November 21st, 2006 by Atomictumor
I’m sitting in the woods right now, its 7:30 AM, I woke up maybe 30 minutes ago in the dark, and the sun is now up. I’m still down at the Blueberry Farm, but feel the urge to head home with my boys early. I’ll let them wake up normally.
I’m typing this in a text editor, with BJ’s picture looking at me from the desktop of GAC. Its that one I showed you by the back door, with hand in pocket, head tilted, looking like BJ.
I miss her so much. She’s probably burned by now. I was thinking about that this morning, my wake up call. The soft, flawless skin being eaten by fire. I prefer that to a slow decomposition, but the permanence of it is underlined by the burn of the fire. I talked about that yesterday morning, and I guess the morning is when I dwell on it.
It doesn’t make her any more dead, y’know?
—
And thats what still hasn’t sunk in yet, on this quiet Tuesday morning, in lifeless, leafless, dead woods, sitting on a bed of leaves underneath a tall tree (tulip poplar? Oak? What the hell kind of tree is this? I’ve never been a nature person).
I’ve always liked being alone. I used to enjoy the times that BJ and the kids would be gone, and I’d have the place to myself. Just like when I was kid, I loved those (rare) times when everybody but me left the house. I wonder how long it will be before being alone hurts. I mean, sure, you could argue that I’m never alone, I’ve got the boys, a great family, more friends than you can shake a stick at, and I’ll be with those people.
But that one person who GOT me is gone. The one that shared my taste in music, and stupid TV shows, and movies. The one that would squeal at the prospects of seeing The Robot Ate Me in Nashville.
And she would. She’d bounce on her toes, and lightly clap her hands togehter, and have the look of a 4 year old at Christmas when she got excited by things. She’s squeal. I won’t hear that again.
—
In these woods, its easy to let myself ask that w-h-y question that I’ve been denying myself.
Why BJ? Why a month after our renewal? Why a month before her graduation? Why me? Why us?
Why did she have to die suffering? I mean, sure, when she technically died, she was unconscious, but the last thing she felt was fear at having a tube in her, fear at her family going on without her, and pain. She was hurting so badly before the surgery, I can’t imagine how bad it was after. She was on morphine before, and it didn’t quell the pain.
My baby. She died in a hospital room, with a sore ass, an uncomfortable catheter, and uncertainty.
Not the kind of death I would welcome. And that is how she went out.
Why?
Why couldn’t I have done something magical, something like in a fantasy movie, or a Stephen King book, and save her? I sat there at 10, 1, 3, 5:30, and 8:30. I held her hand, and whispered in her ear as she went.
—
One heartbreak that hasn’t hit yet are a 4 year old and a 10 year old who lost their loving mommy. I mean, I can read this kind of stuff on CNN that happened to strangers and I get sad. The sadness of the pain of my own sons eludes me.
Those poor, poor boys. Their world will be darker and smaller without her. I’ll be able to do right by them, and by her, but her wit and wisdom and personality would have been a huge help to them as they grew. She would have been an AWESOME mom to teenagers.
I’ll never know. We lost her in the 10th year of our family.
—
Since I’m asking hard questions in these woods, disconnected from the immediate gratification of the internet, lets proceed, shall we?
HOW can I live without her? Lets boil that down a little bit more, how can I live in so much loneliness? After the kids go to bed, what will I do?
Will I become souless? Will I subjugate the parts of me that had fun with BJ?
Hell, I don’t know. That looks like an immensly stupid question looking at it.
I’m going to take off. Know this, folks. Right now, I’m in these woods alone to shake these questions out of me. I’ll wander back in the house, the kids are probably awake by now, I’ll have some coffee, some breakfast, a shower, and continue on with my day, free of these questions until tomorrow morning.
See ya.
November 21st, 2006 at 8:23 am
I lost my mother over a year ago on October 4th. I was at work when I got the phone call from my Dad that they were rushing her to the emergency room. She was gone before I got there. Her last moment was the paramedics trying to electric shock her heart into submission. She died in pain.
Her death left me with a new perspective on life. I slowed down and loved more. I know that all we have is this moment. And wonderful things have happened this year. I’ve been blessed. And I’ve hurt and cried alone at night and mentally exhausted myself seeking contact with her. I’ve never received a sign. Not even once, received a sign that she’s still here, somewhere, in some altered state of being.
Death is final. You’ve lost her but you haven’t lost yourself or your sons. After you’ve healed a bit, open up your world some. Don’t live in your head. Don’t cling to the loss.
I’m sorry for your loss. My husband is my best friend. We’re partners. His loss would devastate me.
November 21st, 2006 at 8:39 am
It’s not fair. And to make it worse, it’s not fair that it’s not fair. And it really, really sucks that eventually you’ll figure out an answer to all of the “how” questions, but nobody can promise you a good “why” answer.
November 21st, 2006 at 8:46 am
Grief is explained in many stages and how you deal with it is how you will survive. If retelling your story or your history 75 million times is what you feel, than you should do it. Living in your head right now, after this short period of time is not only healthy, but much expected. I don’t mean to be insulting to anyone posting, but this blog/journal/tribute is a way to let off emotions, deal with the issues and then hopefully live again.
