To Hell and Back: A Blog Post From the Heart

Preface

The car accident.

It would be absurd to write under the pretense that no one reading this doesn't already know most of what happened. So, at least that breaks the ice. Part of the reason for the delay in blogging is because I just didn't know how to approach this. And why bother? Why do this to myself? It was harrowing enough to live through the aftermath, so why relive it by being as detailed as I can in my account of events? For the sake of journalistic integrity? Or is it some confrontational form of self-therapy? I don't know, it's neither, yet a little of both. The only reason I finally sat down to focus on this is because I excused myself from being held to any sort of standard of writing, poetic sentiment, or even thoroughness.

Instead of trying to communicate well, instead of trying to "do it justice," (how is that even possible for something so deep, significant, and important?) I will just write. Facebook has already covered most of what I have to say here, so the sole point is to give an account from my point of view, in chronological order.

This is not the ultimate, unabridged, coverage. It is simply a piece of the picture. This is not a life-affirming, magnum opus. It is simply a blog post from the heart.


Before the Storm

Thursday, February 23. A few days before Liam's 2nd birthday. The last truly good day I had. I took Liam out to lake country, to give Juliet a whole day to herself. I was going to blog about it in the end, of some of the bittersweet thoughts I had about friendships from the past, and all the adventures I went on that day with just my kid. But when I got home at around 9:00, I discovered that my laptop wasn't working very well. The daily journal (more of a personal timesheet) experiment I started at the beginning of the year would have to be jotted down on note cards until I could enter it in the Word file.

Ultimately, it turned out that my hard drive was dying, and the only function I could perform (thankfully) was to slowwwwwly transfer everything onto a stack of flash drives, because the external hard drive wouldn't even transfer. It took weeks. That's how dead-slow my dying laptop was. So, that's part of the reason why no blog post. It wouldn't be until March 31 that I got my laptop back, its hard drive successfully cloned, rendering my expensive stack of new, full flash drives an unnecessary but wise precaution.

Tuesday, March 7. I hadn't had a "day off" in weeks, and things had been tense for a while. Juliet took Liam all day, out and about, to give me some much-needed alone time. She suggested I don't bother organizing, and do something truly relaxing, but we were in the middle of so many home repairs and the disorder was holding up our progress. I was long-frustrated, and just wanted to feel productive. I could have felt productive by sequestering myself with one of my many composition projects, but I knew we would both feel happier with an orderly house.

So I decided to do it in a fun fashion. I listened to the unreleased, complete recordings of the Pirates of the Caribbean film scores all day long, at full volume, while maintaining a high intensity of pace, organizing and cleaning. While drinking rum. I thought about watching the films themselves, but last time I tried that, I ended up just drinking and watching the movies, and was left with a still-messy house. Besides, every time I tell anyone about it, the taste goes sour. It's like you're not even allowed to enjoy those movies, like the Star Wars prequels. I can only watch them if I don't tell any of my spoilsport friends about it, and that has just come to feel like a lonely experience. With every subsequent viewing, Pirates of the Caribbean, Star Wars, and the Transformers movies just feel more and more ruined by everyone else who won't just let me have fun with them. So I blasted the music all day instead.

It was enjoyable in ways, but not a "good" day like when I went to the lake with Liam. I needed more good days, but this wasn't a bad one. It was, in some ways, actually glorious. And it was a day of no obligations, the first in a long while.

Sadly, it would be the last day of both of those things for a while to come...


The Shattering

Wednesday, March 8. Our third wedding anniversary.

Juliet decided she could give me a little more time to myself, at least until my scheduled makeup piano lesson in the evening. We hadn't really nailed down anniversary plans, but would do something either when I got home from teaching or the next day, which was open.

Juliet took Liam in the car, running just a few minutes late if she was to make it to the library on time for the children's program she sometimes goes to. When she kissed me goodbye with an "I love you," I glanced at my phone. 9:35. Yeah, cutting it close, but it's not like you can't show up a few minutes late. They'd be fine.

I spent the morning wrestling with transferring data on my terminally-ill laptop. I wasn't sure if I wanted to continue the Pirates of the Caribbean mentality. In peaceful silence, I made it to lunch, still trying to decide what to accomplish before she returned.

An illusory peace.

12:15pm. I had mostly finished a light lunch of salmon, potatoes, and peas, when there was a knock at the door. I put the plate in the microwave so the cat wouldn't reach it, and went to the door, expecting UPS or someone. It was a county police officer, his county blazer with "sheriff" on the side parked in my front yard. A little surprised, in the back of my mind I knew that only two things could explain his presence there, one being that I was in violation of something. I pleasantly greeted him, not expecting anything really bad.

