t want any of them to hear without support. On Friday night, Matt is usually at work, Erika was either home studying or out dancing (there’s no in between for her). Who could I count on to be there for them? For Erika, her friend Jamie. For Matt, my sister Jennifer or niece Katie (his girlfriend was out of town). For Mom W., her sister Martha.
I started Pam on a hunt for Jamie. I knew where she and Erika used to work - they were still friends with people there and maybe someone would have Jamie’s number. My plan was to call Jamie in case they were out together, and if they weren't, to have her head to Erika's house. While Pam hunted for Jamie, I called Jennifer. We agreed she would call Katie, who shares an apartment with Matt and might know where he was. While she called Katie, I called Jill, Kirk’s sister. She was the first person I told – I’m sure I did it badly. I had decided I needed her to call her parents. I felt terrible that I wasn’t doing it, but the thought of having to tell them their child was gone was more than I could stand. I also knew my capacity was limited, and I had to focus on the kids. How was I going to tell them? What words to say?
I talked to Matt first. It was the worst thing I can imagine telling a child. His dad was gone, snatched away, stolen from him when he should have had him for so many years yet. He was very worried about me and about Erika. He kept saying call Erika, call Erika, call Erika. I promised I would call her right away.
She was home alone studying – I never did reach Jamie. I said it again – your dad has been in an accident. Daddy died. The thing I remember most is that she was breathing so hard, so fast, out of control. I kept saying breathe, breathe, breathe. I was scared she was going to hyperventilate all alone in her apartment and pass out with no one to help her.
It was a long long night. Phones ringing and ringing and ringing. House phones, cell phones. Every house phone battery eventually died from overuse and all we had left were cell phones. People whispering about sedatives and anti-depressants – baggies of pills with dosages written on them appeared. I didn’t want any of them. Deciding what to do about telling Mark and Nancy, Brian and Yvette, Kathy and his SYSCO friends, Jerry. It is long after midnight – might as well let them have a good night’s sleep – I will call them all tomorrow.
Jennifer is coming, flying in tomorrow, she won’t take no for an answer (thank God). The funeral director will be here at 10 a.m. tomorrow. Pam will spend the night. Finally, at 4 a.m., crawling into our bed, on his side, wearing his shirt. Breathing deep deep deep – where is his smell? Up at 7 - no sleep at all just more and more tears. Showering with no lifeguard. Hair and makeup. Why did I care what I looked like? Because I’m still me I guess, and I ALWAYS do my hair and makeup. At 7:30, a shocking phone call – do I want to donate his skin, bones, corneas? I have to decide fast, they have to know soon or it will be too late. I say no – it is too much. This is not the answer they hope for, but they are nice – no pressure or guilt trip. And from then on, the phones ring and ring and ring and Day 2 is underway.
Funny that I hear her voice more clearly than I hear Kirk’s. Life changed forever, hope was taken away, with those two words – “No, ma’am.”
Friday, August 21, 2009
Kirk and Lisa: Chapter 2
Late August, 1979. Summer was ending and it was time for me to leave for University of Vermont. As I said earlier, we had decided to stay together despite the 12 hour distance – a tall order for a 5 week old relationship. I’d like to think we knew in our hearts we were right for each other, but that would be fantasy. We were just 17 and 19, in love, and a bit naive about how tough it would be.
We stayed up all night long the night before I left. It was really hard to say goodbye. He was worried about the recent ex-boyfriend being right across the lake from me. I reassured him, but I knew it wouldn’t be easy either.
My mom and my sister Lauren drove me up there. When we went into the dorm, the first thing I checked out was the phone situation. No phones in the rooms in the freshman dorm – just one pay phone per floor, in the landing of the stairwell. Big signs saying 10 minutes only. Not even a chair to sit on. I would spend many hours on the phone leaning up against that wall over the next few months, or waiting for some other girl to get off the phone with her boyfriend so I could call mine.
We got unloaded and eventually my mom and sister headed back home. I think I called him right away – collect of course. Throughout that semester, he ran up his parents’ phone bill so much he had to take out a loan to pay it off. We were still making the payments after we got married.
I would love to tell you that we blissfully talked on the phone every day and all was rosy. Nothing could be further from the truth. Although he grew out of it later as he matured into his 20s, at 19, he struggled somewhat with jealousy. It was hard for him to be at home while I was off in a new world with new friends, new guys, and you-know-who 30 minutes away. I had a hard time with him wanting to talk for hours every night when I wanted to go out with my friends (strawberry daiquiris at the Radisson downtown – it was the thing to do in 1979).
Classes started and I got a job – Papa Gino’s pizza parlor. It was tough fitting in at school. I was a kid who had grown up in a family that was not poor, but that didn’t have a ton of excess cash floating around either. I was surrounded by well-to-do kids who drove brand new cars and debated whether they should buy their season ski pass at Stowe or Killington, or both, while I served pizza to pay for books and food.
Despite the challenge of being apart, we did really miss each other. By the end of September, I figured out that if I took a lot of hours at work, I could earn enough for a plane ticket home in about 3 weeks as long as I didn’t spend money on anything else. Food became optional, as did daiquiris (most of the time). My first trip home was also my first plane ride ever. I flew in a tiny prop plane that seated about 8 over the Adirondack Mountains in a severe thunderstorm while people all around me threw up. I was terrified, but it was worth it when I saw him. I checked into the Howard Johnson’s Motor Lodge next to the restaurant where he still worked, and stayed there all weekend, and we were together every minute he wasn’t working. The hotel manager gave me the room for free. It was four miles from my home, and I never told my family I was there. And so began the rhythm of that semester – work enough for a ticket, blow off school on Friday, and stay at Howard Johnson’s for three days. I almost got caught when I came home at Thanksgiving (to see my family like normal kids do) and my mom told me she had been arguing with my bank. Because I was 17 when I opened my checking account, she was a joint account holder with me. She said a notice had come that I had bounced a check in a store across the street from Howard Johnson’s. She had been adamantly informing the bank I could not have done so, because I was away in Vermont on the day it happened. Oops…so much for checkbook balancing. I didn't fess up. Fortunately, she eventually prevailed and I was never caught.
He wrote me a letter every single day. EVERY day. At one point in between my visits home, he drove up to see me. I still remember watching for him out the window of my room on the fourth floor. I was so happy when I saw his car drive in the parking lot – a navy blue two door Monza, with a big dent in the rear quarter panel and that stupid rubber brain on the dashboard. An arm wearing a buffalo-plaid shirt hanging out the window. I couldn't see his face from up there, but there was no doubt who the driver was.
Trouble finally came though. In early December, the ex made an unexpected appearance. He loved me, he missed me, he should have told me how he felt earlier, he wanted me back. Uh-oh. I really cared about him still. Decision time again. While he and I were talking, another girl from the dorm came to say that Kirk was on the phone. It was our usual time to talk. I went to the phone and he started the conversation like always – what’s up? I decided to tell him. He asked me what I was going to do. I told him I didn’t know. I cried a lot – he asked me not to make a decision until we talked again and I agreed.
I went back to my room and told the ex I needed to think. He left quietly. He was always stoic about emotion. I told him I’d call him. I stayed up late, drank too much wine, and couldn’t make a decision. Finally I feel asleep.
