Sorry for being gone for a while. I have been occupied with traveling back to GA and SC last week to see friends (which was much needed and good for me) and a visit this week from our friend Nancy from back home (also much needed and very good for me). Next weekend my sister Amanda and her husband will arrive for a visit which I am really looking forward to.
So how am I doing? Well, the season of big events I had been dreading has commenced. So far, I have made it through both of our birthdays. How did it go?
I got through Kirk’s birthday as well as can be expected. For those who don’t know, I went back home to family and friends, and we had a get together to remember him. Friends in at least two other states also celebrated him that day – some even had birthday candles. The day was up and down for me. I went to the cemetery in the morning to have a visit and say happy birthday. I lay down with him like always. I talked some of the time, and lay quietly the rest of the time. I feel close to him there – sad but close. I decided that the topic of the day would be to tell him what I would have told him before he died if I had had the chance. All the way there, I thought about what I would say, and there was so much I couldn’t keep it all in my head. When I got there, I spread my blanket on the ground, laid down with him, and tried to organize it in my mind so I could say it out loud. All of a sudden, it was clear. It was “Thank you.”
Thank you for loving me beyond all reason. For giving me two beautiful children that I am so proud of and so happy to have for mine. For making me laugh every single day. For making me feel good about myself and for making me feel capable and confident. For not just loving me, but for telling and showing the world how much you loved me. For being my shower lifeguard so I could get clean without fear of drowning. For being proud of me and for being someone I could be proud of too. For being so delighted about life and seeing so much humor in the world that you made the rest of us feel and see it too.
Thank you for being my partner, not just my housemate. For working so long and hard to take care of us. For being romantic, like the time you kept sending me anonymous cards and gifts pretending to be a secret admirer until I got scared cause I thought they were from a crazy stalker. For taking me seriously, while making sure I didn’t take myself too seriously. For all the flowers you bought for no reason except to make me happy, most especially the ones you sent the day before you died. For being so delighted when I came home every day, and for waking up every morning when I left to say “Take a banana, drive carefully, I love you.”
Thank you for taking care of me when I got sick, for letting me sleep late all those weekends, for knowing when I needed comfort food. For reaching for my hand every time we walked together for all thirty years. For still being attracted to me, no matter how much weight I gained or how much older I got, and always saying (and meaning) that I was gorgeous, even when I clearly wasn’t. For setting such a good example for the kids, for being clear about right and wrong, for teaching them how to treat people. For surprising me so much and making every day new. For the “Welcome Back!!” sign you made for me after I left the room for only 10 minutes.
Thank you for sticking with me and fighting for me in the early years when sometimes I thought maybe we had made a mistake. For the secret and romantic Christmas gift you gave me a few years ago that I am not allowed to tell anyone about, that you didn’t want to give me, but you knew I wanted so much, so you bought it anyway just to make me happy. For not being perfect, but being perfect for me. For silently taking my hand and pulling me out of a chair to dance with you whenever “You Look Wonderful Tonight” came on. For changing – keeping and growing the best parts of you as you matured, and leaving the not so good parts behind. Thank you for being mine.
I know he knew while he was alive that I appreciated him, but I’m not so sure he knew just what for, or exactly how much. I hope he always felt it even though I didn’t spell it out the way I wish I had. I hope he heard me on his birthday. I know I didn’t say it exactly the way I just wrote it. Mostly I just said “thank you” over and over because the list is far too long to articulate. Hopefully he can fill in the blanks.
I also cleaned the stone that day. At the beginning of the visit, I left the cleaning stuff in the car, and went down the hill for my visit with him. Near the end of my visit, I got up to walk back up the hill to the car to get what I needed. I saw that while I had been laying with him, two men – one much older than me, and one about my age - had arrived and were visiting a new gravesite across the path. I think they were father and son, visiting a woman who must have been the older man’s wife. The son was clearly supporting the father, physically and emotionally – holding his dad’s arm as he walked, hugging him while his dad cried, fastening his dad’s coat. It made me cry – partly because I was sad they had lost their wife and mother, but also overwhelmingly sad for me. Seeing the father, much older than me, visiting his wife, hit me like a wall – all I could think is I am TOO YOUNG to be cleaning my husband’s tombstone. No woman my age, married to a man the same age, should be spending his birthday at the cemetery scrubbing grass clippings off of something that tells the world he isn’t there to celebrate.
