Two weeks ago today my brother, Wade, was killed in a car accident. Isn't he handsome? He took this picture himself, with his own camera in his own "green screen" room. 42 years old, bachelor.
It was actually about this time of night that he died, maybe a little bit later. He was on his way to California, driving through that stretch of Southern Utah where the speed limit is 80 mph. One of his last text messages said something about how it was going to be a fast drive to St. George, with the raised speed limit. Another of his last texts said "YOLO"... and then he explained, for my mom, that YOLO means "you only live once."
Wade's car swerved off the road to the right shoulder and took out mile marker 76, around Parowan, Utah. We don't know why he swerved, but everyone in my family is 99% sure he wasn't asleep... that wasn't Wade. (And no, he wasn't texting... the texts were from when he stopped at the gas station in Beaver.) The police officers who eventually found him said there had been many accidents in that area involving deer. Maybe he swerved to miss a deer?? We really don't know. But he swerved right, then left, then right again, going off the road into some thick sagebrush.
His car rolled several times and Wade was thrown from the vehicle, even though he was definitely wearing his seatbelt. The accident report says he was killed instantly on impact ... severe trauma to the back of his head. His friend in California was tracking his progress with an app on Wade's iPhone and noticed he had stopped moving and was off the road. So, when he couldn't reach Wade by phone, text, or fb, his friend called the police. They couldn't find the wreck in the night, but discovered him first thing the next morning, on November 7.
The police called Wade's friend, and then tracked down my parents, who were on a trip with my mom's brother and wife, in Missouri for the week. I can't imagine how it felt for my parents to receive that call. Even hearing my parents talk about it was excruciating. They then had to pull themselves together enough to call all of my brothers and me. They actually talked to Brian at our house, and he came to find me and tell me the news.
I was in bed with a terrible cold and sore throat, just curling up for a nap, since Brian's mom had taken Nat for the day so I could recover. Brian peeked his head in the door and I thought he was just coming to tell me "good night." I smiled up at him, and saw tears in his eyes. "I have some very, very sad news for you," he told me. I couldn't imagine, not even a tiny bit, what he was going to say. He told me what he knew, and I wanted so badly to pinch myself and wake up. I screeched out "No! No! No!" over and over again in my crackling, scratchy voice. He held me, cried with me, then let me break free and shout "No!" some more. It was hard to breathe, nauseating, suffocating, excruciating. For a long time. Brian let me panic, then held me again, over and over. For an hour or so.
My cousin Jessica called, while I was still laying there on the bed, trying to process it all. She was crying, I was crying. She said, "I'm so sorry, Kam. I know you don't want to talk, but I'm just so sorry, so sad." Hearing her voice was soothing and heartbreaking at the same time. We only talked for 30 seconds, but it meant so much to me to weep with her for that short time. Other friends called throughout the day. I cried openly with all of them. Our conversations were short, but so very meaningful to me. I've been counseled to write what I'm learning through all of this. Well, one thing I learned is how important those voices of comfort are in such a heart-wrenching time; even if you don't know what to say, even if the person who is grieving doesn't "receive you" as you might be expecting; if you feel prompted to call, do it.
I pulled myself together -- sort of -- and called my parents. They were making arrangements to fly home that afternoon. We cried together, and tried to discuss some details/plans of what to do next. When could/should all the family get together? When should we have the funeral? How would we get Wade home from Utah? What about his truck? How could Brian and I help? What could we do?
It was a long, dark day of tears and more tears. I told Randi on the phone, "I believe in heaven. I know the things I've trusted all my life are real and true and good. I even feel comfort from the Lord right now. But somehow, all of this doesn't fill the emptiness that feels so consuming right now. It doesn't fill the hole that Wade has left." Two weeks later, this is still how I feel, though I don't cry as much now.
We picked the kids up after school and brought them home before we told them. Spencer wanted to ride his bike as we got out of the car. No, we told him. Please come inside for a few minutes with us, because we have something very important to tell both of them. Spencer whined a bit, then followed us inside. We sat on the living room couches and told them Wade was gone. We explained a bit of what happened, and how sad we feel about it.
Samantha grabbed a nearby blanket and put it up to her face, to hide some tears. She snuggled into my side and sat quietly next to me for a few minutes. Throughout the rest of the afternoon she quietly helped me with household chores, put on some soft music for us to listen to, and even looked up scriptures about "death" in the Bible and had me read ones that she thought would be comforting to me. It was so sweet to see her respond so compassionately.