Very early the next day, the RA knocked on my door and woke me up. I had a visitor. I walked out into the common area and there was Kirk. He had driven all night to get there and he looked exhausted. He wasn’t angry, pathetic, pleading, or threatening - he was just firm in his conviction. He had come to tell me he wanted me to pick him. And he intended to stay until I did. I know this may sound like crazy boyfriend stalker stuff but it wasn’t. I looked at him standing there and thought, “I can pick the one who only says he loves me after I break up with him, or I can pick the one who tells me he loves me every day, and will drive all night to tell me how much he wants to be with me.” It was suddenly a very easy decision. Little did I know then that I would see the same behavior for the next thirty years - he told me he loved me many times every day, and would go anywhere or do anything for me. (Side note – it was a great decision for more than one reason. The great-looking athletic ex now lives in Denver with his long-time boyfriend .)
After that semester, I quit school and came home. Truth be told, my grades were so bad they were kicking me out anyway. I went back to work at HoJo’s, although he had his own restaurant by now and didn’t work at that location anymore.
Next time, I’ll tell you how we got married.
We stayed up all night long the night before I left. It was really hard to say goodbye. He was worried about the recent ex-boyfriend being right across the lake from me. I reassured him, but I knew it wouldn’t be easy either.
My mom and my sister Lauren drove me up there. When we went into the dorm, the first thing I checked out was the phone situation. No phones in the rooms in the freshman dorm – just one pay phone per floor, in the landing of the stairwell. Big signs saying 10 minutes only. Not even a chair to sit on. I would spend many hours on the phone leaning up against that wall over the next few months, or waiting for some other girl to get off the phone with her boyfriend so I could call mine.
We got unloaded and eventually my mom and sister headed back home. I think I called him right away – collect of course. Throughout that semester, he ran up his parents’ phone bill so much he had to take out a loan to pay it off. We were still making the payments after we got married.
I would love to tell you that we blissfully talked on the phone every day and all was rosy. Nothing could be further from the truth. Although he grew out of it later as he matured into his 20s, at 19, he struggled somewhat with jealousy. It was hard for him to be at home while I was off in a new world with new friends, new guys, and you-know-who 30 minutes away. I had a hard time with him wanting to talk for hours every night when I wanted to go out with my friends (strawberry daiquiris at the Radisson downtown – it was the thing to do in 1979).
Classes started and I got a job – Papa Gino’s pizza parlor. It was tough fitting in at school. I was a kid who had grown up in a family that was not poor, but that didn’t have a ton of excess cash floating around either. I was surrounded by well-to-do kids who drove brand new cars and debated whether they should buy their season ski pass at Stowe or Killington, or both, while I served pizza to pay for books and food.
Despite the challenge of being apart, we did really miss each other. By the end of September, I figured out that if I took a lot of hours at work, I could earn enough for a plane ticket home in about 3 weeks as long as I didn’t spend money on anything else. Food became optional, as did daiquiris (most of the time). My first trip home was also my first plane ride ever. I flew in a tiny prop plane that seated about 8 over the Adirondack Mountains in a severe thunderstorm while people all around me threw up. I was terrified, but it was worth it when I saw him. I checked into the Howard Johnson’s Motor Lodge next to the restaurant where he still worked, and stayed there all weekend, and we were together every minute he wasn’t working. The hotel manager gave me the room for free. It was four miles from my home, and I never told my family I was there. And so began the rhythm of that semester – work enough for a ticket, blow off school on Friday, and stay at Howard Johnson’s for three days. I almost got caught when I came home at Thanksgiving (to see my family like normal kids do) and my mom told me she had been arguing with my bank. Because I was 17 when I opened my checking account, she was a joint account holder with me. She said a notice had come that I had bounced a check in a store across the street from Howard Johnson’s. She had been adamantly informing the bank I could not have done so, because I was away in Vermont on the day it happened. Oops…so much for checkbook balancing. I didn't fess up. Fortunately, she eventually prevailed and I was never caught.
He wrote me a letter every single day. EVERY day. At one point in between my visits home, he drove up to see me. I still remember watching for him out the window of my room on the fourth floor. I was so happy when I saw his car drive in the parking lot – a navy blue two door Monza, with a big dent in the rear quarter panel and that stupid rubber brain on the dashboard. An arm wearing a buffalo-plaid shirt hanging out the window. I couldn't see his face from up there, but there was no doubt who the driver was.
Trouble finally came though. In early December, the ex made an unexpected appearance. He loved me, he missed me, he should have told me how he felt earlier, he wanted me back. Uh-oh. I really cared about him still. Decision time again. While he and I were talking, another girl from the dorm came to say that Kirk was on the phone. It was our usual time to talk. I went to the phone and he started the conversation like always – what’s up? I decided to tell him. He asked me what I was going to do. I told him I didn’t know. I cried a lot – he asked me not to make a decision until we talked again and I agreed.
I went back to my room and told the ex I needed to think. He left quietly. He was always stoic about emotion. I told him I’d call him. I stayed up late, drank too much wine, and couldn’t make a decision. Finally I feel asleep.
Very early the next day, the RA knocked on my door and woke me up. I had a visitor. I walked out into the common area and there was Kirk. He had driven all night to get there and he looked exhausted. He wasn’t angry, pathetic, pleading, or threatening - he was just firm in his conviction. He had come to tell me he wanted me to pick him. And he intended to stay until I did. I know this may sound like crazy boyfriend stalker stuff but it wasn’t. I looked at him standing there and thought, “I can pick the one who only says he loves me after I break up with him, or I can pick the one who tells me he loves me every day, and will drive all night to tell me how much he wants to be with me.” It was suddenly a very easy decision. Little did I know then that I would see the same behavior for the next thirty years - he told me he loved me many times every day, and would go anywhere or do anything for me. (Side note – it was a great decision for more than one reason. The great-looking athletic ex now lives in Denver with his long-time boyfriend .)
After that semester, I quit school and came home. Truth be told, my grades were so bad they were kicking me out anyway. I went back to work at HoJo’s, although he had his own restaurant by now and didn’t work at that location anymore.
Next time, I’ll tell you how we got married.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Blogging - Therapy and Legacy All in One
First, a bit of housekeeping. When I posted the entry below called “The Case,” I included a link copied from the Sheriff’s department website that was supposed to take you to the profile and mug shot of the person who caused the accident. I realized today that the link was connected to the wrong suspect. I have fixed it, and if you click on it now, it will take you to the right record.
Now on to the real topic of the day -
This blog thing seems to be helping me. Much more than I anticipated, actually. When I am really overwhelmed by something, and I write it down, the pressure, frustration, pain, sadness, or whatever I feel eases considerably. The feelings are still there, but they are much more manageable, and I seem to be able to breathe more easily.
Another thing that is really helping is hearing from all of you. Thank you so much for the support and encouragement you are providing. Some of you have chosen to be public about the fact that you read this, and have listed yourself as Followers. Many more have called or emailed to let me know that you are reading. A couple of you have told me that you read the whole thing, from the very first entry, every single day. Others have said that after a new entry, you talk about it at work with co-workers who also read it, and remember him together. I suspect there are others who read it, but have given me no sign.
Lots of you have thanked me for sharing my thoughts and feelings, because it is helping you cope with losing him. This is a reaction I never expected – I knew it would help you know what was going on with me, but had not realized it might help with your own sadness. I am glad it has. I often hear that reading makes you cry. That is never my intent, but I guess it’s part of the package right about now.
Some have wondered about how the kids, his parents, and other family members are doing. I appreciate you asking, and I know they do too, but I intentionally do not write about them. I don’t think it’s right for me to speak for them - this experience is too personal and individual. I could not possibly accurately represent how they are doing (I have enough trouble trying to capture my own feelings in any logical and understandable way!). I will say that they have found the same thing I have – that our feelings change constantly, that much of what we are feeling is unexpected, that this is not a predictable or logical process. That’s about all that I can say on their behalf. I also don’t post pictures of them (at least not current ones) because I feel that it’s not my place to post anything with them on it in such a public forum. (Note to family – if you do want to say something, email it to me and I will post it.)