I did it though. He wouldn’t like for his grave to be messy. Between me, his Dad and Sandy, and Matt, we try to keep it looking nice. It’s the closest we can come to taking care of him now. So I scrubbed the grass off, washed the stone, rinsed and dried it, and filled the bird feeder.
Then I went back to my sister’s house to get ready for the “party.” I made Kirk’s macaroni salad and “hard vegetable” salad, and did a good enough job that they actually tasted like his, which made me happy. My mom made her cheese ball that he loved, my sister Lauren made her appetizers, Matt made a big pot of hot sauce, and we had Zweigle’s hotdogs. The meal was not as elaborate as he would have put on, but it was good all the same, with lots of his staple picnic foods. Everyone came over, and I visited, talked about him, got hugs, and cried on the front porch by myself a couple of times. The best thing was that Kirk’s dad gave me a wonderful gift that day – two memories he had of Kirk that I had not known. The first was how Kirk won the Little League championship for his team as a kid. I had known they won, but never knew before that Kirk made the winning play. The second was that he said that Kirk had told him shortly after he met me that he had met the girl he was going to marry. Thank you, Kirk, for picking me.
Enough for today – I’ll tell you about my birthday another time.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Finally - Some Movement in the Justice System
Just a quick update to let everyone know that there is finally some progress in the criminal case. The DA has decided that the final charge against the other driver will be manslaughter. The case will go in front of the grand jury on October 22. Since I know many of you have not had exposure to the criminal system (no, Law and Order doesn't count) I will explain. My apologies if you already know this.
The grand jury does not decide guilt or innocence, nor does the defendant present any defense. The grand jury hearing is basically round one of the bigger process. The grand jury is composed of normal people from the jury pool. The DA's office goes in front of this jury and presents the basics of their case, and asks for an indictment on the charge the DA feels the defendant is guilty of. If the grand jury agrees that there is enough evidence against the person that he should be indicted, they return what is called a "true bill." This basically means the charges will go forward and an actual criminal trial will be scheduled. It does not mean the person is guilty or will be found guilty - just that the DA has enough evidence to hold a trial.
Grand jury proceedings are closed to the public, so we cannot attend. The defendant is also not there the whole time, and cannot have a defense attorney present. One of the things that is different about a grand jury is that they can ask questions of the DA, of the defendant, and of witnesses. I am told that in this case the grand jury proceeding is a slam dunk and that there is no doubt that they will indict him.
I am happy that this has been scheduled, but frustrated at the system still. You may recall that about 5 weeks ago I wrote that I had talked to the DA's office and they had just gotten the case. They told me that the very earliest I could expect anything to progress was the end of September. I waited until yesterday, and then called them. I was told these things take time, you need to be patient, we have a ton of cases, yada, yada, yada. No one seemed to know the exact status of THIS case - they kept giving me generic answers about how the process works in general, but no one knew what the current state of this particular case was. They just kept saying it is in "intake." In a nice but firm way, with a few unintentional tears thrown in, I pitched a fit and talked to about four people. They all reassured me that it was not buried on someone's desk and that it was being "reviewed." I pushed and pushed until someone went and found the file and told me that it had been reviewed, and that the current state was that the DA was deciding what charge to bring to the grand jury. They told me that even after that was decided, I should expect it to be at least another two months before it would be ready to go to a grand jury, because the DA has to be sure first that the evidence is solid enough to support the charge. I requested updates every two weeks and they reluctantly agreed. Then lo and behold, at 9 a.m. today I get a call saying the charges are set and it has been scheduled. I think the case was never looked at at all until I made them go open the file, and that they then realized it is such a clear cut case they could go ahead and schedule. How much more "minimum evidence" do you need than a confession from the defendant, a police officer who witnessed the accident, and a mathematical reconstruction of the accident proving that the guy crossed into Kirk's lane while going in excess of 100 mph?
