Thats a thought thats hard. I have realized, this evening, that despite the best efforts of my intellectual mind, I’m in the denial stage. The fact that her body might still be warm doesn’t help. But she’s not in it, and I know that.
But what I’m talking about, is all the writing, all the hope, all the prayers I’ve had have been for her.
Its over, for her.
She’s dead.
And thats where my mind loops, BJ’s not dead. Its an obstacle, and I don’t want to plow it down, but I keep prodding at it, like its a cold sore.
Its almost like a boomerang. I can tell myself, “dude, jake, your wife is dead. the girl is dead. BJ is dead.”
Its like that whole “I’m rubber, you’re glue” thing. It just bounces off. I don’t know what it sticks to, tho… thats probably not important.
I got up to use the bathroom, and I heard Pigpen whimpering in the bedroom. I opened the door, and reached down in the dark to rub his little head (he’s sleeping on an air mattress in the floor, Katy and G are in the beds). Instead of warm curls, I got cold, wet, nastiness.
He threw up in bed. Copiously.
So I got up to clean that up. I showered the poor little guy, because it was all over him. All over Packers, his stuffed dog, all over the sleeping bag that covers the air mattress.
Everywhere.
After I cleaned it up, the phone rang. I didn’t answer it, it didn’t know who the caller was, and I’m really not much into talking to anybody but a few people at this point. I mean, I’ll do it, but only if I have to. That, and it was 11:30.
The phone chirped that a message was available. The caller was an old friend of mine and BJs, one that we hadn’t been in contact with lately, but one still dear to our hearts (my heart, BJ is dead).
She was crying in the message, asking me to call to tell her it wasn’t true.
hell.
So I did it, I called, I told her it’d be quick, gave her this address, told her its true. I let her go, to be in her grief. Sorry, sugar. I wish it wasn’t true.
But it still doesn’t seem real. Yes, BJ’s not here, obviously. But dead? Choir invisible?
BJ?
Dude, that doesn’t happen. Wifes don’t just up and get sick and die.
Where does that kind of thinking, and questioning get us?
The grief isn’t here yet, and my mind is working overtime to keep it away. I’m just watching it, impassionately. Its like that Id, Ego, and Superego just fell off the tower of Babel, smote down for daring to scratch the surface of God, and now doomed to jabber idiotically at each other.
And I have a first row seat.
BJ will always be dead. Always. Every second. No matter how much I love her, or want her, or miss her, or NEED to see her, it ain’t happening in anything but pictures.
Nope, still not sinking in.
—
But what happens when I close this laptop and turn the light off?
A good friend was able to help get a memorial fund set up earlier this afternoon. Information will be posted on the pages section of the site, but until then, here you go:
Persons wanting to mail contributions should use the following:
Barbara J. Kilpatrick Memorial Fund
C/O ORNL Federal Credit Union
P.O.Box 365
Oak Ridge TN 37831Checks can be made payable to the Barbara J. Kilpatrick Memorial Fund.
Deposits can be made to the account at any ORNL Federal Credit Union branch by using the account name.
The beauty is in the things you never notice. The things that are permanent, and the things that are impermanent.
The beauty is tangible, and unreal.
The beauty is everywhere.
Its children you don’t know, playing games outside. Its the mildew, organisms growing in your tub. Its the fact that every part of your being was assembled in a star. Or so I hear.
Its the pain when you stub your toe. Its the happiness on your wedding day.
Its the irritation at a sibling.
Its everything, and its nothing.
I wish I had more to say. I’d tell you that I’m OK. That I’m not grieving, and in fact, haven’t broken down since I said my final good bye, since that final kiss, that final hug, that final caress. That final look. I’m not going to see her again. We’re not having an open casket, because I don’t think it would be right.
I didn’t know that at the time, but I had a good look anyway.
I’ll never see the narrow, button nose. I’ll never see the little hairs she plucks from her eyebrows, that she doesn’t need to.
I’ll never see the bumps on her arms that she was ashamed of, and that I loved to rub.
I’ll never see that mole on her temple, and the other one.
I’ll never make her coffee again.
I’ll never laugh at her jokes again.
I’ll never miss her, because she’s late coming home again.