When I started the blog, I was struggling with being surrounded each day by people who did not know him and do not talk about him. I continue to have a hard time with this. But by writing about him and about the experience of losing him, I have figured out that the issue is bigger than people not talking about him. I find that when I write an entry, I often have an unbidden sense of relief as I finish. In my analytical way, I tried to figure out why - where was relief coming from?
And that's how writing and “publishing” all of this helped me identify one of my biggest issues. Here it is – I have a tremendous fear that Kirk will be forgotten. I had not consciously realized that I was worried about this until I realized that the relief came from feeling like I have created a record of him out in the world, for anyone to see, that no one can take away. A memorial of sorts, I guess. That was never my intent, but it is a key part of what is helping me. I know logically that those of you who knew him well will not forget him. He had too big of a personality for that. But as I have learned, logic does not triumph over emotion right now, and emotionally, I still fear he will not live on in your minds. That’s why I like that so many people seem to be reading this. By writing it, and you reading it, I get to poke you – remember him, remember him, remember him…
He was certainly worth remembering, wasn’t he? I feel like in a way we literally owe it to him. If you really knew Kirk, I know he gave you something. It may have been advice, service, help, perspective, or encouragement. Maybe he challenged you to think beyond your own opinion or to be better at something than you thought you could be – he did that for lots of people. He may have loved you, and if he did you are really fortunate. He most likely gave you LOTS of food and hospitality. But if nothing else, he gave you laughter – even more laughter than food. It was the very essence of Kirk – humor. The least we can do in return is think about him sometimes, tell a story about him, smile to ourselves about him. Not every minute, maybe not even every day, depending on how close you were to him. But sometimes, remember him.
What will we remember? I mean SPECIFICALLY what will any of us retain of him? One of the things I hate is that even for me, some things are blurry – and getting more blurry as time passes. I know there are events, stories, experiences that I am not retaining, and I want every single one. I am starting to not remember exactly what he looked like - I know he had a scar about a centimeter long on one cheek, but which cheek? And why don’t I know how he got it? I also can’t hear his voice in my head at all – I have to listen to it recorded. So what do I remember? I saw a quote the other day from Maya Angelou that describes it perfectly. “I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” That’s it for me – more than anything I remember how he made me feel.
Unlike most of us, he had no wish to die peacefully, of old age, in his sleep. Nothing so tame for him. He always told me that he wanted to live to be old, and then die saving the life of a child. He thought it would be perfect to live a long life and then have it end as he rescued someone with a lot of living yet to do. He didn’t get his wish, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t leave something worth remembering. So keep reading, okay? I’ll keep poking.
We ♥ Kirk.
Now on to the real topic of the day -
This blog thing seems to be helping me. Much more than I anticipated, actually. When I am really overwhelmed by something, and I write it down, the pressure, frustration, pain, sadness, or whatever I feel eases considerably. The feelings are still there, but they are much more manageable, and I seem to be able to breathe more easily.
Another thing that is really helping is hearing from all of you. Thank you so much for the support and encouragement you are providing. Some of you have chosen to be public about the fact that you read this, and have listed yourself as Followers. Many more have called or emailed to let me know that you are reading. A couple of you have told me that you read the whole thing, from the very first entry, every single day. Others have said that after a new entry, you talk about it at work with co-workers who also read it, and remember him together. I suspect there are others who read it, but have given me no sign.
Lots of you have thanked me for sharing my thoughts and feelings, because it is helping you cope with losing him. This is a reaction I never expected – I knew it would help you know what was going on with me, but had not realized it might help with your own sadness. I am glad it has. I often hear that reading makes you cry. That is never my intent, but I guess it’s part of the package right about now.
Some have wondered about how the kids, his parents, and other family members are doing. I appreciate you asking, and I know they do too, but I intentionally do not write about them. I don’t think it’s right for me to speak for them - this experience is too personal and individual. I could not possibly accurately represent how they are doing (I have enough trouble trying to capture my own feelings in any logical and understandable way!). I will say that they have found the same thing I have – that our feelings change constantly, that much of what we are feeling is unexpected, that this is not a predictable or logical process. That’s about all that I can say on their behalf. I also don’t post pictures of them (at least not current ones) because I feel that it’s not my place to post anything with them on it in such a public forum. (Note to family – if you do want to say something, email it to me and I will post it.)
When I started the blog, I was struggling with being surrounded each day by people who did not know him and do not talk about him. I continue to have a hard time with this. But by writing about him and about the experience of losing him, I have figured out that the issue is bigger than people not talking about him. I find that when I write an entry, I often have an unbidden sense of relief as I finish. In my analytical way, I tried to figure out why - where was relief coming from?
And that's how writing and “publishing” all of this helped me identify one of my biggest issues. Here it is – I have a tremendous fear that Kirk will be forgotten. I had not consciously realized that I was worried about this until I realized that the relief came from feeling like I have created a record of him out in the world, for anyone to see, that no one can take away. A memorial of sorts, I guess. That was never my intent, but it is a key part of what is helping me. I know logically that those of you who knew him well will not forget him. He had too big of a personality for that. But as I have learned, logic does not triumph over emotion right now, and emotionally, I still fear he will not live on in your minds. That’s why I like that so many people seem to be reading this. By writing it, and you reading it, I get to poke you – remember him, remember him, remember him…
He was certainly worth remembering, wasn’t he? I feel like in a way we literally owe it to him. If you really knew Kirk, I know he gave you something. It may have been advice, service, help, perspective, or encouragement. Maybe he challenged you to think beyond your own opinion or to be better at something than you thought you could be – he did that for lots of people. He may have loved you, and if he did you are really fortunate. He most likely gave you LOTS of food and hospitality. But if nothing else, he gave you laughter – even more laughter than food. It was the very essence of Kirk – humor. The least we can do in return is think about him sometimes, tell a story about him, smile to ourselves about him. Not every minute, maybe not even every day, depending on how close you were to him. But sometimes, remember him.
What will we remember? I mean SPECIFICALLY what will any of us retain of him? One of the things I hate is that even for me, some things are blurry – and getting more blurry as time passes. I know there are events, stories, experiences that I am not retaining, and I want every single one. I am starting to not remember exactly what he looked like - I know he had a scar about a centimeter long on one cheek, but which cheek? And why don’t I know how he got it? I also can’t hear his voice in my head at all – I have to listen to it recorded. So what do I remember? I saw a quote the other day from Maya Angelou that describes it perfectly. “I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” That’s it for me – more than anything I remember how he made me feel.
Unlike most of us, he had no wish to die peacefully, of old age, in his sleep. Nothing so tame for him. He always told me that he wanted to live to be old, and then die saving the life of a child. He thought it would be perfect to live a long life and then have it end as he rescued someone with a lot of living yet to do. He didn’t get his wish, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t leave something worth remembering. So keep reading, okay? I’ll keep poking.
We ♥ Kirk.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
An Ordinary Day
Today was a day that was ordinary by most standards, but that was composed of lots of baby steps for me. I started off by going to pick up the boat from the dealer. The week before the accident, Kirk was out on the lake with the boat, and someone hit the trailer while it was parked. He came back to find it damaged. I have been waiting for the fender to come in from the factory – it is a custom color and had to be ordered. Two weeks ago, my friend Leon came over and we towed it in to have it fixed, and today we picked it up. While I was there, I talked to them about selling it for me. That was the baby step. It breaks my heart to think about selling it. We agreed that I would think about what I want for it and when I am ready they will sell it on consignment. In order to do that, I will have to empty out all the compartments in the boat. That will be a giant step. Inside are his poles, lures, tools, and all the other paraphernalia of a day on the boat. I dread it. We were so happy on that boat.