If I hadn't pushed I think the case would still be sitting there. How else do you explain them telling me it would take two more months, and then all of a sudden it's scheduled? At any rate, I'm learning what gets action and what doesn't.
I will know at the end of the day on Oct. 22 whether he's been indicted. I'll keep you posted.
The grand jury does not decide guilt or innocence, nor does the defendant present any defense. The grand jury hearing is basically round one of the bigger process. The grand jury is composed of normal people from the jury pool. The DA's office goes in front of this jury and presents the basics of their case, and asks for an indictment on the charge the DA feels the defendant is guilty of. If the grand jury agrees that there is enough evidence against the person that he should be indicted, they return what is called a "true bill." This basically means the charges will go forward and an actual criminal trial will be scheduled. It does not mean the person is guilty or will be found guilty - just that the DA has enough evidence to hold a trial.
Grand jury proceedings are closed to the public, so we cannot attend. The defendant is also not there the whole time, and cannot have a defense attorney present. One of the things that is different about a grand jury is that they can ask questions of the DA, of the defendant, and of witnesses. I am told that in this case the grand jury proceeding is a slam dunk and that there is no doubt that they will indict him.
I am happy that this has been scheduled, but frustrated at the system still. You may recall that about 5 weeks ago I wrote that I had talked to the DA's office and they had just gotten the case. They told me that the very earliest I could expect anything to progress was the end of September. I waited until yesterday, and then called them. I was told these things take time, you need to be patient, we have a ton of cases, yada, yada, yada. No one seemed to know the exact status of THIS case - they kept giving me generic answers about how the process works in general, but no one knew what the current state of this particular case was. They just kept saying it is in "intake." In a nice but firm way, with a few unintentional tears thrown in, I pitched a fit and talked to about four people. They all reassured me that it was not buried on someone's desk and that it was being "reviewed." I pushed and pushed until someone went and found the file and told me that it had been reviewed, and that the current state was that the DA was deciding what charge to bring to the grand jury. They told me that even after that was decided, I should expect it to be at least another two months before it would be ready to go to a grand jury, because the DA has to be sure first that the evidence is solid enough to support the charge. I requested updates every two weeks and they reluctantly agreed. Then lo and behold, at 9 a.m. today I get a call saying the charges are set and it has been scheduled. I think the case was never looked at at all until I made them go open the file, and that they then realized it is such a clear cut case they could go ahead and schedule. How much more "minimum evidence" do you need than a confession from the defendant, a police officer who witnessed the accident, and a mathematical reconstruction of the accident proving that the guy crossed into Kirk's lane while going in excess of 100 mph?
If I hadn't pushed I think the case would still be sitting there. How else do you explain them telling me it would take two more months, and then all of a sudden it's scheduled? At any rate, I'm learning what gets action and what doesn't.
I will know at the end of the day on Oct. 22 whether he's been indicted. I'll keep you posted.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Progress
It is a little over five months now, and I can feel myself moving ahead. I still often cannot grasp or accept that Kirk is gone, but the rawness of it all has largely dissipated, and the grief and sadness is not as wrenching. Instead, it has become something normal that I carry with me all the time. It is quieter and no longer shocking. And although I still never seem to feel truly happy, there are moments, usually when I see someone I really like, when my smile feels like it is getting closer to being a REAL smile. Closer to being a smile with my eyes as well as my mouth. Closer to being an inside smile, not just an outside smile.
This often does not feel like a relief. I don’t think I like that the emotional extremes have worn off, because it makes me feel further away from him. In some ways I would prefer to still be overcome with pain, just so I won’t be moving through life without him. You will notice that in the first sentence of this entry I said I was moving AHEAD, not moving ON. I don’t know what the difference is, but I guess to me, “moving on” sounds like a choice, whereas “moving ahead” feels unbidden. Whatever it is, it is definitely not a choice – this “progress” is just happening to me. I don’t understand it, but it is not in my control and I cannot change it.
Are you shocked? That I am beginning to progress? I am. Shocked, I mean. I could accept ADJUSTMENT after five months, but PROGRESS? How can I be doing better so soon? How can only five months be enough for me to feel even a tiny bit better, after 30 years of truly loving him? It doesn’t make sense to me, and I feel kind of guilty and sad and uncomfortable about it.