There had been an accident. My legs went weak, and I leaned against the frame of the open door on both sides. My vision went surreal, and he explained something, but I had to interrupt and say, "Sorry. Words. Coming at me. Can you say all that again?"

He assured me "no one is deceased," but that Juliet was taken to Seton Williamson County and was in critical condition, and Liam was at Dell Children's Hospital and I needed to go there immediately for parental consent for his treatment. I couldn't go see Juliet. I was needed at Dell.

I blurted out, "It's our anniversary." He said, "I'm sorry to hear that." He was professional, unfazed on the outside, and just trying to get me moving, because it really was urgent.

Hands shaking, I went inside to grab my phone and keys, and put a real shirt on, over the undershirt I was wearing. I had him wait until I knew the car would start, because our second vehicle has a glitching theft deterrent system that sometimes causes you to have to sit there for ten minutes with the key in the "on" position before you turn it again. It started, and he asked if I was okay to go on my own.

In what is now an out-of-body experience, I interrupted him, "You know, you have a very hard job." He nodded and said, "Yes, I do." I gestured at my porch and the long walk up to it, where he had to knock on the door and tell bad news. "I mean... this? This has to be the worst for you." He nodded, saying in a professional and pleasant tone, "I appreciate you thinking of me in your time of need." I thanked him and shook his hand, and went about my way. Looking back, although the words are etched in my memory, it was like watching a movie of someone else. Maybe I just wanted a friendly, calm moment outside of reality.

But then I was left to be inside my head as I drove the long, long drive to Dell Children's. And calling my family members on both sides while driving. While madly gripping the wheel, thinking how important it was not to go off the road. With my hands shaking. No music. I couldn't handle any music right now. Sometimes talking out loud to no one, just to keep my nerve, I made it to the children's hospital. Juliet's other family members went to Seton to be with her until I could get there later.

Much of that day is a blur. A whirlwind of phone calls and text messages and half-remembered bits of speech coming out of doctors' mouths.

All the while, I was living out the worst nightmare I could think of, my whole world threatened by fickle gods, my wife and just-turned-two-year-old son taken. The fate of my family and my own life's future identity in a limbo of possible outcomes, like Schrodinger's Cat From Hell.

At the children's hospital, one of the EMS personnel and a couple of nurses escorted me to Liam's room. The guy told me he wasn't actually the one on the scene, but he heard it was a head-on collision (it actually wasn't, but more on that later) and she was going the speed limit of 70, at the intersection of Hwy 195 and Shell Road. Thinking of the accidents I'd seen there, including a nearly identical situation on Liam's birthday just over a week ago, I blurted out, "That fuckin' intersection!" I was further horrified; I had driven through that very spot on the way to the hospital, and the wreck had already been cleared, so I had no idea as I passed though it.

"Liam is okay. He's been asking for you."

I entered the room. Liam, terrified, voice hoarse from crying, saw me come in. The first sight of my little boy in a neck brace, his face red and tear-streaked, red welts on his neck and forehead, will always haunt me. I held him, and the crying abated to gentle sobbing and gasping for air from prolonged duress. That will always haunt me, but not nearly as much as his repeated requests to go see Juliet.

"Wanna go see Mommy? Go see Mommy..." That is the most exquisite agony I have ever felt in my admittedly turbulent life.

I pressed my eyes together hard, rueing the day. "I know you do. I want you to see Mommy, too." It tore my heart out of my chest. Little two-year-old boy probably wouldn't see his mommy again, ever. How do you lose a parent at that age? Think of what you are missing out on. I couldn't bear the thought for him, nor could I bear the thought for myself, of raising him alone.

And there was nothing I could do but wait in terror. Shrodinger's cat. Juliet was either going to die or she wasn't, and it wasn't up to me. Or maybe she would be paralyzed, or otherwise maimed. In fact, even as I write this, weeks later, there is still the threat of further injury that could result in lifelong, chronic pain.

All of this, after 2015 was consumed by the breast cancer crisis. It was too soon to have this fear again. Why? (I really wanted to nail this part in my writing, but again, I forgave myself in advance of falling short.)

Liam was unable to turn his head to the right, and they were worried about permanent ligament damage or something. I gave the green light for the CT scan to be done first thing in the morning. Eventually, I was dismissed to go across town (the next town, technically) to finally see Juliet.

By the time I'd gotten there, a plastic surgeon had already sewn up her torn face, but she still looked... she was in bad shape. Unconscious, battered. Her left eyelid and forehead messed up. Her right arm--her paintbrush arm--spectacularly fractured. And a slew of other injuries. Three (or four, as I have been corrected) vertebrae were broken. Two ribs broken, her lung collapsed. Three out of four of her neck arteries swollen to the point of a threat of stroke. A bad concussion, as would be revealed later.