Then I went and had a massage. I decided to do it because I need to be touched. I miss touch so much. The only person who touches me for any length of time is my hairdresser, when he washes my hair. I cry every time. I decided I better find a way to get touched more, and this was the only legal thing I could think of :). It was pretty nice and I only cried a little. But the weirdest part was that when it was over, and I was getting dressed, I had this overwhelming feeling that I had done something wrong – almost like I betrayed him by letting someone touch me. I don’t know why – he would be happy I had a massage. But it still felt awful. I will go again though – I think it will help me eventually.
Then I went to look for a new car. I really like the Avalanche – it is great to drive, and more importantly, it was his. I hate to give it up, but I need to – a truck does not make sense for my needs. So I started car shopping. I didn’t want to do it alone – too often car salespeople act like you don’t have a brain if you are a woman alone. But I decided not to ask a man to help – I might as well get used to this. The tough part of it was that you could just feel them wanting to ask what my deal was. They see my wedding ring, and ask if I will be purchasing the car jointly. I just say no. They ask how I qualify for the GM discount, and I say through my father-in-law. You can feel the question I will not answer hanging in the air. Then they show me the car, and every feature made for two people hurts. Dual zone climate control. Memory seats with a button for each driver. Separate favorites settings for the radio. As they point out all these features, all I can think is that I don’t need them. One of all these settings will go unused.
Then I grocery shopped. I obviously have been doing it since I lost him. I never did it when he was here. Up until today I have been okay with it, but today in Super WalMart I had an overwhelming moment where I was so resentful I literally felt like I wanted to scream. I don’t want to grocery shop. I shouldn’t have to grocery shop. It‘s not fair or right that I have to.
Just a day filled with the tasks and errands that most people do. Filled with challenges that most people don’t have to face. It’s the new ordinary for me. I am, unfortunately, getting used to it.
Then I went and had a massage. I decided to do it because I need to be touched. I miss touch so much. The only person who touches me for any length of time is my hairdresser, when he washes my hair. I cry every time. I decided I better find a way to get touched more, and this was the only legal thing I could think of :). It was pretty nice and I only cried a little. But the weirdest part was that when it was over, and I was getting dressed, I had this overwhelming feeling that I had done something wrong – almost like I betrayed him by letting someone touch me. I don’t know why – he would be happy I had a massage. But it still felt awful. I will go again though – I think it will help me eventually.
Then I went to look for a new car. I really like the Avalanche – it is great to drive, and more importantly, it was his. I hate to give it up, but I need to – a truck does not make sense for my needs. So I started car shopping. I didn’t want to do it alone – too often car salespeople act like you don’t have a brain if you are a woman alone. But I decided not to ask a man to help – I might as well get used to this. The tough part of it was that you could just feel them wanting to ask what my deal was. They see my wedding ring, and ask if I will be purchasing the car jointly. I just say no. They ask how I qualify for the GM discount, and I say through my father-in-law. You can feel the question I will not answer hanging in the air. Then they show me the car, and every feature made for two people hurts. Dual zone climate control. Memory seats with a button for each driver. Separate favorites settings for the radio. As they point out all these features, all I can think is that I don’t need them. One of all these settings will go unused.
Then I grocery shopped. I obviously have been doing it since I lost him. I never did it when he was here. Up until today I have been okay with it, but today in Super WalMart I had an overwhelming moment where I was so resentful I literally felt like I wanted to scream. I don’t want to grocery shop. I shouldn’t have to grocery shop. It‘s not fair or right that I have to.
Just a day filled with the tasks and errands that most people do. Filled with challenges that most people don’t have to face. It’s the new ordinary for me. I am, unfortunately, getting used to it.
The Case
Here is an update on the status of the case against the other driver. Since not everyone knows the history of the whole thing, I will start from the beginning.
The name of the other driver is David Nathanial Cook. He is 20 years old and lives a little over an hour east of where we live. He lives with his dad and his sister. It is my understanding that he has no history of accidents or criminal charges.
Before the accident, he left home and traveled west. He told the police that he was going to a town halfway in between our two towns to see a friend. However, he says he never ended up seeing the friend – instead he kept heading west, going nowhere in particular; he says he was just driving. He eventually came to Rt 156, which runs due north/south through the our town. He turned south on Rt 156, heading toward town. At some point he began traveling at very high speed. We had originally been told that people saw him driving like this and called 911, but that turned out to be untrue.
Just before the accident, a police officer was setting up a radar trap on Rt. 156. He pulled off to the side of the road, pointing north. The officer got out of the car and was standing near it when he saw Cook coming toward him, heading south at very high speed. Just after the officer saw him, Cook attempted to pass the car ahead of him, and started to lose control of the car. He crossed fully through the northbound lane and nearly hit the officer, then pulled back into the southbound lane. The officer got into the car and pulled out, doing a u-turn to get behind Cook. After the u-turn, Cook again crossed the center of the road, and hit Kirk.
For some reason, I’m not sure why, the officer chose to go to Cook’s car (this bothers me – why didn’t he go to Kirk?). Meanwhile witnesses who stopped went to try to help Kirk. It is my understanding there were two people, a man and a woman, who went to his car, but they couldn’t do anything; he was too badly hurt and passed away very fast after they got there. The police officer found Cook in his car conscious. I believe his leg was stuck – he was saying it was hurt. Because of the severity of the accident, a helicopter was called to transport him to the hospital. Before getting in, he told the officer he had been traveling 110 mph. I am told the officer was extremely distraught and angry, and repeatedly yelled at Cook that he had killed someone. According to the police, he did not react or seem concerned. One thing that is very strange is that Cook was driving barefoot and had no pants on – just boxer shorts. He gave no explanation for why. One theory is that he actually did go see the person he was supposed to see and that something happened there to cause him to be partially undressed and to leave there without getting dressed.
Cook had a broken foot and was released that night. Due to the necessity of attending to his medical needs, he was not given a breathalyzer, but blood for a drug and alcohol test was taken at the hospital (the results came back recently, and they were completely clean).
The next day, the police went to his home to interview him. He still offered no explanation for anything. According to the police, the house he lived in seems to revolve around him. The dining room was set up as a game and weight room for him, with a big screen TV, video systems, and weight lifting equipment. He and his father talked quite a bit about his success as a high school football player, and said that he was scheduled to start playing semi-pro football in August for a team based out of San Antonio. The family dynamic appears to be that the sister takes orders from him. The impression of the police from their observations and what they heard from the family is that he had been the football hero in high school, and had been the center of attention and not held accountable for his behavior for most of his life.
They decided to arrest him and charge him with manslaughter. Normally they would not have made an arrest until after the tests were back, and until the accident scene reconstruction was complete. However, they were concerned that if he started the football job they might be unable to locate him when they wanted to arrest him. They made the arrest at his house that day. He went to jail, made bail and was released. For anyone who wants to see it, you can view his arrest record and a link to his mug shot here:
http://justice.dentoncounty.com/isapi/UVlink.isa/dentonco/WEBSERV/JailSearch?action%253Dview%26track%253D231965329
The next step is for the police to send the case to the DA. It is ready to go except for the fact that the accident reconstruction is still not available. The reconstruction is the mathematical analysis that will provide hard evidence of exactly what happened, how fast he was going, etc. The problem is that our police department is too small to have someone trained to do this on their staff, so they rely on neighboring jurisdictions to help. The person doing the work has his own job to do, and apparently it takes priority over the work he does for our town. I spoke to the Chief of Police of our town yesterday, and he says he was told that the report is now done, but that the guy who did it is on vacation, and they will have him send it over when he gets back next week. I’ll believe it when I see it. Up until now, I haven’t known his name and the town he works for, but I found out yesterday. If it doesn’t come next week, I will start calling over there because it is ridiculous that it is taking so long.
