Atomictumor

In a lot of ways for me, hope is harder than grief.

Obviously, hope is superior.  Hope is greater, hope is wonderful.  Grief is a dead end.  Grief is finished, its ended, the story is over.  Grief is dealing with closing the book, and trying to find another one.  Grief is black.  An absence of color.

Hope is white, its all of the colors.  Hope is every emotion, wrapped up.  Hope is as nerve wracking as grief, but hope demands that you keep the book open, and find more pages.  Hope is demanding.  Hope is impertinent.

What I told GAC, this evening as I leaned over her, and waited for words to come, was that hope leaves you open to fear.  I probably shouldn’t have told her that.  I’ve always been so open to her, and I’m afraid to death of distancing myself from her by keeping my fears and thoughts and dreams from her.

A thought for this evening, as there is so much hope, and so much good news, is looking to what happens next.  Will GAC still be GAC?  I’ll love her no matter what, but what if she doesn’t love herself?  What if she is bitter, and angry, and hates the world that I begged her to come back to?  How, after coping with this, can I expect her to do it?

Would I get her back, just to see her go?  The thought haunts me.  Its a cold, cold, bitter chill.  Her death didn’t do this to me.  A life that she wouldn’t want, oh god, is so much worse.

But look at me.  I’m succumbing to doubt.  There is nothing to fear, nothing to doubt.

Sorry Thom, but its not working today.  I doubt, and I fear.  Now that I’m not being as strong, hoping she lives, or maybe now that the shock has worn off, grim realities are setting in.

I haven’t sobbed today.  I teared up, and I couldn’t speak a few times, but I didn’t cry.

I think of the Monkey’s Paw.  The son came home, but wasn’t the son.

God.  What will BJ say to this?  Why the hell even post this?  Can you help me through this, because my newborn faith is failing.  I don’t see the beauty everywhere.

And how stupid is that, as BJ is healing?  Am I letting myself see what I wouldn’t before?  Am I deluding myself now, or then?

What the hell is wrong with me?

Don’t answer that.

—

Sweet girl.

BJ’s dialysis pulled 4 liters of nastyness from her.  She’ll have some tests pulled tonight, to see where she’s standing, and I’m sure I’ll tell you about them when I hear.

Her numbers were all great.  BP 94, pulse 120, Oxygen 96, temp was 98.  White blood cells were 26,400.  She’s on 75% oxy, which is good news.  She’s not needing the vent quite as much.  We’ve done this dance with the vent before, going down to 50, and back up when she starves for oxygen.  Urine output is good.

—

I’ve been angry today.  I’ve been angry at myself, and angry at blameless parties.  Yesterday I predicted weakness, and I saw it.

I’m going to be brutal on myself, and on this website.  If I just put the current status on, and a piece about how the boys are (fine), I wouldn’t be me.  Many of you, most of you, are prepared for it.  Some of you aren’t.  If you are uncomfortable with foul language, do me a favor, and don’t read this page.

I’m going to curse many things.  If your faith is such that you want me to join you in labeling, indexing God, or Allah, or Vishnu, or whatever, kindly keep your comments to yourselves.  I’m not interested in evangelism, or fundamentalism, because I think it is at best closed minded, and at worse downright wrong.  I’m not interested in hearing that there are reasons for this, or about greater plans.  It doesn’t help.  If there are omniscient plans that involve what is happening here in my life, well, I don’t give a damn.  Maybe there is, maybe there isn’t.  I’m open to hear from the higher power, but not from man.

I’m angry.  Now that we are somewhat out of the woods, I guess my mind is letting me be.  Or maybe its just tonight.  I don’t like it.  I’d prefer the grief, the sobs, the pain.

I’m not feeling pain now, just the urge to hit a wall.

I don’t even want to say my dumb mantra.

Nothing to fear, nothing to doubt.

Indeed.

BJ, my girl, I’m sorry this happened to you.  I’m so sorry.  You never deserved this.  You should be here now.  We should be in bed.  We should be ready for work and school tomorrow.  You should have your beer chair done.  We should be putting gas in the van.