You know, every time I try to go through the litany of injuries, I leave some out. I can never list them all. She was in bad shape. Was she going to make it?

I would come to find out later that the doctors and nurses didn't expect Juliet to survive. She was battling long odds, and chaplains at both hospitals were hovering nearby, at-the-ready, for when they had to do their somber duty. But in my initial Facebook announcement of the accident, I echoed the bullshit optimism the doctors spin for you when such a thing happens:

Juliet and Liam were in a car accident. I am with Liam at the children's hospital and other family members are waiting with Juliet. She has injuries but probably won't need surgery. I wish I could see Juliet right now. Today is our third anniversary.

There was an outpouring of support. In fact, for the better part of the next week, my phone was almost ceaselessly buzzing with the vibration of a Facebook comment or text message. But I was too restrained in my initial, blunt post. "...but probably won't need surgery..." IF she survives.

I guess, in retrospect, it matters to me that I tell you this because I want you to know that Facebook was somewhat antiseptic in its coverage. Including my own. It was a nightmare, and I really was bracing for the worst.

On top of that, having to drive back and forth several times between hospitals, because they couldn't even both be in the same location. That was rough. I'm assuming you can't even imagine, but you have my condolences if you can.

I should mention that I've always hated hospitals. Really.


Two Crises, Different Cloths

I still can't decide which is worse: a cancer diagnosis and battle stretched out over about a year, or the more condensed terror of imminent devastation. I don't have to decide. Never ask me which was harder for me, because they are apples and oranges. I will say that no one should ever have to know the answer anyway. All this, and we're still in our thirties.

All I can say is, the most painful scar I bear is two-year-old Liam's plaintive, sobbing, "Wanna go see Mommy!" when I thought he might never get to again.

Cancer is different. Yes, it's a nightmare. It's awful. And it's a long trial from which there is no escape. An endurance test. But it's different. Cancer is the cruel Fates rolling the dice and landing on a hideous Natural 1. There's no one to blame. It's just a bum deal, a personal issue between you and your God.

This was an accident. By definition, it was easily avoidable. By definition, a person did this. A person did this. A PERSON did this. A person DID this.

I just don't know. I'm going to stop thinking about that now.


Stay

Late that night, I made a quick run to the house to pack. I was going to have to be living out of the car for a while, going between two hospitals and even at a friend's house for sleep.

Driving through that accursed stoplight at night was another anxiety attack, and would be for a long time to come. I have to take that fucking intersection twice a day. Have to. And it's 70-mph on our part. That is one violent collision.

I hate that fucking intersection. Almost as though it were a person. I hate it with the near-superstitious reverence of a crusty old sea captain telling the tale of a particularly perilous passage with a hushed voice.

Among other things, I packed the soundtrack to Interstellar, for a reason.

It got me through the cancer scare. It was already tainted with sadness and anxiety for me, so I might as well lean on it now, too.

I drove back to Seton to spend the night with my wife on our anniversary.

Thursday, March 9. The day after.

I posted to Facebook:

Juliet is being wheeled out for a CT scan. I have been with her for the night. In about 45 minutes I am going to have to beat traffic to go back to the children's hospital to sign off on Liam's MRI and be there for him. Juliet has been sedated all this time and will probably continue to be out for quite a while.

Still blunt and concise, still dry and factual. Still not alarmist. Still holding strong.

Blur. Fast forward.

Other people came together to give updates as well. Other people took charge of some of my responsibilities so I could focus on my family. Other people helped out so unspeakably much with the hurricane of responsibilities like dealing with the car insurance, sniffing out lawyers, and setting up a volunteer signup for staying with Juliet, and even a meal train. Once again, the litany is too long to recall in one shot. There was chaos. A lot of it.

Later, in the waiting room at the children's hospital, I paced. Liam's MRI was taking far longer than I was told it would. I didn't know that it was because someone forgot to actually activate my Panera-like pager. I paced, I worried, I continued to tell myself, "It's not real until it's real," cautiously living in two simultaneous realities. One as a widower, one as a whole man. And waiting to hear if Liam was permanently injured. Still in Hell, but at least Liam was going to live.

