Atomictumor

Pigpen is sleeping on his air mattress on the floor in here.  We were watching Batman Begins, which actually turned out to be a lot better than I thought it would be, and towards the end we heard him talking in here.  Me and Mom headed in, and he hadn’t puked (thankfully), he was just sitting up and confused.  He had fallen asleep on the couch early today, around 6:30, which I figured was OK after last night.

I hopped down on the floor and cuddled up to him, with his permission.  I rubbed his head.  I asked if he was afraid.

“Yes”

I asked what he was afraid of

“Nothing” (which for him is no-hing… he tends to say hing instead of thing, which is one of those things that are too cute to correct.  BJ was wholeheartedly behind the ‘hing’.)

I sat with him until he fell asleep.  We said our prayers, the good ol’ “Now I Lay Me”.  He likes to repeat it after me, line by line.  Then we ask for blessing on Mommy, Daddy, MastaG and Pigpen, Mamaw and Papaw, Grandma and Grandpa, and all of our aunts and uncles and cousins and friends and family.  Its a pretty big net at the end there.

We asked God to say hi to Mommy, and to tell her that we love her.  Pigpen seemed a little better.

—

I don’t seem better.  My moments of frozen ‘its all over’ thinking, that I described in my last post, happen more often.  I noticed that Mom caught me in one while everybody else was watching a movie.  I was holding a pen, part of a pack of cheap-o pens I bought BJ a few months ago.  She was always bitching about how pens tend to disappear in this house, so I figured it was a good gift.  She was amused.  Jesus, I miss her.

—

OK, wanna know whats troubling me?  I don’t know if she’s dead yet.

Yeah, to the state of Tennessee, she died of brain death at 12:30 on November 17th, 2006, what will always be the blackest day on my calendar.  Just, wow.

But, that whole organ donor thing.  They were keeping her heart beating until then.  BJ Kilpatrick was dead, but her body was still alive.  As much as I am not letting it, its starting to fuck with me.

When will that heart stop?  When exactly does the heat that I would give any possession I have to be against right now chill?

I called the hospital and spoke with Crystal today to find out when it was going to happen, or if it happened already.  This was at about 2.  It hadn’t happened yet, but she said it would today.

Has the heart stopped?

WHY DOES IT MATTER?

Thats a rhetorical question.  You can answer in the comments all you want, but it won’t help.  Thats whats starting to get to me, I get comfort from you, but it doesn’t sooth me, or calm me.

And the grief hasn’t hit yet.  I’m as dry eyed as… uh… sandpaper.  Or something.  Potato sandpaper.

I’m hurting in a different way.  In a entropic frantic way.  Like there is a tiny centrifuge in my head, little bitty, but generating odd waves felt all over.

Until I have those moments of absence, when the void of her hits me.

—

Before I was reading this, I was on a laptop bag website that Emily was kind enough to send.  Another friend sent me a link to some stuff about grief, but I’m too self absorbed right now to read about somebody elses grief.

You know what tho?  I really wonder about that old man in the hospital, the one who cried in the quiet room with me and Mom and Bos.  I’m sure I wrote about him, I just don’t remember what I said.

See, his son is an anesthesiologist, was BJ’s anesthesiologist during both of her surgeries.  He spoke with mom, with his wife, in the quiet room.  He was dealing with the grief of his mothers imminent passing, and his fathers fear, and anguish, and pain.  His father rarely showed it, he was a smiling old man, who asked about BJ every time I came through.  He gave me a prayer book that I have yet to read.  I don’t know if I’m ready for prayer books yet.  Maybe on the other side of whats coming up.

Anyway, I wonder about this Doctor, and his father, and his dying mother.  If I’ll see them again, if I’ll see how their story ends.

But stories don’t end in real life, do they?  They keep happening.  The fall of the Greek civilization flowed directly into the Hellenistic period, which flowed right into the Roman republic, and empire, and the Frankish and Byzantine empire, and on and on.  Stories in real life have chapters, but not endings.

Until you die.

—

I was talking about Emily’s link, and why I left it to write this post.  I had Pigpen asleep for 20 minutes or so, and was clicking around on this thing, when I heard him say “if I die before I wake… I pray the lord my soul to take…”.

He was asleep.

I put my hand on his head, and I told him I love him.  I told him Mom loves him.  I told him Mom says he’s a good good boy.