At any rate, once the our police have it, they will send the case to the DA, who will decide if they want to stick with the manslaughter charge, or charge him with a higher crime. I am told the options would be either aggravated assault or criminally negligent homicide, both of which are more serious charges. The manslaughter charge carries a penalty of 2 – 20 years; I’m not sure about the higher charges. After they decide, the case will go to a grand jury. I’m told this will probably not happen for about 3 months after the DA gets the case. Assuming the grand jury returns an indictment (I’m told there is 100% confidence that they will), it will be assigned to a different DA to prepare for trial. It will probably take 6 to 12 months from that point to get to trial.
I try to make sure I do not count on punishment for him to help me recover. I go through phases of how I feel. Sometimes I want him held responsible, sometimes I almost don’t even care – it doesn’t change the outcome. I am told that the DA will consult with us about their decision regarding potential charges as well as the possibility of a plea bargain – hopefully that’s true.
So this is what I know for now. Sorry it was so long – it’s a lot to explain. I’ll keep you posted – thanks for listening.
The name of the other driver is David Nathanial Cook. He is 20 years old and lives a little over an hour east of where we live. He lives with his dad and his sister. It is my understanding that he has no history of accidents or criminal charges.
Before the accident, he left home and traveled west. He told the police that he was going to a town halfway in between our two towns to see a friend. However, he says he never ended up seeing the friend – instead he kept heading west, going nowhere in particular; he says he was just driving. He eventually came to Rt 156, which runs due north/south through the our town. He turned south on Rt 156, heading toward town. At some point he began traveling at very high speed. We had originally been told that people saw him driving like this and called 911, but that turned out to be untrue.
Just before the accident, a police officer was setting up a radar trap on Rt. 156. He pulled off to the side of the road, pointing north. The officer got out of the car and was standing near it when he saw Cook coming toward him, heading south at very high speed. Just after the officer saw him, Cook attempted to pass the car ahead of him, and started to lose control of the car. He crossed fully through the northbound lane and nearly hit the officer, then pulled back into the southbound lane. The officer got into the car and pulled out, doing a u-turn to get behind Cook. After the u-turn, Cook again crossed the center of the road, and hit Kirk.
For some reason, I’m not sure why, the officer chose to go to Cook’s car (this bothers me – why didn’t he go to Kirk?). Meanwhile witnesses who stopped went to try to help Kirk. It is my understanding there were two people, a man and a woman, who went to his car, but they couldn’t do anything; he was too badly hurt and passed away very fast after they got there. The police officer found Cook in his car conscious. I believe his leg was stuck – he was saying it was hurt. Because of the severity of the accident, a helicopter was called to transport him to the hospital. Before getting in, he told the officer he had been traveling 110 mph. I am told the officer was extremely distraught and angry, and repeatedly yelled at Cook that he had killed someone. According to the police, he did not react or seem concerned. One thing that is very strange is that Cook was driving barefoot and had no pants on – just boxer shorts. He gave no explanation for why. One theory is that he actually did go see the person he was supposed to see and that something happened there to cause him to be partially undressed and to leave there without getting dressed.
Cook had a broken foot and was released that night. Due to the necessity of attending to his medical needs, he was not given a breathalyzer, but blood for a drug and alcohol test was taken at the hospital (the results came back recently, and they were completely clean).
The next day, the police went to his home to interview him. He still offered no explanation for anything. According to the police, the house he lived in seems to revolve around him. The dining room was set up as a game and weight room for him, with a big screen TV, video systems, and weight lifting equipment. He and his father talked quite a bit about his success as a high school football player, and said that he was scheduled to start playing semi-pro football in August for a team based out of San Antonio. The family dynamic appears to be that the sister takes orders from him. The impression of the police from their observations and what they heard from the family is that he had been the football hero in high school, and had been the center of attention and not held accountable for his behavior for most of his life.
They decided to arrest him and charge him with manslaughter. Normally they would not have made an arrest until after the tests were back, and until the accident scene reconstruction was complete. However, they were concerned that if he started the football job they might be unable to locate him when they wanted to arrest him. They made the arrest at his house that day. He went to jail, made bail and was released. For anyone who wants to see it, you can view his arrest record and a link to his mug shot here:
http://justice.dentoncounty.com/isapi/UVlink.isa/dentonco/WEBSERV/JailSearch?action%253Dview%26track%253D231965329
The next step is for the police to send the case to the DA. It is ready to go except for the fact that the accident reconstruction is still not available. The reconstruction is the mathematical analysis that will provide hard evidence of exactly what happened, how fast he was going, etc. The problem is that our police department is too small to have someone trained to do this on their staff, so they rely on neighboring jurisdictions to help. The person doing the work has his own job to do, and apparently it takes priority over the work he does for our town. I spoke to the Chief of Police of our town yesterday, and he says he was told that the report is now done, but that the guy who did it is on vacation, and they will have him send it over when he gets back next week. I’ll believe it when I see it. Up until now, I haven’t known his name and the town he works for, but I found out yesterday. If it doesn’t come next week, I will start calling over there because it is ridiculous that it is taking so long.
At any rate, once the our police have it, they will send the case to the DA, who will decide if they want to stick with the manslaughter charge, or charge him with a higher crime. I am told the options would be either aggravated assault or criminally negligent homicide, both of which are more serious charges. The manslaughter charge carries a penalty of 2 – 20 years; I’m not sure about the higher charges. After they decide, the case will go to a grand jury. I’m told this will probably not happen for about 3 months after the DA gets the case. Assuming the grand jury returns an indictment (I’m told there is 100% confidence that they will), it will be assigned to a different DA to prepare for trial. It will probably take 6 to 12 months from that point to get to trial.
I try to make sure I do not count on punishment for him to help me recover. I go through phases of how I feel. Sometimes I want him held responsible, sometimes I almost don’t even care – it doesn’t change the outcome. I am told that the DA will consult with us about their decision regarding potential charges as well as the possibility of a plea bargain – hopefully that’s true.
So this is what I know for now. Sorry it was so long – it’s a lot to explain. I’ll keep you posted – thanks for listening.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Mr. Perfect
Let me start by saying this is a good post – I am in a grateful and appreciative mode, at least for the moment, so hopefully you won’t go away depressed.
I have been thinking a lot about who I remember him to be. I am trying not to make a saint out of him. All the books say that it helps to remember that he wasn’t perfect, and I know he wouldn’t want to be thought of as perfect. So I have been trying to remember his flaws, to remember him as human.
Here is what I have so far:
· He had a lot of gas, and considered it a source of both pride and amusement (I guess that just proves he was a guy)
· He chewed too loud
· He couldn’t throw away ANYTHING
· His butt crack showed when he bent over, and he didn’t care
· He procrastinated about chores
· He could be very impatient, and sometimes was short or abrupt
· He smelled pretty bad by the end of hunting season
That’s it – that’s all I’ve got. Pretty perfect, huh? Especially since none of that matters in the least (except maybe the gas…!).
What bugs me about the idea that remembering his flaws will help me deal with his loss is that it implies that because he wasn’t perfect, the marriage wasn’t perfect. And I guess it wasn’t “perfect” in the literal sense. To me, though, it was perfect. Not because we never disagreed, because we did. Not because we never noticed anyone of the opposite sex, because we did (as a matter of fact, I excelled at pointing out to him the pretty women in the freezer section of the grocery store – tee hee). Not because every minute was exciting, because it wasn’t.