Ahh, but theres so much love. I’m tempering the grief with the love, by listening (and ignoring) the boys. Pigpen is noisy and boisterous as he watches Cars with the whole family. MastaG is jovial. It is as BJ would have it.
BJ.
My BJ.
This isn’t hard, yet. I welcome the grief. I look forward to the grieving. I think, if the kids are wanting to, and they’re OK without me, next week they may go back to the Blueberry Farm for a day or two. Thursday we’ll have the thanks’G'iving party. Later we’ll have the solemn wake. After that we’ll have BJ’s wake.
It helps to plan. I’ve talked to the Lifegem people, and found out how to do it. I’ve talked to the funeral home, and found out what we’ll need to pay. A cremation is pretty cheap, how about that?
Once my plans are done, once things are done, once the parties are over, and everybody’s drunk to their health, and to BJ’s life, I’ll be alone.
I’ll be surrounded my friends, more than I’ve ever thought, and closer than I’ve ever known. I’ll have a family that I knew I had, but never knew how lucky I was to have. I’ll have the boys, two wonderful, amazing, living breathing creations of BJ and me, who are completely their own spectacular people.
Thats when we’ll see what happens.
Where does life take you? What happens, when you graduate high school? College? Get married? Lose your wife?
I am 28 years old. I am a widower.
—
Damn, this laptop really is cool.
—
When I was a child, growing up Catholic, my mother had a miscarriage. I grieved, as a kid does, because she did. When I said my prayers, alone, I’d talk to the kid. I’d imagine he was watching me. I wonder if BJ is with him?
She is facing the great mystery. She is seeing what wise men have sought for eternity. She has the answers, right now. Is she getting the traditional life flashback?
Did she do what she wanted to do?
She was happy. She loved me every bit as much as I love her, of that I’m certain. She loved her children more than I think I am capable of loving, as I firmly believe every mother does. Well, REAL mothers, at least. She was so proud of her family. She beamed with pride, silent, happy pride, as I did. When we went out, we held hands, or I’d have her arm in the crook of mine.
I’ll miss that. I’ll miss that more than I can possibly know.
The point is, I think, if I know BJ, that if she gets that cheesy St. Peter instant replay, she’ll be content. Sure, she may complain about the length of play, but she put her family on the path it needs to be on, and all we have to do is follow it.
Maybe she doesn’t get the flashback. Maybe she gets to do what I always thought would be heaven… being free of the body, and free to explore the wonders and mysteries of all forms of existence.
I plan, as I said, when my walk is finished, the miles are done, in 50 or 75, or maybe even 100 years (or maybe 1, who knows?) to meet with her. When we do, we’ll spend that exploration together. We’ll merge our selves, like infinite fingers meshing. Like two different colors in a lava lamp. We’ll rejoice in each other.
She doesn’t have long to wait. I imagine to a soul prepped for eternity, 50 or 75 years is a blink of an eye. During that time, I’ll see her business through.
You’ll hear about it. I’m going to continue writing here. The ‘tumor has evolved past what it was.
I cherish our past here, and Joel, Daco, Netmom, Miece, Evan, Mel, and very much Bos and Eaves. We’ll not be what we were, but we’ve evolved.
At the same time, those of you who I won’t name, for fear of leaving out an important person, who have meant a lot to me. Vickie, for the shawl. Lucky, for the pot pie (we ate tonight). All of the rest of you, for your financial help, and heartfelt messages. For your prayers, your thoughts.
—
Cherish your people. Cherish those who mean so much to you. Never forget, no matter how much it means, how sweet, or sometimes bittersweet, it can be, it has an ending. It may be soon, it may be long, but it will happen.
Hold those people tighter. Forgive those trespasses. Remember this.
Remember, there is nothing to fear, and nothing to doubt.
As I arrived home from the hospital, and was telling Mom what we’ll be doing next (because I’m a take charge, 90s kinda guy), she told me that my laptop had arrived. I got home, and spent some time setting it up. Its really nice, bigger than hell. Its network ID is GoldenAppleCorp.
BJ knew that I was a total geek. She was too, but in an application thing. She’d sit on the computer for hours on fark.com, scrolling around, lurking, or she’d be finding something to write about. Or she’d be checking her email. Never games, just internet stuff. I’m not really so much that way. I like being a dork, and setting things up. I like thinking analytically about computers. Not programming, because I’m not linguistic enough, but this kinda stuff. Totally.