Spencer, on the other hand, listened patiently until I was done talking, breaking the news. He was sucking his finger the whole time. Ten seconds after I finished, he pulled out that finger and asked, timidly, "Can I ride my bike now?" Sweet boy. He doesn't understand, and doesn't feel the loss right now. He only knows that Wade used to let him play games on his iPad, and now the iPad is at Grandma's but no one is playing it.
Natalie, of course, doesn't understand it either. She was gone all that day, and Brian's mom brought her back at dinner time -- and she brought us dinner, a huge help. I told Natalie the next morning, as I was cleaning up breakfast. I couldn't stop the tears, and she was concerned. So I told her I was "very sad because Wade died yesterday in a car accident, and we won't see him any more for a long, long time." She gave me a long, sad look and a sympathetic, "oh," as she stopped to process it quietly for a moment. A few minutes later she asked, thoughtfully, "so, will Wade be resurrected tomorrow?" Sweet little one. If only...
Back up just a bit to Thursday night. My throat had been so sore and I had been so weak for nearly 5 days. At Brian's insistence, I finally drove myself to an urgent care center right before it closed -- just to get a quick strep test and make sure I didn't need antibiotics. The doctor there was the most sympathetic doctor I've ever been treated by. He did all but cry out loud with me. He instructed me to be very mindful of my emotional health through the next days, which was something I think I needed to hear. And he listened to my baby's heartbeat to make sure all is still well with this pregnancy. It was a little blessing to me right then, to have a stranger show such compassion and concern. I reflected on his counsel and his kindness several times over the next hard days.
My parents asked us to try to come be with them as soon as we could; all the immediate family was trying to get together quickly. That Friday happened to be a very busy one for Brian. He had informed his work colleagues of our situation, and they were trying to be accommodating, but there was a huge project that Brian was leading, and it was hard for him to know how to step away and leave the work to the underlings. I'm not explaining it well, but it was obvious to him -- and me-- that he needed to do some serious work that day (and every other day until the deal closed last Thursday, turns out... poor Brian!)
We left in the evening, after the kids were home from school. It was a long, tiring drive this time. Both Brian and I were sleep deprived and hurting. The kids were restless, and my legs were hurting from my dumb bad veins that just ache like crazy this pregnancy -- ugh (those veins will be in another post, I assure you.) We were the last ones to arrive at my parents' house. By the time we got there, they had already decided the date of the funeral, and had a basic outline for the funeral program. I was relieved to miss some of those initial planning details, actually. Everyone said there had been a lot of tears, of course. In fact, my brothers coined a new catch phrase, that we all used affectionately over the next few days: cry-arrhea. ha! It's like diarrhea, only with crying... you just get through one wave and you think you're fine, then another wave of tears comes suddenly out of nowhere. Funny, eh? But it's true; I still feel that way. I can be okay, going along through my day, then all of a sudden, I can't even breathe, it hurts so bad. Tough stuff.
Hmm... Long pause for thought.
I don't have it in me to do more play-by-play here. I'm actually proud of myself for writing this much about it here. I've picked up my journal ten different times, or more. And I'm still not past that first moment when Brian came to tell me; it's just seemed to overwhelming to record.
But with all the hard, rough sadness of it all, there have been some beautiful times too. And I am learning things that I know I couldn't learn any other way. One beautiful moment was on Sunday, when all my brothers and dad returned from a loooong drive down to Utah to visit the crash site. They had been gone all day, and it had been by far my roughest, loneliest day. When they finally returned, around 10 p.m, they brought a sweet, calming spirit with them. I believe it was Wade's spirit, and so do my brothers. They said they had felt him with them throughout their drive, all day long. Well, no wonder we all felt so lost and lonely back at home... Wade was with them, not with us. Does that make sense? It felt so very real, just the absence of calm, and then the return of peace. I do believe his spirit was often with us during those first few days, and that he's now moved on to do other things, somewhere else.
Something I've learned, that keeps coming back to me... Every member of my family is grieving in a different way. Things that are soothing and healing for some, are not at all what others need.And that's okay. We all need to do what is best for our own healing. For example, on Saturday, with everyone all together, we went to the funeral home to plan the program and pick a casket. The funeral director mentioned at the end of our meeting, that Wade was in a nearby room, and was fairly "ready" to be seen, if anyone was interested. For me, this was an immediate no-thank-you. But for each of my brothers, it was soothing to see him, even though he wasn't dressed and prepped for his viewing yet.
Another example, we went to Wade's house on Saturday night, to see what was there and how we should plan to proceed with cleaning things out in the coming weeks. My mom and I had similar views with how to arrange his things, how to best organize and go through things. But my brothers had completely different views on how it should be handled. I am grateful to be part of a family that can move through those kinds of "differences" with cooperation and consideration of each others' feelings.
