a year without jane
“So. That presentation that your professor thought was so swell. What was it about?”
*many incomprehensible details*
I tried a different tack. His professor wanted S to give this talk to the rest of the entire aviation department.
“What set it apart from the others, do you think?”
*snort* “I gave a crap. I did the research, I prepared, I practiced.”
Well. That will do it.
I was sorry that Jane couldn’t hear both that hilarity *and* the fact that I had gotten the guy to talk. A smidgen. I knew she’d be proud of both of us.
The next day I asked Seth if he wanted to come along with me to the hospital. He said no. Of course he did. Hell, *I* didn’t want to go, either.
Jane looked like a doll that had been tossed on a bed, in the way that small children do, loose limbed. I have never seen an adult sleeping in that way. At one point, I was left alone in the room with her. I sang a couple of her favorite hymns and a show tune.
I returned later in the day for a second visit, to learn that she would not wake. I was wearing my tall shoes, and Becca clung to me, tiny fierce Becca, when she told me, arms tightly cinched around my body, her head just below my heart.
The next morning, a year ago today, I woke early and went for a run. When I got home, I felt at peace. I felt better. For ten minutes. And then I collapsed, sobbing. I exchanged texts with a friend of mine who offered kindness and comfort from thousands of miles away. The plan had been to shower and go to work, where my favorite ladies would scoop me up and take me out for my birthday lunch. I mean, I had said my goodbyes.
And then it hit me, that I was being an idiot, irresponsible, that my son was home, that this grieving wasn’t only about me. I pulled myself together, woke Seth, and this time I didn’t ask. I gently told him that we would be going to the hospital. A meeting had been planned for that morning, with the surgeon, as soon as Jane’s mother arrived from California.
If you don’t have a frequently-obstreperous child, you might not fully appreciate how startling it is when they are immediately, quietly, compliant. Seth rose and proceeded silently to the shower, and when he emerged from his room shortly after, he was dressed in a button-down shirt, pulling on a sweater. Dapper.
Even if it wasn’t intentional, in that moment, he was showing up for Jane, for Becca. It’s so hard, even for adults, to show up for each other. We continually fail each other. That shirt, that moment, still breaks my heart.
We were invited into a conference room with close family for the discussion with the surgeon. Becca looked so small. I almost asked her if she wanted to sit in my lap, as I had so often see her with Jane. And then we all crammed into Jane’s room, a kazillion clergy, family, friends. Prayers were said, and then we left. Jane was removed from life support.
Last October I went out to Colorado Springs to watch Seth’s flight team compete at the Air Force Academy. Jane would have loved seeing that. She had been an Army kid, and the culture there at the Academy would not have seemed as foreign to her as it did to me. She would likely have enjoyed explaining to me all the things. And she would have been so proud. The weather was glorious, warm, big open skies.
One afternoon my mother and I were chatting with some of the boys on the team and their mothers and grandmothers. I mentioned that I still had no idea what that presentation of Seth’s had been about, “...something to do with an emergency landing on an open field?”
Connor, a close pal of Seth’s, looked at me a moment, dead on, and then, monotone, “No. Crashes.”
“WHAT?!”
When Seth had told me the title of the talk, he’d used terms that obfuscated the CRASHING part. Like he does. Rather gleefully.
Jane would have laughed so hard. I can hear her voice, her belly laughter, in my mind’s ear.
I like knowing that there is a type of person who has a calm, organized mind in the face of disaster. Those are the people we want piloting our planes. And I like tidy narratives. But if I’ve learned nothing else in the last year, it’s that we just crash along, willy-nilly, dodging bullets, surviving heartbreak after heartbreak.
Jane looked like a doll that had been tossed on a bed, in the way that small children do, loose limbed. I have never seen an adult sleeping in that way. At one point, I was left alone in the room with her. I sang a couple of her favorite hymns and a show tune.
I returned later in the day for a second visit, to learn that she would not wake. I was wearing my tall shoes, and Becca clung to me, tiny fierce Becca, when she told me, arms tightly cinched around my body, her head just below my heart.
The next morning, a year ago today, I woke early and went for a run. When I got home, I felt at peace. I felt better. For ten minutes. And then I collapsed, sobbing. I exchanged texts with a friend of mine who offered kindness and comfort from thousands of miles away. The plan had been to shower and go to work, where my favorite ladies would scoop me up and take me out for my birthday lunch. I mean, I had said my goodbyes.
And then it hit me, that I was being an idiot, irresponsible, that my son was home, that this grieving wasn’t only about me. I pulled myself together, woke Seth, and this time I didn’t ask. I gently told him that we would be going to the hospital. A meeting had been planned for that morning, with the surgeon, as soon as Jane’s mother arrived from California.
If you don’t have a frequently-obstreperous child, you might not fully appreciate how startling it is when they are immediately, quietly, compliant. Seth rose and proceeded silently to the shower, and when he emerged from his room shortly after, he was dressed in a button-down shirt, pulling on a sweater. Dapper.
Even if it wasn’t intentional, in that moment, he was showing up for Jane, for Becca. It’s so hard, even for adults, to show up for each other. We continually fail each other. That shirt, that moment, still breaks my heart.
We were invited into a conference room with close family for the discussion with the surgeon. Becca looked so small. I almost asked her if she wanted to sit in my lap, as I had so often see her with Jane. And then we all crammed into Jane’s room, a kazillion clergy, family, friends. Prayers were said, and then we left. Jane was removed from life support.
Last October I went out to Colorado Springs to watch Seth’s flight team compete at the Air Force Academy. Jane would have loved seeing that. She had been an Army kid, and the culture there at the Academy would not have seemed as foreign to her as it did to me. She would likely have enjoyed explaining to me all the things. And she would have been so proud. The weather was glorious, warm, big open skies.
One afternoon my mother and I were chatting with some of the boys on the team and their mothers and grandmothers. I mentioned that I still had no idea what that presentation of Seth’s had been about, “...something to do with an emergency landing on an open field?”
Connor, a close pal of Seth’s, looked at me a moment, dead on, and then, monotone, “No. Crashes.”
“WHAT?!”
When Seth had told me the title of the talk, he’d used terms that obfuscated the CRASHING part. Like he does. Rather gleefully.
Jane would have laughed so hard. I can hear her voice, her belly laughter, in my mind’s ear.
I like knowing that there is a type of person who has a calm, organized mind in the face of disaster. Those are the people we want piloting our planes. And I like tidy narratives. But if I’ve learned nothing else in the last year, it’s that we just crash along, willy-nilly, dodging bullets, surviving heartbreak after heartbreak.
Crashing along as we do. Reminds me of Annie Dillard admonition that we all wear crash helmets.
ReplyDeleteA lovely ode to Jane. And, the attaboy to Seth, my friend in sarcastic snorting.... (He and I should have some sort of competition in that sport.)
What a lovely post, Nicole. Here's wishing for a year with few crashes.
ReplyDeleteAnd I hope you had a good birthday!
Regards,
Kareni