I just read the last paragraph and looked hard at the word “better.” Am I actually a little bit “better?” That’s the word that comes out of my fingers when I type, but is it the right word? I’m not sure it is. I don’t necessarily feel better, but I do know that I am different than I have been, and I’m not worse, and that this is easier than it has been, so I can’t find another word for it.
I finally took the sheets off the bed last night. Remember, the ones I have not washed or changed since he died? Sounds disgusting, I know, and in my other life, I would have thought so too. Five months on the same sheets? Inconceivable. But when you have forever lost the person who shared those sheets with you, changing them is what becomes unthinkable. I have long since accepted that they do not smell like him, the way I had hoped they would. But he died while I was at work, and when I left that morning, he was in bed, barely awake. That means those sheets are the last place we were together. And that the last time I ever saw him, or heard his voice, he was wrapped in them. "I love you. Drive carefully. Take a banana." The same thing he said every day.
Taking the sheets off is the closest thing to a religious experience I have had in a long time – maybe ever. I literally mean I felt reverent, even spiritual, as I did it, like the sheets were a symbol of worship, of something big and important. I didn’t just pull them off like I normally would. I handled them with care, like a priest with an altar cloth. I stroked them, smelled them, inspected them. I looked to see if maybe there was a piece of his hair somewhere. I didn’t find one. I saw that the fitted sheet is starting to fray in one spot, and I knew instantly what it was – the place where his feet touched every night, wearing thin because he always rubbed them over and over on the same spot as he fell asleep. He would rub them so hard against the sheet I could hear it. The sound sometimes kept me awake and I’d have to ask him to stop. I tried to ignore it usually though, because somehow the feeling was soothing to him, like a baby stroking a blanket while drifting off.
In the section where my head goes, the sheets have water spots – big ones. My first thought was drool – do I drool?! Then I realized – no, not drool. It’s tears. Five months and ten days worth of tears. I cried again taking those sheets off. I kept going though, not because I am grossed out by sleeping on them, but because I am as ready as I will ever be to take this step. I folded them carefully, and placed them, unwashed, in the drawer that has been dedicated to the only piece of clothing I have that smells like him – the shirt he wore the day before. The one with the hair clippings inside the neck from the haircut he had the day he wore it. The one I take out and hold when things are really really tough. I held it again last night, then closed the drawer, put the new sheets on the bed, and crawled in for the night. Baby steps.
I’m kind of scared to post this entry. Mainly because of the kids and his parents. What will they think? Will they be hurt? Because I have inched forward a little bit, so soon? Will they think less of me? Will they think I’m “getting over” losing him? I don’t think they will. I think they will be glad. I know I want them to be inching forward too, and would not see their progress as a lack of love or commitment to him. I would not think it would mean they are okay with the loss of him.
But maybe my progress will be hurtful to them. I am his wife, his partner. I am the only one of us who CHOSE him, who made a promise to him. I know the vow was “until death do us part.” How bizarre that vow sounds to me now – as if when someone dies, their spouse is instantly off the hook, no longer committed, free to walk away. Ridiculous. So as our family watches me, how do they reconcile the promise I made to him with seeing me moving ahead? Aren’t I the one who is supposed to show the most commitment? Shouldn’t I be the slow one? The one who should move ahead last? Or NEVER? I am struggling with these questions – why wouldn’t they? I hope they can tell that my vow – to love, to cherish, to honor - still lives. It is not eliminated by death, nor is it diminished by my progress.
I had expected that this journey would take me from one end of the emotional spectrum to the other – that over a long period of time, I would move from extreme sadness back to real happiness again. I thought that when I got “there” (wherever in the future “there” is) I would sometimes feel happy, and sometimes feel sad, but that the happy moments would eventually come to be much more frequent than the sad. And that the happy and sad would be discrete – one or the other at any given time. But I am beginning to think I was wrong, and that this is not about moving along one emotional line, or having one feeling at a time. I think it may turn out to be parallel lines, and that where I will end up is carrying both feelings with me all the time. That I will eventually come to be happy even though I am also still sad.
