Balloons and flowers

I used to go to the cemetary alot. Pretty much every third day, on my way home. I'd stop by and pull weeds, sometimes plant flowers or just bring some cut flowers with me to place by the headstones. I wouldn't really stay long, maybe five minutes or so, and in the winter I'd leave my truck running so it would stay warm. But I was there quite often. I didn't usually have much to say, certainly nothing important, but sometimes I'd feel the need to get something off my chest and that seemed like as good a place as any to talk to my wife. I'd tell her how the grandkids were, how big they were getting, how cute they were and how bad I felt that she couldn't be there to spoil them. She REALLY loved being Nana. At first, when the nine year-old was little, she got a kick out of people thinking he was hers. But then, when she saw their reaction after telling them he was her grandson, she was ALL over the whole Nana thing. She dug being such a young looking grandma. And she spoiled that little guy.

I remember our first trip down south to see grandson number two. Fourteen hours, over-night, non-stop. I did most of the driving. She was a good driver, but didn't really care much for driving through the cities, so... I did most of the driving. And when we finally got there, she just beamed. He was all of one week old that first trip. We put everything on hold to make that mad dash down to see him and his new Mommy and Daddy. He was so tiny, so cute and she was just head over heals in love from the first second she saw him. We all were. We could only stay a few days, but she made the most of it, holding him, feeding him, changing his little diapers. We went back for another visit when he was a month old and it was more of the same. I know we would have worn a groove into the Interstate with all the trips down there, had she had the chance.

Instead, I'd go to see her, on my way home, to tell her the latest family news. The things we should have discussed over coffee like normal people do. And it's funny, but I always found it comforting to stop there. I know they're not there, at the cemetary, that it's just the physical remains. I get that. But still, something inside me told me, allowed me to believe, that there was a closeness that I couldn't get anywhere else. And I know some people can't go to cemetaries. Just can't. For whatever reason.

But reason doesn't matter, either for or against. If it feels like the right thing to do, makes you feel better, makes you FEEL something besides empty, to me, it's worth it.

I found a saying on a website I used to frequent. I can't remember who wrote it, so I can't give proper credit, but when I read it, I connected with it immediately and decided to have it inscribed on the back of my wife's headstone. It says-
"Know the gift you have been given and realize, the gift has not been taken from you, only the wrapper. For the gift you have once been given will always be yours."

And I truly believe that.

And I still go to the cemetary, but not very often. Special days, certainly, like birthdays or death dates or our anniversary. And I still say the same thing when I leave...

"take good care of your Mom for me and I'll take good care of your sister for you."
and
"I love you and I miss you. I'll see you soon, but not soon enough,"

Football Saturday

Today I'm going to watch my 9 year-old grandson play football. It's a lot of fun to watch. He's a good little player, but of course he's only 9 and so many things can change. One thing working against him is, he apparently inherited his speed from our side of the family so... let's just say the odds of him ever earning a paycheck from football are, ummmmm remote. But he has fun and we love watching his games. When my wife's nephews were younger she used to LOVE going to watch their Little League games, Jr. High basketball games, you name it. We'd drive all over the area to watch and she'd be standing on the sidelines or in the bleachers cheering their every move. She even learned the names of some of the other kids on the teams so she could encourage them too. She wasn't much of a football fan though. Just never got into it. I know if she'd had the chance to watch one of her little mans football games though, she'd be ALL over it. She was so looking forward to when he started Little League.

Here's the thing though. She never got the chance. She had a massive heart attack a little over three years after the Blond Child was killed by that drunken SOB. I read the autopsy report. I know what it said. I understand she had a massive heart attack to a part of the heart that you don't want damaged. I also know what I believe. I saw her before the Blond Child's death. And I saw her after. Sure, she was the same person, but she wasn't anything like the person she was before. She still laughed. She still smiled. But nowhere near as much and without the same, I don't know, intensity maybe, that she did before. Her amazingly blue eyes (and when I say they were amazing, you have no idea) lost a lot of their sparkle. In my soul I believe that she did the best that she could to survive the loss of her youngest child. I really do. And I also believe that after the onset of her symptoms, the chest pain on a Tuesday afternoon that came on when she was playing in our pool with her beloved little man, the chest pains that led to her visit to the local ER where they diagnosed a problem for the first time, the chest pains that led to her bypass surgery three days later, the chest pains that put her in the operating room with a skilled team of surgeons, surrounded by a support team on top of their games, the same chest pains that triggered the massive heart attack that she never recovered from despite the best efforts of an outstanding medical team, weren't caused by some congenital defect or some neglected health issue.

They were caused by the loss of the Blond Child.

They were caused by the uproar that loss created in her life, in her sense of the way things are supposed to be. And they gave her a rare opportunity. This is what I believe and this is what I rely on to get up out of bed everyday. The belief that on That Friday, when she was on the operating table, she saw the opportunity to be reunited with her shopping partner, her tanning partner, her workout partner. Sure, she loved everyone here in this dimension, but it wasn't the same. I get up every day because I believe those two are together somewhere, spending overtime checks like there's no tomorrow. Except there's always a tomorrow and each one has an overtime check waiting for them. And they are the definition of happy.