Instead, your right hand is blackened.  You have a 6 inch long scar on your stomach.  You have more tubes than I’ve counted in your body.  You have machines in your heart.

Oh BJ.  Not my BJ.  I love you so much, so very much.  I feel so far away from you.

Why?

Please God, bring her back to me.  I want her back, so very much.  I love her so much.

NTF, NTD

I had given up on sleeping, and was catching up on email and comments and all of you wonderful people, when the phone rang.

ADRENALINE.   OH SHIT.   IT ISN’T WORKING!

Answered, it was BJ’s dad.  He called to tell me they bumped into the doctor, and everythings going fine.

Its working.  Oh shit, its working.  Theres good news.  I don’t have to say bye.

I don’t have a lot of feeling in me to write with emotion now.  Because of my wrath earlier, and my headache, and my fatigue.

My guilt for not seeing her at 3.  My guilt for not seeing her before the surgery.

My absolute relief.  GAC, honey, when you read this, oh jesus, it will be more than I could possibly deserve.  If I’m there, when you read this, if you can do it, let me know.  Just say “jake, baby, I read it.  I’m OK”.  Let me hear you’re voice tell me this.

I’ll cry.  I’ll hold you.  I’ll probably squeeze you too tightly, so be ready.

BJ, god, woman, I love you so much more than I can.

—

We’re not out of the woods yet.  She’s still more sick than alive.  I’m so glad this is working, tho, because if I lost this hope today, I don’t know if I’d have made it.  I really don’t.

There is nothing to fear, nothing to doubt.

I love you.  So.  Much.

This morning, while I was reading comments and visiting some of our many vistors’s pages, PBSKids was going. Lugnut loves Curious George and it was almost time for George to come on. I’m sitting here at the computer when I hear this White Stripes song. I’ve heard it a thousand times, but this time it reached my ears and pulled me under.

Three years ago Radiohead was touring in support of their amnesiac album. [edit: It was the Hail to the Thief tour.] We’d seen them down in Atlanta which was one of those moments that you set your clock by. Things clicked for us in some metaphysical way. We were going to see Radiohead again.

If memory serves me correctly AT, GAC and two other folks went to see Radiohead at some other show but it was rained out by a storm of biblical proportions. I think they’re still jealous of our Atlanta experience. C’est La Vie.

We all decided to ride up to Cleveland together. AT and GAC had a van so it was a road trip. We stayed in an Embassy Suites (free happy hour, woot!), ate cheap and listened to music the whole time. That was when I was introduced to the White Stripes. I’d heard of them before, but just never gotten around to listening to any of their albums. The Stripes have one of the best anti-anxiety songs I’ve ever heard. Just take a listen to Little Acorns the next time you have a big project looming. Wonderful medicine. However, the song that stuck in my mind was, We’re going to be friends. Something hardwired that song into to my memory of the Cleveland roadtrip.

Then this morning I heard it all over again. Just a short fragment coming out of tiny TV speakers and I felt that trip all over again. I was right there in the van with AT, GAC, Eaves and our friends.
Get well, GAC.

(from left: Thing #1; GAC; AT; Bos; Thing #2; Mrs. Eaves[impersonating dead jedi] )

AT called just a minute ago. He said that GAC has started dialysis. The treatment should last four hours.

That sure sounded emo, didn’t it?

I called the hospital, spoke with Harber, and asked her to tell Linda and the old man that I’m sorry.

I, as my mother pointed out, am a very large, hairy, intimidating looking guy.  I say I have “a capacity for violence” at times like that, but I don’t know that I could hurt people.  At least, not like that.

Sorry.

I love you, BJ.  I love you so much.  I’m going to hit tennis balls at a wall, and work out the aggression, and anger, and I’ll miss the 3 o’clock show.

I love you, so much, my BJ.  Sorry you were there for that.

(it really was just like I described it…)