When planning the funeral, my mom really wanted to have the hymn, "God Be With You Till We Meet Again," sung as either the opening or closing song. It was something that felt very comforting and soothing to her. But my dad really didn't want that particular hymn to be sung; I think he felt it would be to hard and sad to bear. I guess they sort of compromised, and my mom asked me to play it as part of a medley of hymns on the piano. If nothing else, that was a comfort to me... just to play.
Wade's viewing was at the funeral home on Monday night, before the service on Tuesday. It was supposed to run from 7 p.m. to 9 p.m. When we arrived at 6:30, the parking lot was already quite full, as was the viewing chapel. An hour later, the line of people zig-zagged back and forth across the chapel and out the door down the hallway of the funeral home. It was actually one of the most touching, moving evenings of my life. And the last "guests" did not leave until after 10:30 p.m.
I didn't like seeing Wade there. He didn't look like himself anyway, and I was glad, because it just didn't feel right for him to be laying there. I only peeked into the casket twice, briefly. But mainly I stood with these hundreds of friends and family members, crying, hugging, reminiscing and remembering this wonderful, dear brother of mine. With almost every hug, this baby inside me kicked or stretched, feeling the pressure of the hug. Feeling that little life inside was a memory I'll treasure from that night -- almost like this little one was pushing me to be strong and happy and remember the sweet memories.
So many, many people came. So many bouquets and plants and cards were placed around the room. One that really touched me was a huge spray of lilies, hung on an easel near the casket. It was big enough, I thought it was maybe one of the ones my parents had ordered. I went to read the little card, only to find it was from "the Graduating Class of 1989, Blackfoot High School." Wow. It still chokes me up to think about it. I mean, how many people do
you know who will receive a huge spray of flowers from their high school graduating class, 25 years down the road?? Wade must have had more of an impact than any of us can realize.
And yet, listening to the sweet, kind words from his friends over those few days we were together, and reading the many sweet tributes on his facebook page and in the cards and letters we've received... I'm left to wonder; maybe
each of us has more of an impact than we may realize. Maybe that's one of the things I'm meant to learn from all of this.
As I have read through so many comments and cards, I've felt so comforted to feel the love of so many people who also loved my sweet Wade brother. And... I've also felt sad that all these kindnesses are coming
after he's gone. I mean, I know Wade can probably read what all his friends have written, and he probably knows what people have said in his honor these last few weeks. He's probably on the "other side" enjoying these sweet tributes. But, well, why couldn't he have had that pleasure and joy
before he had to go? Why don't we say those precious words to each other when we can benefit from knowing how loved we really are?? Here and now?!? Something else to learn, I suppose. I wish I could learn that one quickly, and apply it more readily. I keep so many of my thoughts of gratitude and love to myself. I can share more with the people who mean so much to me.
My bishop's wife called, one of those first nights. She told me to take time to hold my little ones and let their innocence and distracted-ness be something to help me heal. I have loved that thought, and have cherished some of the sweet, necessary hugs and cuddles with my babies. I hope to not forget this lesson either.
I've also learned a bit about how I grieve, and it's not so pretty. But it's probably good self knowledge: I shut down, go inside myself, hole up a bit. I loved and appreciated so many sweet comments from concerned friends on my own facebook page, but I struggled to be online and read them, just because it seemed like every new comment reopened the wound... still feels that way, I guess. I stayed with my parents for a few days after the funeral. Mainly, it seems like I made small talk with my mom and dad, played the piano, and tried to sleep. That was just what I needed. I was gone to my parents' house for that week, and, when I returned home, there were 17 new messages on our home phone. It took me two days after returning before I could make myself listen to them. In the days since, I've stood by the ringing phone, crying and wishing for someone to talk to, but have not felt up to picking it up and talking to a dear friend who is calling to console and comfort. I have tried to read, tried to write, tried to clean, tried to "go out" for some kind of therapy. Most all those things leave me feeling more emotionally exhausted and overwhelmed. This is not depression. It is part of grieving, for me. And it's different from anyone else's grief. I'm grateful to learn this. And I hope for some renewal, with time.
I need to sleep now. Mornings are my worst, and they come early and relentlessly. Natalie is sick tonight, sounds a bit croupy. So, off I go for now. Next time I write about this, I intend to write about Wade. Not about what happened, but about the sweet, wonderful memories I have of Wade, and the blessing he has been all my life. I love him and miss him so much. And I am so grateful for his undying influence in my life.
