I was sitting here in the studio doing some computering when I paused and took a look around. This room is full of Jim. Understatement, yeah, I know. But I looked around at all his music and sound equipment and his computers and books and trinkets and realized it's all so static. Usually this stuff moves around. When Jim had a gig or when we would spend an afternoon playing everything would get shifted a bit. So I started talking to him about it. We covered several subjects.
Then I started remembering those first moments when he had his stroke. He was sitting right here. I went through the whole thing up to when they sedated him in the ER. I was remembering what I was feeling and thinking during that whole time. I wasn't thinking about the possibility that he wouldn't make it. Well, I was just a little but it was such a foreign thought that I kind of pushed it aside. It was all about going through a series of moments and wondering what the next one would bring. I remember thinking this is my now, this is my now. Like I had to remind myself that the whole thing was real.
It is real. Jim's stuff hasn't moved. He's gone.
And another little bit of peaceful sadness has lifted. I just keep saying, "Ok."
5 comments:
I do that a lot. Going over that afternoon in my mind, from when we found him, to when he said goodbye to Paige and I in the ER. I didn't enter my mind til the end of that night that it could be serious.
Your post reminds me of something I thought of the other day. I got an email announcement at work the other day about a little workshop that takes those little electronic kid books and turns them into mini moog type players.
I immediately thought that it would be a fun class to tell Jim about (even tho I thought he probably already knew how to do that). But then I remembered.
That happens all the time. Something will come up that I think he should know about and I can't tell him. He probably would have enjoyed that workshop.
One thing that's different for me now is that Sunday/Thursday thing has gone away. I'm not marking time that way anymore.
The first inkling that Jim wasn't going to make it came when they showed us that first CT scan and we could see how large the area of bleed was. But even that didn't seem real, like they were showing us an image of someone else's head.
We went to a wake and funeral Sat. for a friend's fiance (they were together almost as long as you and Jim) who died suddenly at 51 yrs. old. They had just been to a wedding- Pete was best man for his best friend. On their way back from Boston 2 days later, he collapsed in the car and was gone from a cardiac arrest a couple hours later. This was a man like Jim- happy, creative, never without a smile on his face. I want to give Terre your blog site to help her get through it. Thank you for posting your sad journey- I truly think it will help others.
Yes, of course, Anne. Send her the link. If she wants to read the Jim story from the beginning tell her to click on January 2007 on the archives list and scroll down to the entry titled "Ok..." I hope it does help.
So sorry to hear about Pete. I hope Terre has lots of support right now. That's what got me through those first few weeks. You can give her my phone number and my e-mail address. I do know what she's going through.
Dang, I wish I could giver her a hug.
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