So today as I go to watch the 9 year-old that she worshipped, play football without the Nana he adored, all I can do is try to wrap my head around how the careless, selfish act of one person changed so much, both in the blink of an eye and in ripples, years later...

September 28, 2009

It's a Monday. It's the last Monday in September. According to Wikipedia, it's the 271st day of the year, with 94 days remaining. 100 years from now, history may look back fondly on September 28, 2009 as the birthdate of some famous, beloved, future of mankind changing person. Perhaps someone will discover a cure for cancer on September 28, 2009. Maybe a replacement for the internal combustion engine will be invented and with it, an end to pollution.

The possibilities are endless for the joy this day may bring to mankind.

But not for me.

This date has been burned into my consciousness ever since November 2004. I have dreaded this day every. single. day. of my life since then. Even when it's not in my conscious mind, it's there lurking in the shadows, whispering to me.

"I'm getting closer"

"Be here before you know it"

"Just around the corner now"

September 28, 2009 will mark the end of 2,321 days. All or part of 77 months. It's 85% of the 90 months that son of a bitch that killed the Blond Child got as his sentence. And it's wrong. He'll be out. He'll be free. Sure, he'll have to check in with his probation officer, but he did that the day he killed her. He checked in, then, even though he had no valid license, he took his Mom's SUV and drove to Dekalb to party with his friends. And then he drank. And smoked some dope. And drank. And decided he HAD to drive back to Lake Zurich. And crossed the center line coming out of a curve. And hit that little black car that she soooo loved. And rammed it almost into a corn field. He'll be out of prison. The Blond Child doesn't get that opportunity. She doesn't get 85%. She won't be getting "out". She can't go see her old friends to say "Hey, I really missed you, let's go hang out".

There's a blue sign at the spot now. A "Roadside Memorial Marker" is what the state calls it. The intention is to make people aware of the dangers of driving drunk by pointing out that someone was killed there. And I think it should help to do just that. But the reality, MY reality, is that it marks where everything changed forever. And believe me when I tell you , I'd trade everything I've ever had, everything I have now and everything I will have til the day I die to have the Blond Child and her Mom back. And I wouldn't hesitate.

So yeah, I really, truly hope something wonderful for all humanity happens on September 28, 2009. But for me, personally, I think it's gonna be a day I'd just as soon never happens.

This is where it starts

Hey here goes nothin... OK, the title refers to the fact that so many well meaning people over the last few years have said to me "Oh you're so strong, how do you keep it together? I could never do that. If I lost someone I loved, I'd just be a basket case" My reply depends on a) the mood I'm in at the time and b) if I think they're truly sincere and not just dense. If they appear to be clueless I'll give them some lame, off-hand answer like "well you just do what you have to do".

If they just do a poor job of getting their point across, but genuinely mean well I'll reply that I'm like a duck swimming across a river. Cool, calm and collected on the surface, but paddling like hell underneath.

So here's the start of my story. Six years ago, my step-daughter was killed by a drunk driver. She was 17. It was a week before her high school graduation. Three weeks before her 18th birthday. She was on her way home from the mall, where she had bought a new outfit for her senior class trip, a cruise on Lake Michigan, the next day.

The drunk that killed her had two previous DUI's. He never should have been on the road, that night or any other. The Blonde Child never had a chance. She died from her injuries two days after the crash. Here's a side note for you. When drugs or alcohol are involved, it's never referred to as an accident. It's a crash. An accident is "oops, I dropped my plate of food on the floor, silly me" It's a crash.

Needless to say, my wife was devastated by the loss of the Blonde Child. She was her youngest and the only one of our four kids that still lived at home. They did everything together. Shopped together. Went to the health club together. Went tanning together. Shopped together. They were as close as any Mother and daughter I've ever known. Did I mention they loved to go shopping together? I speak in the past tense because a little over three years after the Blonde Child was killed my wife had a brief episode of chest pain. We went to the local ER and, long story short, she was scheduled for bypass surgery three days later. She never really made it off the table. Had a massive heart attack and died. My belief is that she never got over the loss of the Blonde Child. More on all that later.

So yeah, I've had a little bit of stuff to deal with over the last few years. And believe me, I've screwed up my fair share of "life moments" since then. Hey I'll never promise anyone I know the answers. But I've certainly experienced enough questions to maybe lay some groundwork for someone else. I may come across as irreverent from time-to-time. I mean harm to no-one (although I do have pretty strong feelings about the a##hole that killed the Blonde Child) but have found that, for me, a little sarcasm and as much laughter as I can scrounge up helps to soften the blow. I also try to maintain a sense of humor, because sometimes you just have to laugh. I mean c'mon folks, no-one would believe this shit if it wasn't true. And everything I tell you here will be that.