My emotions turned to one of a yearning, screaming-on-the-inside, impotent desperation. I thought of the end of the original Superman, and I even posted the clip to Facebook with the caption, "Would if I could," and tagged my wife, hoping that she would one day be able to watch it. Superman, preoccupied with saving everyone else, is too late on the scene to rescue Lois Lane. Superman, face twisted in horror, sets her body gently down next to the wrecked car. He shakes his head. "No..." Silently mouthing the words over and over again until they rise to a whisper, then throws his head back and screams with all his soul, "NOOOOO!" And tears off into the sky to defy the warnings of his late, Kryptonian father not to meddle with human affairs, instead choosing to side with the memory of his his late, adoptive Earthling father's words, "One thing I do know, son, and that is you are here for a reason." Then, the recollection of his adoptive father's death, "All those things I can do... all those powers... and I couldn't even save him." And a look of resolve steels his expression. And he breaks the rules, turns back time, and prevents Lois' death seemingly out of sheer willpower.

I watched that clip on my phone again and again. And later, at the house, pacing. Again and again. I must have watched that excerpt a hundred times. It still gives me chills.

"Would if I could."

Later, still waiting for Liam to come out of the MRI, I also posted this:

A couple years ago,  Juliet and I decided to spend Easter Sunday watching a humble little film called Interstellar, which was a new release on Redbox. It was good, but emotionally draining. Shortly after that, she was diagnosed with breast cancer. The day she was diagnosed was the day I went to Barnes and Noble to buy the score on CD, as I knew I was going to need it for spiritual fuel to cope with the uncertain and hard days ahead. Hans Zimmer's music for that movie was beautiful, majestic, somber, and haunting. It was full of stark, open spaces and slowly unraveling ideas the likes of which he hasn't treated us to since The Thin Red Line in 1998. It sounded to me like guarded fear and rising to the occasion to do whatever is necessary. I have been listening to it again. It means something different and poignant for me. It is the soundtrack for being afraid of raising Liam alone. (That shouldn't be a recurring experience, but it is). Interstellar is awesome music in the most supreme of noble purposes that music can serve. And I will probably never be able to watch that movie ever again.

I was typing on my phone, which makes it hard to edit. In retrospect, I would have used the word "bleak" to describe Interstellar. Yes. Bleak but encouraging. And "unraveling" should be "unveiling."

But this soundtrack is more than music to me. Once again, it got me through the worst times.

And then, later, in Liam's room, again tagging Juliet for her and everyone else to find:

Liam is out of the neck brace and is okay!! He can go home as soon as he has a meal to show he is no longer sick from the anesthesia!!

Blur. Liam felt better after the nausea wore off and he could have a meal. He was even dancing. He was happy. Oblivious. And happy. Heartwarmingly so.

Liam was discharged after 3pm. I was free to return to Juliet's side, on the other side of town. She was awake, but nonverbal. She could barely hold up two fingers on command, but the fact that she could was a good sign.

Another Facebook post:

Liam is staying with family now. His bruises will heal. He is just happy to be out of the hospital. Now I am with Juliet, who is able to smile and squeeze my hand. I am going to get some sleep at a friend's house so I am rested for her surgery at 7am, but right now I am breathing a sigh of relief, alone in the ICU. It seems that the worst is over. I have held it together, but I feel like a stiff breeze could shatter me into a million pieces, yet at the same time I feel like I could fly. It feels so good for her to squeeze my hand.

My wife was alive. She couldn't talk, but she was alive. So many things I wanted to tell her, to ask her. I couldn't possibly even hug her. But she squeezed my hand to let me know that she knew I was there. She was post-concussive and out of her mind on drugs and wouldn't remember it later, but she could squeeze my hand. Walking out to the parking lot, the cool evening breeze touching me, I felt like every cell in my body was shuddering with barely-held-together composure.

I got some shuteye at the friends' house where she would end up staying for a long time. Not enough sleep, to be back before morning traffic for her surgery, and tired as I'd been since Liam's birth, but it was sleep.


A Lingering Dread

Friday, March 10. At 5:40am, I woke up too late to make it in time for her elbow surgery.

I waited.

A blur. Honestly, so much of it is a blur. I stop short of wishing I could remember the details for you. I was nowhere near being out of the woods yet. It was Day 3, and I was still in Hell. I was just relegated to being seated in Hell's Foyer, that's all.

Juliet was still in ICU, after all. She was off the loud machine that pumped her collapsed lung, but critical still means critical.

It is important to me that I make this clear: Facebook coverage was still given an optimistic spin. A lot of things could still go badly. And I was still shaken to my core. I was also reliving the worst moments in my mind, endlessly repeating scenarios the way you do after a catastrophe. Things were looking hopeful, but there was so much room for life-shattering, bad news. Would she be okay? Would she ever be the same? Even now, writing this, I am skeptical that she will ever be back to 100%. But then, there, on Day 3, in the ICU, I was still gripped by unspoken fears.

She returned from surgery at 8:30am.