I guess that’s okay. Maybe even good. Maybe if the moving ahead does not include fully giving up the sadness, it will make it more okay to keep going.
This often does not feel like a relief. I don’t think I like that the emotional extremes have worn off, because it makes me feel further away from him. In some ways I would prefer to still be overcome with pain, just so I won’t be moving through life without him. You will notice that in the first sentence of this entry I said I was moving AHEAD, not moving ON. I don’t know what the difference is, but I guess to me, “moving on” sounds like a choice, whereas “moving ahead” feels unbidden. Whatever it is, it is definitely not a choice – this “progress” is just happening to me. I don’t understand it, but it is not in my control and I cannot change it.
Are you shocked? That I am beginning to progress? I am. Shocked, I mean. I could accept ADJUSTMENT after five months, but PROGRESS? How can I be doing better so soon? How can only five months be enough for me to feel even a tiny bit better, after 30 years of truly loving him? It doesn’t make sense to me, and I feel kind of guilty and sad and uncomfortable about it.
I just read the last paragraph and looked hard at the word “better.” Am I actually a little bit “better?” That’s the word that comes out of my fingers when I type, but is it the right word? I’m not sure it is. I don’t necessarily feel better, but I do know that I am different than I have been, and I’m not worse, and that this is easier than it has been, so I can’t find another word for it.
I finally took the sheets off the bed last night. Remember, the ones I have not washed or changed since he died? Sounds disgusting, I know, and in my other life, I would have thought so too. Five months on the same sheets? Inconceivable. But when you have forever lost the person who shared those sheets with you, changing them is what becomes unthinkable. I have long since accepted that they do not smell like him, the way I had hoped they would. But he died while I was at work, and when I left that morning, he was in bed, barely awake. That means those sheets are the last place we were together. And that the last time I ever saw him, or heard his voice, he was wrapped in them. "I love you. Drive carefully. Take a banana." The same thing he said every day.
Taking the sheets off is the closest thing to a religious experience I have had in a long time – maybe ever. I literally mean I felt reverent, even spiritual, as I did it, like the sheets were a symbol of worship, of something big and important. I didn’t just pull them off like I normally would. I handled them with care, like a priest with an altar cloth. I stroked them, smelled them, inspected them. I looked to see if maybe there was a piece of his hair somewhere. I didn’t find one. I saw that the fitted sheet is starting to fray in one spot, and I knew instantly what it was – the place where his feet touched every night, wearing thin because he always rubbed them over and over on the same spot as he fell asleep. He would rub them so hard against the sheet I could hear it. The sound sometimes kept me awake and I’d have to ask him to stop. I tried to ignore it usually though, because somehow the feeling was soothing to him, like a baby stroking a blanket while drifting off.
In the section where my head goes, the sheets have water spots – big ones. My first thought was drool – do I drool?! Then I realized – no, not drool. It’s tears. Five months and ten days worth of tears. I cried again taking those sheets off. I kept going though, not because I am grossed out by sleeping on them, but because I am as ready as I will ever be to take this step. I folded them carefully, and placed them, unwashed, in the drawer that has been dedicated to the only piece of clothing I have that smells like him – the shirt he wore the day before. The one with the hair clippings inside the neck from the haircut he had the day he wore it. The one I take out and hold when things are really really tough. I held it again last night, then closed the drawer, put the new sheets on the bed, and crawled in for the night. Baby steps.
I’m kind of scared to post this entry. Mainly because of the kids and his parents. What will they think? Will they be hurt? Because I have inched forward a little bit, so soon? Will they think less of me? Will they think I’m “getting over” losing him? I don’t think they will. I think they will be glad. I know I want them to be inching forward too, and would not see their progress as a lack of love or commitment to him. I would not think it would mean they are okay with the loss of him.
But maybe my progress will be hurtful to them. I am his wife, his partner. I am the only one of us who CHOSE him, who made a promise to him. I know the vow was “until death do us part.” How bizarre that vow sounds to me now – as if when someone dies, their spouse is instantly off the hook, no longer committed, free to walk away. Ridiculous. So as our family watches me, how do they reconcile the promise I made to him with seeing me moving ahead? Aren’t I the one who is supposed to show the most commitment? Shouldn’t I be the slow one? The one who should move ahead last? Or NEVER? I am struggling with these questions – why wouldn’t they? I hope they can tell that my vow – to love, to cherish, to honor - still lives. It is not eliminated by death, nor is it diminished by my progress.