I have a few friends that have visited here from my area, and we all concur your love is a heartbreak of pain right now. We are all so moved by your love and honor. I won’t lie at times I wonder how you will move on, but I know this, your love for a woman I didn’t know, is real. I envy you in a way, because you could vent and expound the little things I felt when I lost my Mom this past March.
This grief is yours and I would hope you continue to be who you are. I hope all the love you shared is somehow a comfort at night, as you lay there and talk to BJ. Never stop talking to her, she is there through many outlets. I was convinced last night as I was baking my Mom was my spatula. When I mixed something that didn’t seem all mixed up, I just picked up the spatula and did it right. That was MY Mom. You will feel it too.
You all are in my thoughts and prayers forever, as I lurk and wonder. I won’t post again, but know this grief begins to take on new phases.
November 21st, 2006 at 8:52 am
I don’t have any answers. I haven’t ever lost anyone that’s been extremely close to me. Your story has touched me more than you can ever know. It’s so bizarre to me, I’m grieving for someone I’ve never even met, but yet it’s real nonetheless. At least the tears that stream down my face as I continue to read seem real. Every time I drive by MMC, I think about driving up on the roof and looking at GAC carved in that ramp. I’m not sure what I expect to find up there. Maybe I’ll leave some flowers there for her - for you and the boys. Hell I don’t know…
November 21st, 2006 at 8:55 am
Yeah, that’d be funny, if that ramp starts getting flowers and stuff. I bet it’d wig the hospital folks right out!
November 21st, 2006 at 9:08 am
Those who know don’t have the words to tell
And the ones with the words don’t know too well
November 21st, 2006 at 9:15 am
Hi there,
I was catching up this morning about your comments about the wake and it reminded me of my dad’s wake. He died a year and a half ago, he was 55 and in good health, so it was a surprise. I didn’t want to participate in a wake. I didn’t want to stand there and shake hands with a line of strangers telling me how sorry they were, when I couldn’t even cry about it.
It wasn’t like that. It might have looked like that. But what really happened was all of those people had a chance to mourn for, and pay their respect to my dad. It wasn’t about me, it was about them, and their time to cry. I was there to comfort them. A strange reversal.
The best part was that they came and told me their stories of my dad. People from work saying how happy he was there. Cousins growing up telling me stories about when they got in trouble together. A Sunday School teacher from when he was little.
It turned out to be a blessing and a strength for me. I hope that it turns out to be a positive experience for you too. You and your boys are in my prayers.
-Ellisa (northern Virginia)
November 21st, 2006 at 9:21 am
After many years as a physician, all of them as a non-believer in God and Heaven, I feel strongly that something good happens at the time of death. Be it all physiologic endorphin release, multiple survivors of near-death experiences (post cardiac arrest etc) all report feeling incredibly peaceful and calm. “You may have heard that dying is unpleasant, but don’t you believe it. Dying is the sweetest, tenderest, most sensuous sensation I have ever experienced. Death comes disguised as a sympathetic friend…It is easy to die. You have to fight to live.”
(- Edward V. Rickenbacker, WWI flying ace, struggling to live after being severely injured in a civilian plane crash ). Don’t add to your grief by dwelling on the idea that BJ suffered.
November 21st, 2006 at 9:44 am
Live, and live well. That is the best memorial. Your boys are adorable!! and they have a strong family system. Do not worry, you have given her a legacy through these postings. We all feel we know your family, and we all grieve and share your hope for the future.
Hugs
November 21st, 2006 at 9:53 am
There are many stages of grief and I am not sure that you know or if you can know if you are going through them or what is going on. I know from my loss and it wasn’t even my husband that I still after 7 years I still have a hard time dealing with it. I can tell you it gets easier but you never forget. I am not so sure that it is easier either. Just live your life. You have those 2 adorable boys to keep you grounded. Keeping you and yours in my prayers. flameslgs
November 21st, 2006 at 10:44 am
I have been reading along these past few weeks, sharing your vigil. Praying every day for all of you. Though I never had the chance to know your beautiful family, I am in awe of your honesty and commitment to B.J. It has been an honor to get to know you and to pray for your beautiful family.
I lost my dad when I was three and my sister was seven. We have had a wonderful life and I know we will see him again someday. Though I have always felt that I am missing a piece of me I have also always felt his presence. It is strange but I know he is with me. Children are amazing in that they understand the meaning of life and of letting go I think even more then adults. You are a wonderful father and your children are so lucky to have you! My thoughts and prayers are with you all.
November 21st, 2006 at 10:54 am
jada was only 2 when paul died, and i felt guilty when people wanted to help with her, but i learned slowly throughout it all, let them help with the kids. you need your time, as selfish as it may seem now, you do. the boys i think would understand. b/c jada just seemed to get under my skin. it was just my nerves, but i let my friends and family handle her when they offered. she seemed to have more fun, than to be with me. it won’t make you any less of a father, if you “dump” them off with people.
fish
November 21st, 2006 at 12:28 pm
You know what really sucks? There is no way around it - you are going to really feel awful for a long time, probably months. I say this because, as Dr. Martin Luther King said, just when it’s darkest can you see the stars - there’ll be some really great people who’ll help you with this, and although it’s going to be tempting not to want to get close to anyone for a while (because they might leave you), eventually that feeling will lessen.