So, I set up “GoldenAppleCorp”, with its bitchin core2duo and 17 inch widescreen. I was hoping to show BJ movies on it while she recovers, but instead I used it to write an obit under the “Whats Happening” and to remove the beer glass image she created to put something simple on. That, and getting rid of the images helps with the weight of the server. Johnny Dobbins ain’t made of money, y’know.
—
Oh, where to begin. BJ passed away, brain death, called at 12:30. I picked up the kids, brought them to say their good byes. Pigpen, the indomitable 4 year old (currently passed out in front of cartoons on the couch) didn’t understand a thing. He was telling G that he doesn’t have to cry. He said “Good Bye Mommy, I love you!” like she was going to the store. That is a blessing.
G, he had some alone time with BJ in her room. He sobbed, and cried, I held him, when he came out, and we went in together to tell BJ that It’s OK. We’ll Be OK. There is Nothing To Fear, and Nothing To Doubt. She can go on, she can be at peace, and we’ll remember her, love her, honor her. He’s outside now, playing with neighborhood friends. This has created wounds, but he hasn’t cried in an hour, and is laughing like a 10 year old.
Which is exactly how BJ would have it.
She’d want things to be normal. Sure, everybody wants to be remembered, and mourned, and I’m sure that I’ll be wailing and gnashing teeth soon, but now I’m being geeky on the computer, Pigpen is watching cartoons through diffusion, and MastaG is out playing like a 10 year old (well, almost 10 year old).
—
And what BJ wants, is what she’ll get.
We’re going to have a real wake, probably at Martin’s Funeral Home in Oak Ridge, TN. I haven’t talked to them, the hospital CCU head was calling for me. There will not be a casket viewing, because I’m not into having her embalmed. We’re going to have it at the place, mostly for those who would like to remember BJ in a traditional setting.
Thats great, and at this point it’s as much about the beholder as the… uh… beholdee, but thats not how BJ’d have it.
No, she’d want an Irish send off. So we’re going to have a blow out. We’re going to have music, dancing, laughter. We’re going to have booze. We’re going to have a good time. We’re going to celebrate the BJ that some of us knew, some of us thought we knew, and some of us never met. We’re going to throw down.
I don’t have arrangements for this yet, but I will. You’re invited, and I’d love to see you. No goofy internet names, we don’t have to know each other, we’ll just get together and holler. Probably not a good idea to bring the kids!
—
Ah, but I was talking about intentions. I was talking about my intention to witness BJ’s body stop working. I was going to hear the beep (if it beeps), and know she drew her last breath. I wanted that, for me. Because I lived so much through her, I wanted to die through her.
Things didn’t work out that way.
Some irritating people from the organ donation group came over, because I had mentioned to Dr. M that we’d like to do that. It didn’t occur to me until after, that they like to have the organ’s fresh and hot, and that it would hamper my needs.
BJ never signed an organ donation card, to my knowledge. She’s the type, tho, that would give something like that, to help somebody else. Unfortunately, she didn’t know that these people were the types that want to console you, and “I have no idea what you’re going through” you.
Lemme tell you something about me… I don’t give a crap. I mean, I do, but when I’m holding her hand, and saying good bye, I don’t need somebody stopping by, stammering about asking me to tell them about her life (which I politely refused), or about how I felt the hospital treated her (at which point I politely asked them to get on with it). I did answer 1000 questions about her, her health, her body, that joint she may or may not have smoked within the past few months. I held her hand, and nodded my assent to the questions, or murmured the answer. Occasionally, I’d roll my eyes at Crystal, at the foot of the bed, who was a godsend today.
See, Crystal took the clothes, and makeup, and healing shawl (which will be used to heal us, instead of BJ), and dressed her beautifully. BJ looked amazing for the kids. She was in a comfy sweater (actually, the green one that was in Bag Pierre way back when). I asked G if he’d want to put her glasses on, and he did. She looked great.
The organ donation people told me that there was a person in New York who could use BJ’s liver. They need to run blood tests, and what not, but that it appears that it will work out.