So why do I feel like it was “perfect?” After some reflection, I think the answer lies in something our son Matt told me shortly after Kirk died. It was late at night and we were talking on the phone. I told Matt how proud Kirk was of him, and that I hoped he knew that his dad loved him so much, even if we were not always the best parents. He replied that we were the best parents. I said that I knew we really weren’t – we made some bad decisions at times, and there were definitely “do-overs” we would have taken if we could have. I will never forget his answer to me – it was probably the most perceptive thing anyone has ever said to me. He said that that being a great parent doesn’t come from getting it right every time – it comes from always trying to get it right. The actual things we did didn’t determine the quality of our parenting – the constant commitment and genuine attempts did. (All you parents out there are looking at parenting totally differently right now, aren’t you? Such wisdom from someone who is not yet a parent).
I have realized that Matt is right, and that this same thinking works for marriage. It’s not the end result that makes a perfect marriage – it’s the work, the attempts, the commitment, the perseverance (not to mention the laughter, the attraction, the friendship, and all the other easy, fun stuff). And the truth is that Kirk worked harder at it than I did. Not that I didn’t work hard – I did. But in the end, I bet that almost every one of you who is or has been married would agree that there is one person who works harder at the commitment and the appreciation than does the other. For us, that was him. He was the perfect husband – gas or no gas. I like to think that if he knows, wherever he is, that I’m saying this, he is puffing his chest up, sticking his elbows out, and walking around with that Kirk strut (you can see it in your mind can’t you?) and telling everyone he sees, “I’m the perfect husband!”
As inconceivable as it is now, I know myself well enough to know that someday I will probably want another partner. To quote Mr. T, “I pity the fool!” – the fool who has to follow Mr. Perfect.
I have been thinking a lot about who I remember him to be. I am trying not to make a saint out of him. All the books say that it helps to remember that he wasn’t perfect, and I know he wouldn’t want to be thought of as perfect. So I have been trying to remember his flaws, to remember him as human.
Here is what I have so far:
· He had a lot of gas, and considered it a source of both pride and amusement (I guess that just proves he was a guy)
· He chewed too loud
· He couldn’t throw away ANYTHING
· His butt crack showed when he bent over, and he didn’t care
· He procrastinated about chores
· He could be very impatient, and sometimes was short or abrupt
· He smelled pretty bad by the end of hunting season
That’s it – that’s all I’ve got. Pretty perfect, huh? Especially since none of that matters in the least (except maybe the gas…!).
What bugs me about the idea that remembering his flaws will help me deal with his loss is that it implies that because he wasn’t perfect, the marriage wasn’t perfect. And I guess it wasn’t “perfect” in the literal sense. To me, though, it was perfect. Not because we never disagreed, because we did. Not because we never noticed anyone of the opposite sex, because we did (as a matter of fact, I excelled at pointing out to him the pretty women in the freezer section of the grocery store – tee hee). Not because every minute was exciting, because it wasn’t.
So why do I feel like it was “perfect?” After some reflection, I think the answer lies in something our son Matt told me shortly after Kirk died. It was late at night and we were talking on the phone. I told Matt how proud Kirk was of him, and that I hoped he knew that his dad loved him so much, even if we were not always the best parents. He replied that we were the best parents. I said that I knew we really weren’t – we made some bad decisions at times, and there were definitely “do-overs” we would have taken if we could have. I will never forget his answer to me – it was probably the most perceptive thing anyone has ever said to me. He said that that being a great parent doesn’t come from getting it right every time – it comes from always trying to get it right. The actual things we did didn’t determine the quality of our parenting – the constant commitment and genuine attempts did. (All you parents out there are looking at parenting totally differently right now, aren’t you? Such wisdom from someone who is not yet a parent).
I have realized that Matt is right, and that this same thinking works for marriage. It’s not the end result that makes a perfect marriage – it’s the work, the attempts, the commitment, the perseverance (not to mention the laughter, the attraction, the friendship, and all the other easy, fun stuff). And the truth is that Kirk worked harder at it than I did. Not that I didn’t work hard – I did. But in the end, I bet that almost every one of you who is or has been married would agree that there is one person who works harder at the commitment and the appreciation than does the other. For us, that was him. He was the perfect husband – gas or no gas. I like to think that if he knows, wherever he is, that I’m saying this, he is puffing his chest up, sticking his elbows out, and walking around with that Kirk strut (you can see it in your mind can’t you?) and telling everyone he sees, “I’m the perfect husband!”
As inconceivable as it is now, I know myself well enough to know that someday I will probably want another partner. To quote Mr. T, “I pity the fool!” – the fool who has to follow Mr. Perfect.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Signs, or Lack Thereof
More than any other topic, I am now consumed with the afterlife. Whether there is one, and what it is like, and most of all, how it relates to our world. I can’t quite bring myself to believe without proof. I constantly watch for “signs” that he is nearby, or with me somehow. When I talk to him out loud (which I do pretty often) this is one of the most frequent topics – “please send me a sign.” A tall order to give to someone who has no physical self, especially when the recipient is the over-analytical, "prove-it-to-me" freak that I am.
So far, here’s what I’ve got:
· No matter how cold and miserable the weather is when I visit the cemetery, the sun has come out every time I have sat there and asked for a sign
· Codie, who never makes eye contact for very long, has twice stared into my eyes with an intensity I have never seen before (I know - this one is especially lame)
· Three days in a row while I was either not home or was sleeping, a bird somehow got into the house (Kirk really liked birds). The bird and I have a routine now - I open the front door and hold a Swiffer Sweeper up in the air, and he flies out the door.
· When I was at the cemetery one day quietly talking to him out loud about the nature there and how much he would like it, a deer came out of the woods, and four birds landed next to me, and a butterfly or something landed on my head. In my surprise at the butterfly, I of course reacted by whacking it off my head and yelling out loud that there was Nature in my hair. Needless to say, all the members of Nature left.
· His sneakers are still tucked back under the desk in the office right where he left them. I use the office quite a bit, and always push the chair back under the desk. On one of the worst days I have had so far, I came home to find the chair pulled out and turned toward the office door, and one sneaker out in the middle of the room – about 5 feet from where it had been.
· On the plane the other day, after writing the last blog entry, I was feeling really sad, and decided to try to sleep. I put my iPod on and finally dozed off. I woke up later, and the first words I heard were from the end of a Simon and Garfunkel song that we always listened to on the boat, and they were “I love you, girl, Oh I love you.”
And finally, my favorite - on July 25, I was feeling terribly sad and confused about where he is, and wrote the “Where Are You?” entry to the blog. I stayed up very late after posting it because I was too sad to get into bed, but finally at 2 a.m., decided to try to sleep. I went into the office to shut down the computer, and there was a pop up window on the screen. I tried to close it but accidentally opened it instead, and it took me to YouTube, where there was a banner link for a video by Jim Brickman and Lady Antebellum. I had never heard of the song before, and clicked on it only because Kirk loved Jim Brickman (which I used to mock him heartily about due to the geekiness factor), and I love Lady Antebellum. It turned out to be a song called “Never Alone” that they did several years ago before Lady Antebellum was successful. It is about how we even when we are apart from the people we love, their love stays with us and keeps us from being truly alone. The words felt like they were speaking right to me, or like they were what I would say to him.