His breathing got deeper, and he settled to sleep.  He hasn’t moved since.

—

BJ is really dead.  I love, loved, her so much.  So much.  People that had been in committed relationships and whatnot always told us that we had something they didn’t.  I don’t know what that meant.  I don’t know.

Love couldn’t save her from this.  TV, and the world, and art tries to teach you that love saves all, that love binds us, and that love holds things together.  My love didn’t stay.

10 years we had.  I saw us growing old.  I saw us looking at our grandchildren, in decades to come.  I never, never, never saw a future without her.

I’ll never hold her again.  For the rest of my life, I’ll sleep without resting my arm on her hip.  Oh man.

This isn’t supposed to happen.

You don’t get sick out of nowhere, and die.  Not when there’s all… this.  Our lives.  Our futures.

BJ, my BJ.  I hope you’re there.  I hope you’re on the other side.  I hope I can do this.  Without you.  For the rest of my life.

With nothing but pictures, and sounds.  And memories.  No smells, no touches.  The world hasn’t found ways to spike those senses yet.

—

OK, bring it on.  I’m ready.

Well, here I am.  I have yet to be stricken mad by any crazy wild waves of grief.  I was mighty tired when I wrote that countdown post, and it felt close, but I hung out with Daco, and my folks, and played with my new geeky toys, and cleaned up the room a little, and ate some supper, and talked to BJ’s folks, and here we are.

I’m laughing with my folks.  I have a sore throat, and a pretty husky voice, but its from the cold/allergies/phelm stuff I picked up.  I can totally sing the Shaft song.  People probably think its from grief, which is ironic.  So far, the grief hasn’t hit.

Its been like a “Damn.  Damn dude, she is dead?” kinda thing.

—

One thing, to be blunt, that I’m really NOT into are all the people calling that want me to call them back.  Dude, I’m not into talking about this on the phone.  Not because I’ll break down and cry, and have a moment, and whatnot, but because I really just don’t want to.  As in, in a very strong way.

I acknowledge her death.  I hope she’s watching, laughing at us having as good a time as we can, I talk about the mock freedoms I have now (like being able to grab a random shampoo off the shelf at Target without reading the label, or being able to seize back some of the closet room that I ceded to her).  Sometimes, tho, like today when I realized that I’d not be cooking more Ramen noodles, which was a staple of her diet, I freeze.  At that moment, I was in the kitchen, and my mind reset.  I stopped, leaned my head against the counter, and had no thoughts for a minute or two.  Nothing.  Just shock.  No more ramen noodles.  No more BJ.  Ever.

So, anyway, don’t call me and expect a callback.  Sure, I love you, and I am very, very, very thankful for your words, and your sympathy, and your grief over my, theirs, and your loss, but I’m not going to talk to you about it beyond giving you the website.

Now, I’ll talk on the shoutbox about it.  I’ll answer any question you have, provided that you catch me when I’m around.  If you email me, you stand a good chance of hearing something back.  Send an email to anything with @atomictumor.com after it, and I’ll get it via the amazing AT robot we have.  No telephone.  If you stop by the house, particularly after the kids leave, I probably won’t answer the door, unless you’re on fire.

I don’t suggest lighting yourself on fire to get my attention.  That’d be bad.

—

Yes, things are strange.  Strange, weird.  Not  quite surreal, but odd.  Not right.  This shouldn’t happen to us.  It certainly shouldn’t happen to BJ.  I minimize my windows and look at that picture, one that her parents took, that I’ve never seen until now.  She’s standing by the back door, her head is cocked, her hands are loose and in her pockets, and she’s in her element.  She’s beautiful.  She’s striking, and vibrant, and alive.  She only had another year or so to live.

Wow.  Who the hell knew?

I look forward to the time alone.  The kids will be back up at the slightest sign of problems, but I think they’ll do fine without me.  I regret that they’re not here to take to BJs parents, because they may help them, but I have to take care of us first, to have the best thing for them.  Or something like that.

We’re going to watch a movie now, so I’m going to put the bitchin’ laptop down now.  I’ll let you know what happens next.

—

BTW, I changed the sidebar for updated info.

I bought the stuff, and engaged in that great American therapy, shopping.  Now I’m just tired, and I feel it coming on.

Like a freight train, barreling down.

I feel the weight on my shoulders, and I feel it on my chest, constricting me.