I decided to give up my idea, and to make my peace with BJ while her body breathed. After all, her brain was officially dead, and as far as the state of Tennessee is concerned, when the brain goes, so doth the body. Her time of death is 12:30, which is when I was bringing the kids. Her actual time of death, considering this thinking, would have been around midnight last night.
I don’t really care, (well I do, but on a distant level) that BJs liver will (may) save a life. It wouldn’t be BJ. I don’t care if that person comes to me to say “dude, thanks for kicking me your wife’s liver.” I’d smile politely, and give my farewells.
Beyond that, I don’t care what happened, why it happened, how it happened. Dr. M really does. Hes a good man, and has treated me better than any professional ever has. I consented to an autopsy. Maybe this can bring closure to him. He deserves it.
Crystal said she’d bring me the shawl and clothes, glasses, etc at BJ’s wake. I invited her to the party thing, and she said she’d like to head there also. I wonder if the rest of the nursing staff will come. They were doing God’s work, and really, really, really made this easier for me.
—
And about me, eh? What about ol’ AT?
My wife is dead, and I feel fine. Yes, I don’t believe that either, but its the truth. The weight of this is not on me just yet. It will be, in the years, months, weeks, days to come. The thought that I am now single comes to my mind, with its implications. I’ll be a third wheel with friends who are all married, or coupled, because thats that coupled friends do, isn’t it? That doesn’t mean that I’ll stop hanging around them, it just means that there will be a little bit of distance on both parts. On theirs, because they’ll be afraid of reminding me of painful memories. On mine, because. Just because. I suppose you can guess why.
No tears, lord, no tears. I cried them out with BJ, as I told her good bye. I told her “This is my last caress. This is my last hug. This is my last kiss.” I then cheated, as is my wont, and stole several more kisses. I told her not to worry. I told her I needed her, and contradicted myself by telling her to go and be at peace. I then admitted my contradiction, and, just to be clear, told her to go ahead and be at peace. I told her that I await the time that I am called, after however many days I have left, and will be with her.
Thats a relief. I think God listened that first day, when I begged that there be a God, and that he allow my wife’s sweet soul into his kingdom, because I have to see her again. I have to be with her again. I have to feel that presence again.
Ah, that presence. No more hospital visits, sweet, pained, hopeful kisses to her temple. No more smelling the essence of her hair. No more rubbing her arms, legs, chest, stomach, head.
No more.
And that’ll take time to sink in. I’ll blog about it, on my new “GoldenAppleCorp”. I’ll be here, whether anybody listens or not. She’ll be here, in the old posts she wrote, in her old comments. She was very much herself as she appeared on the internet, unlike me (who is an intelligent version of myself). Reading those old comments is the best way to get to know her.
—
One concern, and a seeming eternal concern, is finances. I have about $30000 of insurance on her, between my work policy, and one her Dad had. I’d love to pay of the house, but, hell, who thinks they’re ever going to use a life insurance policy before 30, eh?
So, I’m reneging on my earlier thinking about money, donations, whatever.
And I’ll tell you why.
Because
a) seriously, I need all the help I can get
b) I want to turn her into a diamond.
I’ve thought about that all day, and thats the plan. Go to www.lifegem.com, and you can see what I’m talking about. Its what she wanted, and G and I think it’d be an awesome way to remember her. And it saves the trouble of dealing with the ashes.
The more I can get donated, the bigger and better diamond we’ll make BJ.
Now, because Paypal sucks, and because the account was in BJ’s name, and because we canceled it in protest, I can’t create one. Apparently, Netmom and my Dad (Biscuit) are setting up a thing at my local bank, ORNL Federal Credit Union in Oak Ridge, TN. I don’t have details, but I reckon that’d be the best place to do it.
Don’t give if you can’t do it. Seriously. Don’t give because I want you to, because its very, very hard for me to ask for help. Please understand that people all over the world are more deserving that I am, and hurt far worse than I’ll ever understand, and they suffer in silence.
If you truly understand that, and still want to help me out, I’ll be grateful.
—
BJ, my BJ. Thank you for these years. Thank you for the boys. Thank you for your hand, and your heart, and your body. Thank you for all of the gifts, little and big, that we shared over the years.
I’m going to cuddle our sleeping baby. Good night, sweet girl.