Atomictumor

We got up, I played with the kids, we got packed, we loaded up in the car, and we went to Hardees for breakfast.  Dad in his car with MastaG and KateK, Mom in her ‘nox with Pigpen, and me in BJ’s van.

We ate, we embraced, and they left.

—

I left Hardees, embarking on just going where the wind blows me.  It blew me to the hospital.  As I drove down Rutgers, I cried.  I sobbed, when I realized where I was going.

I drove up to the roof, like I did 5 times a day for the past weeks.  I had something to see here.  I didn’t know what.

They had finally built, as I guessed they would when they started jackhammering the curb near the roof door, a handicap ramp.

In the drying cement, somebody wrote GAC.

I sat down on that roof, the roof that I screamed and kicked and fought that first Friday night, when her exploratory surgery didn’t work, and her death became a very real possibility, and I cried.  I sobbed.

May blessing and light shine down on whoever etched GAC into that step, at that place.  The place where I first saw The Beauty.  The place where Bos and I discussed God, and I told him that I understood something that I’ll never explain, and probably won’t get back again.  Where I was allowed to see something that people don’t see in this world.

Where I walked out, alone, after BJ died.  While they jackhammered that curb, that became the handicap ramp, that became her memorial.

Thank you.  Thank you so much.

—

After who knows how long, I got up, and walked inside.  I didn’t know what I was looking for.  I walked past the chapel that I begged God for mercy on her soul in, and service was being conducted.  Despite my Aqua Teen hunger force, 7 or 8 day stubble, wild hair, and empty eyes, I walked in, and sat down.

The sermon was about finding solitude.  Finding time to be alone, to connect with God.

I stayed through the sermon, and through the prayer that followed, for blessings on the patients, family, and staff at the hospital.  The sermon ended, and I lingered for a moment, but still ended up being the first one to leave.  A lady patted my arm and thanked me for coming, but I couldn’t look at her.  I patted back, and thanked her, and made my exit.

I walked the long, winding walk, past the same day surgery, past the fundraising poster for robotic surgery (now up to $595,694!), past the waiting rooms, hung a left, walked through the double doors into the Acute Care Unit hall, with the operating room doors where everything happened, and walked into the quiet room.

I sat for a moment, meditating.  I don’t know what on.

I got up, walked to my left, into the Acute Care Unit, took the right split in the fork, walked up to the CCU doors with their magnet lock, and looked in at the pink wall of the last room of BJ’s life.

I picked up the red phone, and it dialed the number for inside, the number that I forgot to mention is the first four notes of Funkytown.  Somebody who didn’t identify themselves picked up the receiver, and I asked if BJ was finished.

“Yes.  They took her back at around seven o’clock last night.”

I hung up, walked back to the quiet room, and cried.  I don’t know for how long.

—

Then I walked out, looked down the hall at that split, the entrance to BJ’s deathbed.  I etched it into my memory, and then turned my back on it for the last time.

—

I walked out the fire doors that are closed to the public while the area is being renovated.  No workers were there, and I wanted to be outside.  I don’t want to walk that long hall ever again.

The door led me to the access road on the north end of the hospital, facing Tennessee Avenue, near a tiny little parking area they made out of the land availble, thats now being used for construction refuse containers.

I walked east, toward the parking garage, the van, and GAC’s ramp.

It was still, quiet.  No cars were driving by, nobody was outside, but me, and another person.  A woman, who I didn’t recognize until I got closer.

It was Kimberly.  She was BJ’s nurse when we first went in, in the ER.  The MMC’r of October, I found out later.  She was one of the last people BJ met while she was still conscious, and relatively free of pain.  When it was still just a bad case of the flu, and maybe dehydration.

She was there when it became acute renal failure, and our paths diverged when BJ was admitted, that Thursday night so long ago.

She had been up to visit BJ on one occasion that I was there for, when she was unconscious, but before we knew about the bleeds.  BJ was starting to stabilize, and we were starting to think there was hope for her recovery.  That first week.

Kimberly and I talked, and walked up toward the roof so I could show her GAC’s ramp.  I thanked her copiously for her kindness, and her concern, and her love, and her obvious gift for healing that she shared with BJ and myself.  She asked about the kids, and about BJ’s parents.  I told her about them.  I invited her to the wake, both of them.  I don’t really care if she comes, but it might matter to her.

I feel that way about all of the nursing staff, and the doctors who worked on her.  They all deserve to come, if they feel it appropriate.  If not, I totally understand.  I wouldn’t go, but thats just me.  Hell, I don’t really want to go to BJ’s, just like I didn’t want to bother with a real wedding (luckily, she wholeheartedly agreed with me, one of the reasons I would cite for loving her so much).

I will go, and even if I had a choice, I’d have to go.  Just like I had to go to the hospital, and then like I had to come home and write.

—

Thats my plan for the next 3 or 4 days, when I’ll be alone.  I’m going to be blank.  I’m going to grieve, I’m going to listen, I’m going to meditate.

I’ll go when I feel the need, and I’ll stop when I feel the need.  So far, this has found me BJ’s earthly memorial, and has found me a person I didn’t know that I needed to talk to.

—

As I drove down from the roof, I passed Kimberly.  I rolled down the window and said “Y’know, don’t ever regret anything.”  She nodded, and smiled.  I drove off.

I regret nothing.  Neither does BJ.

—

Last night, after I wrote that post about Pigpen, I felt BJ.  I had a conversation with her, in my head.  I layed back on my bed, and I felt her hug me.  It felt just like her.

A ghost is born.

This entry was posted on Sunday, November 19th, 2006 at 10:35 am and is filed under Pain, Love. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.