She woke up a few times to ask what happened, forgetting each answer for the next time she asked. It was hard to go through it more than once. I worried about her memory a little bit. At one point, finally she seemed almost herself (she was not). She asked about the face painting gig she was booked for later that day, and who was going to cover her. I was stunned, impressed, and actually pretty hurt that business was her first order of business. I looked up the gig on the phone calendar, and said, "Let's see... Jacquie KUTX..." And Juliet interrupted, "Oh, no, you should do the gig. You are a much better face painter than Jacquie is!" I waited a beat, then explained slowly that Jacquie was the name of the client booking us, not the name of one of her employees. Clearly, she was still drugged out of her mind. That was both discouraging and relieving. It's hard to explain. But this is one of the little details I wanted to pour out into a blog post.

At some point, though, she did mostly seem to know what was happening, and I got to talk to her briefly. Just long enough for both of us to reassure the other that things were going to be okay. That we love each other.

I ached so hard for the chance at a long conversation with my wife, but I was yet to receive it.

I returned to our house in Florence to gather some of her things, including her laptop. There was much information I needed on it, and I didn't know her passwords.

The next part is a blur, but at some point (after midnight, I guess) I posted this on Facebook:

Juliet's surgery went well. I had a busy day myself, and now I have Liam at home, just the two of us. He was getting worried about not seeing his parents for a while, so I have him here for a sense of stability. Juliet has been resting, but I finally got to talk to her. It was only for a minute of drug-free lucidity, but I got to talk to her. I am feeling a little lonely at the house, but my heart is full.

I also had a sobering realization, which I gratefully posted:

The last thing Juliet said to me before the accident was "I love you." You people really need to make that your policy, because you just never know.

Saturday, March 11. Eventually, the various specialists gave her the clear and she was able to be moved from ICU to the Med/Surg floor, which was a massive step in a good direction.

They are getting ready to move Juliet to another floor. No more ICU means later today Liam can finally see Mommy!

Over and over again, I kept thinking of holding Liam in the ER at Dell. "Wanna go see Mommy? Time to go see Mommy?" And he finally had enough asking politely and firmly declared, "It's time to go see Mommy!" It haunted me then, and it haunts me still. But this progress meant he was a lot closer to seeing her. She wasn't ready yet. But soon. She was moved at around 7:30pm.

I was almost out of Hell. The devil's minion at the front gate was stamping my hand in case I needed to come back later that day.

The worst was over.

I spent the night at my house alone that night. I think. Or was I in the hospital? No, I think I stayed with Juliet. I must have. Didn't I?

Well, if it wasn't that night, then it was one of the following nights. I was in Florence, alone, organizing necessities or rearming for the battles ahead or something. It was dark outside. Maybe around 8 or 9pm. I heard something outside. It sounded like a footstep on the porch steps.

The sound of someone stepping onto my porch made my heart freeze, and I nearly choked. No! No no no no NO! Impossible! She's in Med/Surg! She's safe! How can something else have happened to her?! Or is it someone else this time?!

I approached the front door in dread. The police officer was about to knock on my door. An instant before that terrible sound could strike my ears, I violently threw the front door open.

No one. Just the lonely, dark night. It must have been the stupid cat jumping down from the railing, I figured. I closed the door. And then I just started shaking. Dazed. Listlessly drifting around the house, eyes not focused on anything, gently touching the wall in case I needed to support my weight. Face slowly contorting into a whining mess of misery like something out of Saving Private Ryan. "No... no..."

I realized I might have some mild form of PTSD. All because I thought I heard someone at my front door, about to knock with some more awful news.

Jumping ahead for relevance's sake. Another day, perhaps weeks later, the same sheriff's blazer slowly pulled into my driveway as I looked out the window, washing dishes. That time, it was not the cat. Broad daylight. Same cop. In my driveway. No other explanation other than something awful. Then, he slowly turned around and went back on the road. The wind went out of me. "What the fuck are you doing to me, pulling into my driveway like that?!" He slowly crept back and forth up and down the road next to the edge of my front yard (it's a big yard, as I live in the country). I don't know what he was doing, but it ostensibly had nothing to do with me. But I glared out the blinds obsessively every few seconds, from a different window each time. Deeply rattled. Irrationally anxious. Seriously messed up. Yeah, that's something I only shared with a couple of people.


Coward

Sunday, March 12. It hadn't escaped my notice that, through it all, I wasn't angry. I was distraught, anxious, terrified, worried, and grief-stricken. But I wasn't angry, either at God or at the other driver. I had compassion for the other driver, in fact. After all, he must be suffering, too. And it's called a "car accident," not a "car on-purpose."