Listen, I lost my whole life a few years ago…had a job that meant to world to me that evaporated, had to move to a new town to take care of my terminally ill parent who later died, had to stay in strange said town to take care of his affairs, without any friends or much of a support system…if I could make it through, you will too. I think you’re on the right track with the music thing, both playing and listening. Ultimately, you’re going to have to discard advice from well meaning people that doesn’t work.
The hardest thing for me was making new friends when I just felt like hell all the time and wasn’t my real self, so lean hard on folks you’ve known the longest and who can be there for you. This is going to suck really hard and right out loud, but eventually all you’ll remember is the good things - how much you loved her, how much she loved you, and how lucky you were to have had one another. It’s cold comfort at 4 AM, I know, but thank heaven you have those darling little boys. Hug them hard, and often, would be my advice to you (not like you won’t do that anyway, but you know what I mean.)
Hang in there. Still sending good vibes from Nashville…Let me know if you’re going to be in town any time after the New Year (gonna be in and out of town till then, but I know a damn good CD store I think you may enjoy. Hub and I are huge music nerds and can bore you to tears on the subject of which Guided by Voices record is the best. ;))
November 21st, 2006 at 5:09 pm
A big hug for you AT
you’ll go on cause you have to for your boys
they are blessed to have a wonderful daddy
and AT - dont blame yourself - you did all you could
November 21st, 2006 at 8:16 pm
It helps so much to have the kids. To know that they will need you today so You’ve go to get up and act normal.
And you think, “How in the world am I going to do this life alone?”…and life just goes on around you. One day you open your eyes and realize you’ve been living and you didn’t even know it.
My prayers are with you and your boys. The pain is indescribable now, but it gets a little better each day. Just a little…
November 21st, 2006 at 8:39 pm
Just a note as I read these last few notes about BJ. As you know I was there from the start and also there Saturday evening at the end. She left us with many many unanswered questions. With all the modern medical equipment we have today why should a 29 year old mother with a loving family have to pass away? A question with no answers! I and my family want to pass along our deepest sympathy and wish you, your children and all your family the best.
Sincerely, Jack
November 21st, 2006 at 8:50 pm
Hey Jack, good to see you.
Yeah, I’ll have the questions later, but now I don’t really care. You guys did your best. Modern medicine is certainly better than the dark ages, but on a long scale is still in its toddler years. I mean, hell, medicine as we know it has only been around for 100 years or so.
She had the best kind of care. You folks, and the doctors, were (are) amazing.
Thanks very much for your sympathy, Jack, and the best to your family.
November 21st, 2006 at 9:17 pm
I wonder why we ask “Why?”
Is there any reason that is going to be good enough? That if we heard it (the reason) we would say “Oh ok! Well that makes it all better then!”
BJ is not dead to you. Why do you think you ended up with the boys? You were saying that you were going whever your spirit took you. Your and BJ’s spirits seem to have been so intertwined. Of course you ended up with your sons. That kind of relationship is not going to end.
Praying for you and your beautiful boys.
November 22nd, 2006 at 4:29 am
Hi AT,
You are an amazing, wonderful person…and from reading this I gather that BJ did so much good in life (a one-in-a-million, true individual), and is doing so much good now, as well.
I’m grieving for BJ, thinking of her often. The two of you have helped me to remember that our time is very short. I should know this; my mom died when I was 12, my sisters were 10 and 8…but it is easy to forget. I’m slowing down and spending more time with my own little children.
You mentioned that BJ would have been such an awesome mom for teenagers…she still will. I have felt my mother has been more able to share my life and watch out for me as she is now. There have been weird, tangible ways (to me) that she has been there in big moments in my life, and I am sure BJ will never leave you or your boys. You have someone special watching over you from now until you’ll see her again.
Thank you so much for sharing your love and pain with us.
Pam (from Michigan…the midwest is not all bad! I have spent lots of time in Oak Ridge and do know it is beautiful and roll-y, though)
November 23rd, 2006 at 1:25 am
How did I end up here, at your blog, your shrine (of sorts) to BJ. I can’t tell you. I must have heard it from a friend, who heard it from a friend, who … blah, blah, blah. I read back through the pages and realize what a selfish mother and wife I am. I am here and in the now. But I hold back. Fear - absolutely. How do you get close without being hurt? You don’t. You just don’t. How clear you make it. How straight forward and realistic. Through it all, you can be an inspiration to those who suffer, those who can not deal with the reality of life.
BJ gave you that. Reality. Love. Selflessness. Honesty.
Your life won’t be easy. Did you think it would be? I doubt it. You signed up for the long haul and the long haul you’ve got.
Good luck to you, my friend. My heart weeps and I hope you don’t take these words for any more or less than they are. I am so sincerely moved by your words, I can not sign my name – but I will think of you and pray for you (and the boys, of course) daily.
Blessings.
November 23rd, 2006 at 5:21 am
Thanks very much