Are all these things coincidental? Very likely. After each one I tell him that if that was him, I appreciate the effort, but it wasn’t quite good enough – he has to do something that can have NO other explanation in order for me to be sure. I have visions of him sitting there half laughing at how typical of me it is to demand proof, and half exasperated that I expect so much of a person who isn’t even a physical person anymore.
Am I geeky and sappy to think that some of this might actually be him? For sure – but let me tell you, when you lose someone you love so much, you start to grasp at every possibility. Is it ridiculous? Maybe. Or maybe, it’s the beginning of faith - the first crack in the demand for the logical. That would be okay with me. Maybe it’s even what is required of me. Maybe rather than ask so much of him in the way of evidence, the burden is really on me. To let go of the demands and just believe.
Maybe he will someday signal me in a way that leaves no doubt. But if not, I hope one day I will have faith. Not God faith, because to me this question is not a God question. Just Kirk faith, afterlife faith. I’m not there yet, but maybe someday.
In the meantime, maybe, just maybe, he really did send me this song. Whether or not he did, I will share it here (although I would suggest anyone who is interested go to YouTube and listen – it is a very nice song and reading it does not do it justice). It makes me feel sad, happy, comforted, lonely, hopeful, understood – come to think of it, all the feelings I have about him. From him to me, or from me to him, or from him to the kids, or any other way – it works no matter how you interpret it.
So far, here’s what I’ve got:
· No matter how cold and miserable the weather is when I visit the cemetery, the sun has come out every time I have sat there and asked for a sign
· Codie, who never makes eye contact for very long, has twice stared into my eyes with an intensity I have never seen before (I know - this one is especially lame)
· Three days in a row while I was either not home or was sleeping, a bird somehow got into the house (Kirk really liked birds). The bird and I have a routine now - I open the front door and hold a Swiffer Sweeper up in the air, and he flies out the door.
· When I was at the cemetery one day quietly talking to him out loud about the nature there and how much he would like it, a deer came out of the woods, and four birds landed next to me, and a butterfly or something landed on my head. In my surprise at the butterfly, I of course reacted by whacking it off my head and yelling out loud that there was Nature in my hair. Needless to say, all the members of Nature left.
· His sneakers are still tucked back under the desk in the office right where he left them. I use the office quite a bit, and always push the chair back under the desk. On one of the worst days I have had so far, I came home to find the chair pulled out and turned toward the office door, and one sneaker out in the middle of the room – about 5 feet from where it had been.
· On the plane the other day, after writing the last blog entry, I was feeling really sad, and decided to try to sleep. I put my iPod on and finally dozed off. I woke up later, and the first words I heard were from the end of a Simon and Garfunkel song that we always listened to on the boat, and they were “I love you, girl, Oh I love you.”
And finally, my favorite - on July 25, I was feeling terribly sad and confused about where he is, and wrote the “Where Are You?” entry to the blog. I stayed up very late after posting it because I was too sad to get into bed, but finally at 2 a.m., decided to try to sleep. I went into the office to shut down the computer, and there was a pop up window on the screen. I tried to close it but accidentally opened it instead, and it took me to YouTube, where there was a banner link for a video by Jim Brickman and Lady Antebellum. I had never heard of the song before, and clicked on it only because Kirk loved Jim Brickman (which I used to mock him heartily about due to the geekiness factor), and I love Lady Antebellum. It turned out to be a song called “Never Alone” that they did several years ago before Lady Antebellum was successful. It is about how we even when we are apart from the people we love, their love stays with us and keeps us from being truly alone. The words felt like they were speaking right to me, or like they were what I would say to him.
Are all these things coincidental? Very likely. After each one I tell him that if that was him, I appreciate the effort, but it wasn’t quite good enough – he has to do something that can have NO other explanation in order for me to be sure. I have visions of him sitting there half laughing at how typical of me it is to demand proof, and half exasperated that I expect so much of a person who isn’t even a physical person anymore.
Am I geeky and sappy to think that some of this might actually be him? For sure – but let me tell you, when you lose someone you love so much, you start to grasp at every possibility. Is it ridiculous? Maybe. Or maybe, it’s the beginning of faith - the first crack in the demand for the logical. That would be okay with me. Maybe it’s even what is required of me. Maybe rather than ask so much of him in the way of evidence, the burden is really on me. To let go of the demands and just believe.
Maybe he will someday signal me in a way that leaves no doubt. But if not, I hope one day I will have faith. Not God faith, because to me this question is not a God question. Just Kirk faith, afterlife faith. I’m not there yet, but maybe someday.
In the meantime, maybe, just maybe, he really did send me this song. Whether or not he did, I will share it here (although I would suggest anyone who is interested go to YouTube and listen – it is a very nice song and reading it does not do it justice). It makes me feel sad, happy, comforted, lonely, hopeful, understood – come to think of it, all the feelings I have about him. From him to me, or from me to him, or from him to the kids, or any other way – it works no matter how you interpret it.
Never Alone
May the angels protect you
Trouble neglect you
And heaven accept you when it’s time to go home
May you always have plenty
Your glass never empty
And know in your belly
You're never alone
May your tears come from laughing
You find friends worth having
With every year passing
They mean more than gold
May you win but stay humble
Smile more than grumble
And know when you stumble
You're never alone
Never alone
Never alone
I’ll be in every beat of your heart
When you face the unknown
Wherever you fly
This isn't goodbye
My love will follow you stay with you
Baby you’re never alone
Well I have to be honest
As much as I wanted
I’m not gonna promise the cold winds won’t blow
So when hard times have found you
And your fears surround you
Wrap my love around you
You're never alone
Never alone
Never alone
I’ll be in every beat of your heart
When you face the unknown
Wherever you fly
This isn't goodbye
My love will follow you stay with you
Baby you’re never alone
May the angels protect you
Trouble neglect you
And heaven accept you when it’s time to go home
And when hard times have found you
And your fear surrounds you
Wrap my love around you
You’re never alone
Never alone
Never alone
I’ll be in every beat of your heart
When you face the unknown
Wherever you fly
This isn't goodbye
My love will follow you stay with you
Baby you’re never alone
My love will follow you stay with you
Baby you're never alone
YouTube address: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5pXrMPtCVcE
YouTube address: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5pXrMPtCVcE
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
What Were You Thinking?
On another plane. Leaving Erika, on my way to Mark, Nancy, Jennifer. Crying again. Thinking of you. AGAIN.
Thinking of your last minutes. Minute maybe, or even less. How long? From when he hit you to when you died. Not long, I know, but exactly how long I’ll never know.
What did you think? Lots of things, really fast, or nothing at all? Did you only feel? Were you scared? Or sad? Or pissed? Or maybe you were just reacting – trying to swerve, to survive, to avoid the impact.
If you could think, who did you think of? All of us? Your friends, your Mom, your Dad, Codie, Matt and Erika, me? Did you have time for us all? If it’s true that your life flashes before you, then it was all of us. If not, who did you choose? Was it me? You have picked me so many times. In the basement of Howard Johnson’s, on the edge of Niagara Falls, in the Gates Town Hall, in the early years when it was so hard to learn to live together and survive, all the times we argued or I hurt you. Every time you had a choice – should I pick her? Every time, you did. Was it me this time? If so, what did you think? I love her so much? She loves me so much? Is there a difference, or are they both really the same thought?
Did you see “the light?” Did it call you? If so, why did you go? Why did you go why did you go why did you go? I’m not mad at you (yet – all the books say I will be someday) I just want to know why you went. Did you want to? I mean if you saw the light. I know you didn’t want to if there was nothing compelling you, but people say that when you see it you want to go. I want you to have seen it, because it might mean there is something or someplace good waiting for you, somewhere that is happy to be. But if there was, why did you choose it over us all? Over me? When you have always picked me before? Or did you fight, and you lost? I only wanted you to fight if you won. Otherwise it means your last moments were not peaceful and easy.