I had expected that this journey would take me from one end of the emotional spectrum to the other – that over a long period of time, I would move from extreme sadness back to real happiness again. I thought that when I got “there” (wherever in the future “there” is) I would sometimes feel happy, and sometimes feel sad, but that the happy moments would eventually come to be much more frequent than the sad. And that the happy and sad would be discrete – one or the other at any given time. But I am beginning to think I was wrong, and that this is not about moving along one emotional line, or having one feeling at a time. I think it may turn out to be parallel lines, and that where I will end up is carrying both feelings with me all the time. That I will eventually come to be happy even though I am also still sad.
I guess that’s okay. Maybe even good. Maybe if the moving ahead does not include fully giving up the sadness, it will make it more okay to keep going.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Trains
When I was a kid, I was really scared of nighttime (and all the scary things in it – mass murderers, monsters, the boogeyman, et al.) I was sure they were in my closet, out in the dark hall, coming up the stairs, peering in the windows. The worst was when I woke up in the middle of the night and everyone else in the house was sleeping. Every creak in the house was terrifying. I couldn’t go to my parents, because doing so would have meant putting my feet on the floor, and there was no doubt that whatever was under my bed would reach out and grab my ankle.
This made for some long, lonely nights. The only thing that helped was the trains. We lived pretty far from the nearest train tracks – probably five miles anyway. But at night, when the world was quiet, I could hear the train whistles. I loved that sound. It meant that someone else somewhere in the world was awake too. It comforted me, made me feel safe somehow. I would lie in the dark, scared to death, and strain my ears until I could almost physically feel them hearing, hoping for the sound of a train – another soul in the night. Once I heard that whistle, I relaxed and could often fall back asleep. I don’t know why they meant so much to me, but they did.
As an adult, I never lived alone before Kirk and I got married – I went straight from home to living with him. That meant that I had never spent a night completely alone until we moved south a few years ago. I moved on ahead of him to start my new job, and he stayed back at home to sell the house and wait for our new one to be built. This meant living apart from him and the kids for about five months. I remember thinking I wasn’t too sure how I would feel about living alone in the temporary apartment. I don’t know why I was still intimidated at night, but I was. And sure enough, the first night was pretty lonely and restless – until I heard the trains. Once again, I somehow ended up a few miles from a railroad crossing, and that made it okay. It happened again when I moved here. I came ahead and lived in an apartment for two months while Kirk wrapped up things in the last house, and once again, the trains were here. I never intentionally looked for apartments near railroads, and never knew they were even there in either place until the first night alone. I loved that something that gave me such comfort in childhood still seemed to follow me in adulthood when I needed it.
You’re probably thinking that they give me comfort again now when there are so many nights without him. Unfortunately, that’s not the case. Oh, they’re here all right. Only a few miles away from the house we bought, and definitely “hearable” at night. But like so many other things, the comfort of the trains has been stolen.
Why? Because of where he died. The accident happened on a highway that runs parallel with the train tracks near us. The impact sent his car off the road and it ended up with its nose right at the base of the small hill that the tracks are on top of. That means that while he was in the car, already “gone” but still in there with the investigation going on around him, the trains were going by him. Only about twenty feet up the embankment. There are at least two regular train runs that happen during the time he was there. Maybe more than two.
I think about the people working on the trains. Mostly the conductor. What did he see? He had to have seen all the flashing lights right next to the tracks as he approached. He must have seen the car – crumpled I imagine. Could he see Kirk waiting there for someone to take him out of the car? Does he see things like this all the time as he drives on the tracks? If so, is he numb to it? Or was he upset at what he saw?
