912 Days....

Now I'm drivin'
Through the pitch black dark
I'm screaming at the sky
Oh cause it hurts so bad
Everybody tells me
Oh all I need is time
Then the mornin' rolls in
And it hits me again
And that aint nothin' but a lie.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I35_B_5htnI

I began counting days, then weeks, next came months and now I am counting years. It does not seem possible to count years already. There are days when it seems like yesterday and then other times it feels like it has already been forever. Today, Monday is when Heather died 2 ½ years ago. The date of the 20^th comes later this week. It has been 912 days, 130 weeks, 54 months or 2 ½ years since I was last able to touch Heather. It has been longer than that since I heard or voice or was able to have a conversation with her.

I stumbled across your old picture today
I could barely breath
The moment stopped me cold,
Grabbed me like a thief.
I dialed your number, but you wouldn't be there
I knew the whole time, but it's still not fair
I just wanted to hear your voice,
I just needed to hear your voice.

There is so much that I have never shared that happened with Heather. The things I am sharing on the blog post today are things that happened and photos I have never shared. These are very private and personal to me. I hope you understand what I am trying to share today.

Friday morning March 27, 2009 Heather and I had a very coherent conversation. It was the best one we had in days. She was herself. She drank her ensure and we talk just like old times. I had no idea it would be one of the last lucid conversations I would have with her. If I had known we would not have spent the time talking about what we talked about. To this day I still have a grudge that I carry about the topic of discussion that we talked about that morning.

This was taken just a few hours after Heather was placed on the vent. 

 In the wee hours of the morning on Saturday, March 28, Heather was being prepped for being placed on the vent. This is something I pray no one ever has to go through. It is a necessary machine but is so horrible and all the wicked things that go with it. I will not begin to tell you all the horrors that go with it, the vent is bad enough. I called Bill and he was able to just make it before they began. There was no time to get Jenn and Wendy there in time she was that critical. All the lights were on and we were forced to leave the room during the procedure. She was so out of it due to lack of oxygen. She was not scared, just kept asking if the procedure was done yet. The last words Heather ever spoke were I love you. I was sitting beside her on the bed and I told her I loved her and that it would only be a few days and she would be fine.  Bill and I were placed in a small private meeting room while the procedure was done.

In the middle...it appears to say I love you momy...this was written a few hours after she was placed on the vent. I take it to say I love you Momy. It may not look like it, but she shook her head when I read it.

No one could ever be prepared for seeing their loved one on a vent and I was no different. We were told to be very quiet as she was not responding to the sedation the way she should and she moved quite a bit. Heather would open her eyes and try to hug me when I would come into the room. Believe it or not, Heather actually wrote 2 notes to me and wanted her phone to text messages. This was very hard for me as I thought when you were on a vent you didn’t move. Later on they would sedate and paralysis her so she could not move anymore. Jenn and Wendy had the opportunity to say they loved her that same day. Heather opened her eyes when they talked to her and I know that she heard and understood what they said to her.

This was written the next day..It says Tomorrow I go home. At the bottom she wants Ativan. So she got Ativan added to her drugs. Kim-her nurse said anyone who could write what she wanted got it. Heather shook her head when I read it saying that was what she wanted was to go home or 6 South and ativan

What do I do with all I need to say
So much I wanna tell you every day
Oh it breaks my heart,
I cry these tears in the dark
I write these letters to you,
But they get lost in the blue,
'Cause there's no address in the stars.

Today I went through Heather’s boxes under my bed. I have no idea why I picked today to do this. I guess it helps in some weird way. I came across her cross stitch sampler that I made for her when she was born. I have no idea what I am supposed to do with that or the signed matte from her graduation. I also found a small trove of her treasured bunnies. She was a bunny lover from the very beginning. Everything and anything that was a bunny she wanted it. I still to this day am moved to buy bunny things.

Some of Heather's bunnies..her first jewelry box..what do I do with all this???

Cross Stitch I made for Heather-hours and hours of work

So here it is 912 days, 130 weeks, 54 months or 2 ½ years after Heather died and honestly I don’t feel that I am any closer to “getting over” this. On the outside I look like I have it all together but on the inside I don’t. I do have good days but still have bad days. The bad days seem to hit me when I least expect it now and that seems to be the difficult part. The smallest little thing can change my mood and mind set so fast. It can be a smell, a song, a note or even passing a van on the freeway. As long as it is still here then Heather is still here. Heather is my brick that I carry around..and it is fine, actually!

I asked for scissors shortly after Heather died. Sharon-night nurse manager- asked me if I was taking some of her hair. I said yes I was. She told me good, she was going to do that and save it for me in case I wanted it later and forgot.

Becca: Does it ever go away?
Nat: No, I don’t think it does. Not for me, it hasn’t -- has gone on for eleven years. But it changes though.
Becca: How?
Nat: I don’t know… the weight of it, I guess. At some point, it becomes bearable. It turns into something that you can crawl out from under and… carry around like a brick in your pocket. And you… you even forget it, for a while. But then you reach in for whatever reason and -- there it is. Oh right, that. Which could be aweful -- not all the time. It’s kinda…not that you’d like it exactly, but it’s what you’ve got instead of your son. So, you carry it around. And uh… it doesn’t go away. Which is…
Becca: Which is what?
Nat: Fine, actually.