I told Mom today, over pizza at Mellow Mushroom (which was the last thing I promised BJ, as she was in pain in the ICU, thirsting like a son of a bitch, but not able to drink water because of her kidneys, that when she got better I’d take her for pizza and a big ol Milk Stout at Mellow Mushroom.  I found today that they took Milk Stout off the menu) that whats going to happen is that I’m going to see, or do, one particular thing that I’d normally associate with her, and it would all come crashing down.

For example, walking back from Target (kudos, Busymom!) Pigpen asked to ‘jump’.  Thats our parking lot game, where I’ll take one hand, and BJ’ll take the other hand, and say “1, 2, 3, JUMP!” and swing him in the air.  I had to do it by myself today.

That could have been the catalyst, but it wasn’t.  I’m not sure what will be, but I think its coming.

Monday I’m meeting with the guy from the funeral home.  Tomorrow Mom and Dad are going home, and I think I’m going to have them take the kids.  I think they’re as comfortable with them at the farm, and Pigpen certainly seems to be more comfortable with a “Mommy presence”.  Mom and my sister, that lives nearby, provide that well.  MastaG is OK with it, he’ll be playing with KatyK.  The deal is they come home immediately if it appears to anybody that they need to.
That way, I’ll have Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday to do this.  I might just stay in bed one of those days.  I’m not sure.

Now,  I know that scheduling something like this normally isn’t a good idea, but we’re just going to give it a try and see if it works.  Hell, whats the worse that can happen?  I lose my wife?

—

This thing is way, way bigger than I’d imagine.  Bigger than I could ever see.  It towers over me, like a sheer cliff, miles into the air, and when it comes down, the weight of it will bury me.

I will persevere, because its what I do.  I have kids, I have a life, BJ wouldn’t want me to mope (she’d call me ‘emo’).

But guys, I’m not going to be able to stop it.  I’ll do my best to hold it off until tomorrow when the boys leave.

BJs gone.  This isn’t supposed to happen.

I’m having a great morning.

Yeah, got the whole dead wife thing, but she’s not hurting anymore, and the uncertainty is over. Sure, it had a nasty outcome, but it truly could have been worse. She could have been brain-alive enough to keep her body alive. That would have been soooo worse.

Last night, poor ol Pigpen threw up a few more times. He isn’t sick, isn’t running a fever, is fine in the day, when his defenses are up. At night, I think it comes to him, like it can to me. The nerves get him, and he rejects everything, including his stomach contents. After I cleaned him up the first time, and went to sleep (sleep came without trouble), I vaguely remember waking up again, with his bed being placed in my room, and fresh blankets on it. He had thrown up again.

And then, about 2, evidently 30 minutes after being moved into my room, he started throwing up again. I got the sick bowl, and put it under his head, so it didn’t make a mess. He didn’t have any more food in there. I rubbed his head, and told him I loved him.

That little Pigpen is something else. He doesn’t do helpless. He doesn’t puddle up, and cuddle into your arms to make him feel better. He deals with things in his own, sweet little way. I think he’s trying to ignore it.

I’m going to see about getting the preschool to help with this. As fatherly as it sounds, I think they have a bond with him that I don’t have, and they certainly have more knowledge of the freaky minds of the 4 year old.

MastaG was sad as he went to bed, but he’s running around, playing now. No mention from him about yesterday, but he’s OK with talking about it if I bring it up. He’s going to need help also.

Me, I’m not going to go looking for help yet. One thing I’ve learned about this, is that the mini-hell I went through at 17 with my head problems has gotten me more prepared for this than the average bear.

—

Now, I know what happens. Everybody worries about the person that says “I’m OK.” Everybody believes that they don’t understand, or are repressing, or something like that. I’m not going to try to talk you out of thinking this, because my unconscious mind may well be doing that stuff, and I may well be running around naked with the samurai sword like somebody joked yesterday. Not today, or tomorrow, I don’t think, but the point is I have no idea what this will bring.

I know its going to bring things that I’m not feeling now. I vaguely wish my head would go ahead and get it over and done with so I can concentrate on the important things, how much I love BJ, how lucky I was to have her, how much I’m going to miss her.

I say these words intellectually right now. Maybe I’m waiting for the arrangements to be over, and then I’ll have the vacancy of mind to deal with it.

Like Gnarls Barkley says,

I remember when,
I remember, I remember when I lost my mind,
There was something so special about that day
Even your emotions have an echo
In so much space.