The night before, upon her transfer from ICU to Med/Surg, there was less to fear. Relief brought with it a wave of melancholy and regret over the entire ordeal. Anger began to tug softly at the corners of my mind as I talked to my sister-in-law Allegra about how unfair this whole situation was. We talked about our suffering through her cancer so recently, as well. I was rueful, but surprisingly not angry at the person who did this.

But at some point, I heard a rumor that they had fled the scene. Spoiler alert: that was just a rumor, not true at all. Even when I heard it, I was skeptical. How could they walk away unscathed? Anyway, there are cameras on that intersection, and I long ago viewed the footage from such a camera for an unfair ticket, so I know what it can see, I know there is no escaping it. No, that didn't add up. But, after all, we still didn't have the police report. I didn't believe it, but I filed it away. Because if it had been true, that would have been a game-changer for me. The idea took root, and grew over the course of Sunday. I thought to myself, "My heart held only pity and hope for them. But if this is the case, my heart has no mercy for such cowards."

I couldn't shake it. I didn't believe it, not quite. But it meant I had more damned waiting to do. More limbo to remain in until I could find out for sure. More uncertainty, more living in two possible outcomes.

Flash forward: Tuesday, pursuing the police report and driving all the way to Georgetown only to find that the report actually takes a shockingly long time to be processed and so it wasn't ready yet, I asked the officer at the station about it. "All I want to know is... was it a hit-and-run?" He said without hesitation that it was not. It would have been an ongoing investigation in that event, and there was no such thing going on. That was the least he could tell me, the least I wanted at that point. I asked him where the rumor could have come from, more out of rhetorical exasperation than expecting him to know. He shrugged and gestured at the window. "Rumors are like birds. They just come out of the air."

Since the accident, Interstellar was playing in my car stereo. All day Sunday, however, the only thing in my mind's ear, in my soul, was Track 13: "Coward." I rode the currents of its rhythms, bracing myself for a dark future, listening to that track in particular so many times. But Sunday it was that track almost exclusively. In my heart, in my mind. I wasn't trying to. I just couldn't stop.

I went back to Florence to pack again. From that point on, I intended to be able to essentially live out of my car, to be flexible in terms of sleep while still being able to get back into covering gigs for work. I needed all possible supplies for any situation. So I loaded up.

Errands in Round Rock, then back to Juliet before going home to get real sleep for a change.

At the hospital Sunday night, I posted this:

Today was rough.  Juliet is in a lot of pain. It is hard to see her suffer this greatly. I thought being moved to another floor meant Liam could visit, but she is just not ready for that. As for myself, I haven't been this exhausted since she was in labor for three days. Please understand that I am trying to keep up, but I have been in such a constant deluge of messages and people talking to me that I literally can't type a response without being interrupted with another question or update. All day long, just nonstop. If I didn't respond to you, you are somewhere on the waiting list, or you fell through the cracks. I would say to just remind me if I haven't gotten back to you, but that could backfire if it means I get twice as many messages. Between helping Juliet and being glued to my phone, I have been completely swamped. I am behind and overwhelmed and increasingly frustrated. But I am not ignoring you on purpose. It was nice, however, to be able to make wisecracks here and there. But there is just too much going on and I have no escape. You really have no idea.  Allegra, you are a rock star of a taskmaster.

I seriously had been checking my phone every few minutes, just not responding to (or even really getting to read) everything. But if I didn't keep looking, that little red notifications number would be in the double or even triple digits, so I had to keep glancing to avoid being overwhelmed later.

Still hounded by the nagging thought that it could prove to be a hit-and-run, which was just a rumor. Nasty things, those. But that tugging at the corners of my mind that I talked about, it got firmer, more insistent. Intending to peel back the veneer and reveal an ugly new portrait of reality with such a revelation. Good thing it didn't turn out to be true.


A Year Stolen

We were told six months. Six months before she could be back to normal. On one hand, what a relief that there was a possibility--perhaps even a likelihood--that we only lost half a year, and then can move on! Some people aren't so fortunate.

On the other hand, what a terrible burden. Missing out on carrying her little boy who is growing up so fast before her very eyes. Not being able to work. Meaning I am the sole provider of income for the family, steeped in medical bills from cancer and a horrific car accident. We were going to need a lot of help for a long time to come. Help with finances. Help covering gigs for her entertainment business that she can't do. Help taking care of Liam.

And, for the foreseeable future, help taking care of Juliet herself. She was on serious medications and she required round-the-clock care even after being discharged from the hospital. Her concussion was debilitating. Her TBI (traumatic brain injury) was such that she had lingering memory problems, and her brain was so swollen that her eyes were being slightly pushed out of her head, making her vision fuzzy and causing dizziness and nausea. No TV for Juliet.