I still choose you. To remember, to wish for, to miss, to love, to be grateful for, to laugh about. Someday when I die, if I get to choose, I will pick you to think about. And hopefully to go to. I hope there’s a kiss chair there.
Thinking of your last minutes. Minute maybe, or even less. How long? From when he hit you to when you died. Not long, I know, but exactly how long I’ll never know.
What did you think? Lots of things, really fast, or nothing at all? Did you only feel? Were you scared? Or sad? Or pissed? Or maybe you were just reacting – trying to swerve, to survive, to avoid the impact.
If you could think, who did you think of? All of us? Your friends, your Mom, your Dad, Codie, Matt and Erika, me? Did you have time for us all? If it’s true that your life flashes before you, then it was all of us. If not, who did you choose? Was it me? You have picked me so many times. In the basement of Howard Johnson’s, on the edge of Niagara Falls, in the Gates Town Hall, in the early years when it was so hard to learn to live together and survive, all the times we argued or I hurt you. Every time you had a choice – should I pick her? Every time, you did. Was it me this time? If so, what did you think? I love her so much? She loves me so much? Is there a difference, or are they both really the same thought?
Did you see “the light?” Did it call you? If so, why did you go? Why did you go why did you go why did you go? I’m not mad at you (yet – all the books say I will be someday) I just want to know why you went. Did you want to? I mean if you saw the light. I know you didn’t want to if there was nothing compelling you, but people say that when you see it you want to go. I want you to have seen it, because it might mean there is something or someplace good waiting for you, somewhere that is happy to be. But if there was, why did you choose it over us all? Over me? When you have always picked me before? Or did you fight, and you lost? I only wanted you to fight if you won. Otherwise it means your last moments were not peaceful and easy.
I still choose you. To remember, to wish for, to miss, to love, to be grateful for, to laugh about. Someday when I die, if I get to choose, I will pick you to think about. And hopefully to go to. I hope there’s a kiss chair there.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
My New Travel Reality
Today I go see Erika – I am writing this on the plane. I will stay with her for a few days, then go to a lake in the Adirondacks in NY to visit Mark and Nancy and my sister Jennifer and her family. Turns out they both vacation at the same lake the same week every year and we never knew it before.
I have been looking forward to this trip, which will let me spend time with people who are some of the most comforting people for me to be around. Yet I cried most of the way to the airport and I am struggling not to right now. This is the second time I have traveled since the accident, not counting the travel to and from NY for the funeral. I have traveled quite a bit in my career, and never used to mind traveling alone. It’s all different now. I never realized before how important it was to have someone at home. It made the aloneness only temporary, whereas now it is an in-my-face reminder that this is my new life.
Now when I leave for the airport, no one notices (no PERSON anyway). No one looks forward to my return. He doesn’t call me when I’m in the airport; I don’t text him just before I shut down my phone on the plane. I won’t be calling home to tell him I got there safely, and he won’t be saying he misses me already. Traveling alone has become traveling ALONE.
On top of that, it is tough to leave Codie and Charley. Their lives are so different now. Because he worked from home, neither of them has ever had a time in their lives when they were alone all day. It’s hard enough seeing how forlorn they look when I leave for work each day – it’s worse when I leave for a trip. Today Codie tried to follow me to the car – I had to make her go back inside and close the door while she stood there. It makes me feel so sad and guilty. I have a great dog sitter who stays at the house with them, and they love her, but it’s not the same.
On my last trip, I learned that coming home is even worse. I will not call him when I land. All around me, I will hear people on the phone – “I’m here – meet me at…” or “We’re on the ground – I’ll be home soon.” No one will care that I am on the ground, or driving home, and just plain home. The kiss chair will be empty, and no one will have made one of my favorite foods to say “I’m glad you’re back.”
This trip to see Erika is especially hard because we were supposed to go together. Kirk and I had never been to Vegas together at all, much less to visit her. She has lived there for almost four years, and we had still not gotten out there. The timing was always wrong, for us or for her. We had agreed this was the year we would go – no specific date, but likely in June. The week of the accident, we had started looking at dates. He wanted me to play the slots, and kept telling me that if I won a little, I needed to make a big fuss, screaming and jumping up and down (definitely NOT my style). He was convinced that casinos loved people who made a big scene when they won, and that if you did it they would make sure your machine cooperated and you won even more (you will notice it wasn’t HIM who was supposed to act like an idiot in order to test this theory). I am so looking forward to seeing her but can’t help thinking that I should have been doing it with him.
But I will remind myself that the good things in life are still good even though they are not the same, and even though I wish they were. I will still be glad to see Erika, and will still enjoy meeting her friends. I will have a good time at the lake, and I may even let Mark teach me to fish. I will for sure let Sean make me a drink just the way I like it. I know there will be tears over the next few days. Even still, I am hoping that somewhere on this trip I will have the first little moment when my inside happiness comes back.
I have been looking forward to this trip, which will let me spend time with people who are some of the most comforting people for me to be around. Yet I cried most of the way to the airport and I am struggling not to right now. This is the second time I have traveled since the accident, not counting the travel to and from NY for the funeral. I have traveled quite a bit in my career, and never used to mind traveling alone. It’s all different now. I never realized before how important it was to have someone at home. It made the aloneness only temporary, whereas now it is an in-my-face reminder that this is my new life.
Now when I leave for the airport, no one notices (no PERSON anyway). No one looks forward to my return. He doesn’t call me when I’m in the airport; I don’t text him just before I shut down my phone on the plane. I won’t be calling home to tell him I got there safely, and he won’t be saying he misses me already. Traveling alone has become traveling ALONE.
On top of that, it is tough to leave Codie and Charley. Their lives are so different now. Because he worked from home, neither of them has ever had a time in their lives when they were alone all day. It’s hard enough seeing how forlorn they look when I leave for work each day – it’s worse when I leave for a trip. Today Codie tried to follow me to the car – I had to make her go back inside and close the door while she stood there. It makes me feel so sad and guilty. I have a great dog sitter who stays at the house with them, and they love her, but it’s not the same.
On my last trip, I learned that coming home is even worse. I will not call him when I land. All around me, I will hear people on the phone – “I’m here – meet me at…” or “We’re on the ground – I’ll be home soon.” No one will care that I am on the ground, or driving home, and just plain home. The kiss chair will be empty, and no one will have made one of my favorite foods to say “I’m glad you’re back.”
This trip to see Erika is especially hard because we were supposed to go together. Kirk and I had never been to Vegas together at all, much less to visit her. She has lived there for almost four years, and we had still not gotten out there. The timing was always wrong, for us or for her. We had agreed this was the year we would go – no specific date, but likely in June. The week of the accident, we had started looking at dates. He wanted me to play the slots, and kept telling me that if I won a little, I needed to make a big fuss, screaming and jumping up and down (definitely NOT my style). He was convinced that casinos loved people who made a big scene when they won, and that if you did it they would make sure your machine cooperated and you won even more (you will notice it wasn’t HIM who was supposed to act like an idiot in order to test this theory). I am so looking forward to seeing her but can’t help thinking that I should have been doing it with him.
But I will remind myself that the good things in life are still good even though they are not the same, and even though I wish they were. I will still be glad to see Erika, and will still enjoy meeting her friends. I will have a good time at the lake, and I may even let Mark teach me to fish. I will for sure let Sean make me a drink just the way I like it. I know there will be tears over the next few days. Even still, I am hoping that somewhere on this trip I will have the first little moment when my inside happiness comes back.
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