I don’t like the thoughts of the conductor, but they don’t bother me nearly as much as the thought of Kirk in the car while the trains went by. They would have been whistling because at that location they are about to go through a crossing. I can’t think of anything sadder and lonelier than the person I love so much sitting in that car, with strangers taking measurements and making spray paint marks all around him, while the trains pass nearby. So much going on - much of it about him, yet somehow ignoring him as he sat there, probably slumped over the wheel. All those people, all those trains – such busy-ness, such activity, such purpose, such noise, with him in the middle of it, so still. All his busy-ness, activity, purpose, and noise forever snuffed out. Waiting for someone to take him from the car, to show the respect he deserved, to treat him like a person instead of an investigation. This is the picture that comes to my mind now when I hear the trains. Him waiting. While I, too, waited just a few miles away - waited for him to come home, or for someone to call and tell me where he was and why he wasn't home yet.
I hate that in having lost something so big, I have also lost things like the comfort of trains. The small things that could maybe have made this an iota more bearable – gone just like he is, taken from me the minute he was.
This made for some long, lonely nights. The only thing that helped was the trains. We lived pretty far from the nearest train tracks – probably five miles anyway. But at night, when the world was quiet, I could hear the train whistles. I loved that sound. It meant that someone else somewhere in the world was awake too. It comforted me, made me feel safe somehow. I would lie in the dark, scared to death, and strain my ears until I could almost physically feel them hearing, hoping for the sound of a train – another soul in the night. Once I heard that whistle, I relaxed and could often fall back asleep. I don’t know why they meant so much to me, but they did.
As an adult, I never lived alone before Kirk and I got married – I went straight from home to living with him. That meant that I had never spent a night completely alone until we moved south a few years ago. I moved on ahead of him to start my new job, and he stayed back at home to sell the house and wait for our new one to be built. This meant living apart from him and the kids for about five months. I remember thinking I wasn’t too sure how I would feel about living alone in the temporary apartment. I don’t know why I was still intimidated at night, but I was. And sure enough, the first night was pretty lonely and restless – until I heard the trains. Once again, I somehow ended up a few miles from a railroad crossing, and that made it okay. It happened again when I moved here. I came ahead and lived in an apartment for two months while Kirk wrapped up things in the last house, and once again, the trains were here. I never intentionally looked for apartments near railroads, and never knew they were even there in either place until the first night alone. I loved that something that gave me such comfort in childhood still seemed to follow me in adulthood when I needed it.
You’re probably thinking that they give me comfort again now when there are so many nights without him. Unfortunately, that’s not the case. Oh, they’re here all right. Only a few miles away from the house we bought, and definitely “hearable” at night. But like so many other things, the comfort of the trains has been stolen.
Why? Because of where he died. The accident happened on a highway that runs parallel with the train tracks near us. The impact sent his car off the road and it ended up with its nose right at the base of the small hill that the tracks are on top of. That means that while he was in the car, already “gone” but still in there with the investigation going on around him, the trains were going by him. Only about twenty feet up the embankment. There are at least two regular train runs that happen during the time he was there. Maybe more than two.
I think about the people working on the trains. Mostly the conductor. What did he see? He had to have seen all the flashing lights right next to the tracks as he approached. He must have seen the car – crumpled I imagine. Could he see Kirk waiting there for someone to take him out of the car? Does he see things like this all the time as he drives on the tracks? If so, is he numb to it? Or was he upset at what he saw?
I don’t like the thoughts of the conductor, but they don’t bother me nearly as much as the thought of Kirk in the car while the trains went by. They would have been whistling because at that location they are about to go through a crossing. I can’t think of anything sadder and lonelier than the person I love so much sitting in that car, with strangers taking measurements and making spray paint marks all around him, while the trains pass nearby. So much going on - much of it about him, yet somehow ignoring him as he sat there, probably slumped over the wheel. All those people, all those trains – such busy-ness, such activity, such purpose, such noise, with him in the middle of it, so still. All his busy-ness, activity, purpose, and noise forever snuffed out. Waiting for someone to take him from the car, to show the respect he deserved, to treat him like a person instead of an investigation. This is the picture that comes to my mind now when I hear the trains. Him waiting. While I, too, waited just a few miles away - waited for him to come home, or for someone to call and tell me where he was and why he wasn't home yet.
I hate that in having lost something so big, I have also lost things like the comfort of trains. The small things that could maybe have made this an iota more bearable – gone just like he is, taken from me the minute he was.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