I started to feel bitter towards everyone who takes it for granted that they can just do things with their spouse, not thinking a second thought about being able to go out to eat, watch TV on the couch, laugh, dance, everything. We wouldn't even be able to watch all the Netflix shows we talked about catching up on. Not for at least half a year. No date night. Just slowly, patiently recuperating. Being thankful to be alive. But everyone else gets to live.

It still bothers me. I mean, how can I not think bitter thoughts? You must understand... for me, there has been no break. No escape from this. My responsibilities have quintupled, and I still have residual anxiety to cope with.

In what is jokingly referred to as "Christian-ese," they talk about life in terms of "seasons." You are in a "season of renewal," or a "season of building," a "season of mourning," a "season of growth," a "season of fill-in-the-blank." For me, 2015 was the cancer crisis, so 2016 was intentionally a season of recovery. I spent the entire year getting over the stress of 2015, and still wasn't done. 2017 was supposed to see the beginning of a "season of joy," but as it turned out, it was storm season.

Six months is nothing. If it is indeed going to be six months, that's a huge disappointment. Putting life on hold, sure. It sucks. But if it weren't for the mountain of burdens heaped on us, that would be a blink-and-you'll-miss-it sort of thing. I mean, how many times have you pinched yourself to find that you were not in fact dreaming, and yes, you do need to get cracking on Christmas shopping? Six months, when you're in your 30s, man, it's already gone.

But not this. Every day was a hard day for me.

For all intents and purposes, 2017 is ruined. Fairly early on, at that. All the good intentions from New Year's are long dead and buried. 2018 shall be a Phoenix rising.


A Slow Recovery

Tuesday, March 14. I finally got to bring Liam in to see his mommy. As my sister-in-law posted, along with my selfie of Liam and me in front of her, asleep in the hospital bed:

Liam finally saw his mommy today! He hasn't seen her since Wednesday when he was in, what I'm assuming, was a scary car crash where his mama and him were separated to save her life. I'm so happy that wasn't the end of the story Liam gets with his mama and that she is going to survive this. While NO ONE wants this for Juliet Milaka Jurkovskis or her family I am confident that Liam is going to learn so much perseverance, compassion and fortitude among so many virtues through this. He's going to watch his mama come back from near death as a vibrant woman again and watch his dad stand by her patiently. It sucks right now. And it will for a while. But Liam will have his mama and dad still. Today, I'll take that as a win.

Other than a severe rug burn around his neck from the carseat strap, Liam was mostly okay by this point. He was too young to understand, and it broke my heart how he gradually became conditioned to repeat what everyone told him, "Mommy's resting." Or, "Mommy's sleeping." He would ask to see Mommy, then answer his own question. It saddened me.

Wednesday, March 15. A blur, lost to memory, because my laptop was still dead and I neglected to write anything down on a note card. As of this day, my 2017 personal log experiment was a failure.

Thursday, March 16. The day was a blur of hospital interactions, but at around 7:30, Juliet was finally discharged from the hospital. She had a terrifying, nauseating minivan ride to a friend's house in Leander, where she would receive round-the-clock care from family and friends who would share a sign-up sheet.

On Facebook, I posted:

Juliet is being discharged from the hospital, but she is not going home. She is going to stay with friends who can help take care of her, because she won't be able to handle Liam or even just solitude for a while. We will make her as comfortable as we can, as she has many injuries that will take time to heal. She will probably not feel like herself for another six months. That's half a year without being able to work, drive, carry anything, or hold Liam who is growing up so fast. There is gratitude but there is sadness, and she is in constant pain. The road to recovery is long. It will not be easy. But she has so many wonderful people in her life who support her so much. Thank you.

I saw her to Leander, then returned home to prepare supplies for gigs while watching Batman Begins. Since waiting for Liam's MRI and becoming obsessed with that poignant scene from Superman, I began leaning on Batman and Superman for moral support. After all, one of my 2017 goals was to watch all the animated films. I watched several while working on stuff, but tonight's feature was the start of an old, beloved trilogy. Just to inspire me. To motivate me to be brave, bold, and a bigger man. Plus, I needed background noise while I sorted supplies for the coming weeks.

Friday, March 17. I made an actual, honest-to-goodness lighthearted Facebook post about St. Patrick's Day, sharing some music that I liked for the occasion. It was a gesture that things were getting better. A few days prior, I actually even put up green Christmas lights and shamrock garlands around the little breakfast nook next to the kitchen. Liam helped. Rather, he watched and pointed and exclaimed, "Greeeeeeeen lights!"

It was still hard to be at the house with just me and Liam. On the nights I had him, I found myself warding off a vague sense of fear and loneliness by chatting it up with Liam. Something was very troubling to me, not having Juliet there with me. Like, she could still not come home. I wanted her there.