—

Songs were coming back to me this morning. One by Of Montreal seemed particularly apt, at least the first verse:

Over a sea of grief Scarlet died,
above her dying mind were fossilfied memory imprints of her favorite day,
for a minute I stayed watching this brilliant display,
until a god with a broom came and swept them away.

But the thing with these songs, and the reason that I haven’t gotten much from poetry, is that I need the music to let it click.

Thats something I’ve been intending to do, is hook you up with the music. I’m making a CD, that I’m sure I’ll find some apt title for, out of the music that meant something during these past few weeks. I’ll put the song I heard after I said goodbye, and the song I played when I found out she was sick.

I might even through Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da on it, since its the closest thing the world ever gave us to “our song”.

Because I was a little wrong yesterday, it is still about BJ. Its about doing right by her. Its about honoring her.

One joy that I had recently, is I think now she knows about all this. I wanted to tell her so badly, to marvel with her at this, and unfortunately we can’t share that marvel together, but at least we can share it apart.

—

Today I’m going to be free. I’m no longer, and never again will be chained to the 10, 1, 3, 5:30, and 8:30, tho I think I’ll always know when those times pass.

I’m going to buy a laptop case for the awesomeness that is “GoldenAppleCorp”. I think I’m going to get a new router, because my old crappy Belkin keeps crapping out. I might get a memory stick, because.

I’m going to get some birthday presents for G. I know, at this moment, what some of them will be, but as usual, I’ll surprise myself with others.

Believe me, folks. Right now, it is still about the beauty. I have no doubt that the pain will come, on these cold winter days, and that this will end up being a bleak winter, but the beauty will shine through, if I have the eyes to see it.

And if I don’t, I can reread this old stuff. Maybe I’ll be reading the one that BJ is.

Last night the Missus and I went driving before we picked up the kids from our church’s Parent’s Night Out. We’d gone over to the Time-Out Deli in Grove Center for dinner earlier. We had two hamburgers and I had a couple beers. It was our first time eating inside the restuarant. It’s a really good place.

We went back home. I tried to catch up reading comments and still can’t get over just how many there are. Then we decided to drive around a little before we brought the kids home. I love the curvey roads here in Oak Ridge. They’re disorienting until you’ve found your way around them a few times. They don’t lead from one place to the next very obviously, which is true of any old East Tennesse road. Driving years ago with an old friend from Canyon, TX taught me not to take these roads for granted.

I had no idea where we were going until I pulled the van out onto the road and drove up the hill. I felt pretty quickly where I needed to go. Part of me said no, you ought not do that, but I’ve turned a corner and am trying to recognize my feelings a bit more. I’m trying to give my feelings their due. So I made a right turn onto Utah, passed a friend’s house and it was good to think of them there. Then made another right onto New York Ave. There’s the Preschool with many good memories and then nearby was some other friends’ house.

When did we make a home in this town?

I turned onto the hospital campus and went the quickest way to the parking garage. There is no quick way to get there. It’s like a little Oak Ridge. Our way was blocked by a little old person (I really don’t know if it was a man or a woman. It was dark.) trying to get out of a wheel chair and into an SUV. I turned around a went back by the Turnpike side of the building. I told the Missus this is how I usually came. I liked to drive my truck quickly around all the curves in the parking lot.

There were the usual number of cars in the lower levels of the parking garage, but when we got to the top, it was empty. I parked our van nearby the building entrance. When we got out we watched a large Dodge pickup with an even larger camper on its bed lumbering out of the parking lot below us. I looked over at the hospital’s facade with its odd purple glow. There again I knew what I needed to do, but there was part of me that rationalized and said, no, you ought not. But I asked the Missus if she would like to walk inside and she said, “yes.”

So, we walked in and went down the stairwell. We opened the goofy doors that gave everybody trouble, except AT, seemingly. He’s ok with doors. When we got to the entrance to the building proper, that doorway was locked. We tried both handles, but neither door would open. And then I stood there and watched through the window the people inside the hospital walking back and forth. There were young people and old people. There was a family going past the Chapel with more girls in it than I’d ever imagined possible. I stood there and watch for a little while. I said a prayer and realized it wasn’t my place to go any further, not here, and that’s ok.

We left the parking garage and went out the way we first tried to come. The old folks in the SUV had gone on.

We turned out onto Tennessee Ave. and went on to get the kids.