That night, however, I stayed with her at our friends' house.

And that was pretty much the last of my Facebook activity until this post. More or less. Maybe a little vaguebooking occurred later, but I was basically out of touch.

Other people have been updating and tagging me, so you've seen the rest. Or, at least, you could have if you wanted. I think after she was discharged, people collectively assumed things were on the up-and-up, and kind of stopped paying attention.

I also haven't included all of my own Facebook posts in this blog post, either. This is not to be absolutely comprehensive. This is to get you to have a little better idea what I went through, and where I am coming from.

The next week was a blur, and I altogether gave up trying to write anything down.

I did get sick, though. Prolonged anxiety wore down my system, and I crashed hard.


A Rage Triggered

Wednesday, March 29. On the phone, Juliet was understandably frustrated and overwhelmed, and just to be unflinchingly honest, we had a bit of a fight.

Soon after that, some preachy comments on a private page further exacerbated my indignation. This set me into a rage that lasted all day. I had two piano lessons to teach in Pflugerville, and some other errands. I was distracted by a nasty exchange on Facebook.

The last thing I want is for some armchair philosopher to lecture me--preemptively, at that--about not giving in to vengeance or anger at the person who did this. I hadn't said anything to even warrant admonishment in the first place, but multiple people said things that really set me off.

The way I see it, and this is important...

No matter how I feel, no matter what I say about the whole thing, all you need to do is say that it is a valid emotional reaction. Don't get sanctimonious with me, regardless of what religious insights you may have. Whatever I feel about all this--no matter what it is--is understandable. You didn't have to live in my head 24/7 during this whole ordeal, so fuck off with your judgmental tone.

I mean, in general. If it applies to you. For future reference. Whatever.

Anyway, I was fucking livid, and it only got worse as the day wore on. I felt truly alone. Truly misunderstood.

Later that night, at home, doing more prep work, I picked up where I left off in my stack of Batman DVDs and watched The Dark Knight. I ended up getting so riled up over the day's sour interactions that I exploded. I kicked a floor lamp and it broke in half. And then I pivoted and kicked a box fan. It broke. So I kicked it. I mean, I kicked the shit out of it. It was like that scene in Office Space, where they take the copy machine into a field and go gangster on it.

I utterly demolished two appliances, and I am not at all sorry I did.

The movie played on. There came a part where the police show up to Lieutenant Gordan's home to tell his wife that he was killed. Spoiler alert: he faked his death to lure the Joker into a trap, and she unfortunately had to go through it for her own safety. But when that scene came on, I just had to walk away. I was the only one there. I could have just fast-forwarded past the scene, but I just left the room. I couldn't handle it.

I was seriously messed up. That was a thoroughly bad day from start to finish, as was March as a whole. I had insomnia until sometime after 4:00am, even in the face of sleeping medication.

Thursday, March 30. I woke up at 9:40, exhausted and burned out, still very hurt from the day before. I mostly just fell off the face of the Earth that day, avoiding everyone.

And I've been at least a little angry ever since. During the worst, the early days of this crisis, I was not angry at all. But now things are different. The dust has settled, and there is resentment and indignation below the surface.

Saturday, April 1. I was in better spirits after speaking my mind. Also, that night my mom flew in from Missouri to help out for a few weeks. I rounded off my feelings over the week's conflict by watching The Dark Knight Rises before bed.

If you want to help, sometimes just know when to shut up. That matters.


The Other Side

From there on, the details become more trivial. My mom has been around to help, and Juliet is taking the pain meds with less frequency, but she has a lot of problems still. As you would expect.

Things are improving. The new Way of Things sucked, but adjustments were slowly being made. Juliet has even been able to spend some nights at home, since my mom is there to help with Liam.

We've had doctor appointments and lawyer meetings. Progress on all fronts is going to be slow. This is far from over. But, for most people who aren't me, it seems to be mostly tied off. Every day is hard, but now I do get breaks from time to time. I get to find some levity.

I have been to Hell and back. But I am back.

All of this occurred because some immortal, 21-year-old cunt recklessly flew through a red light in a 70-mph zone. Simple, avoidable, inexcusable. I did not say "unforgivable." I said inexcusable, because look at Google Satellite. Hwy 195 and Shell Road. She was driving east towards I-35, so the accident occurred around 10:00am, clear conditions, light traffic. He T-boned her car coming from her left. The police report says more accurately, but I don't want to get it out right now. The point is... come on, man. How do you fuck that up, Other Driver? Were you texting or something? Because that is the only way I can see you missing the light. It's not as if there's a fucking glitzy casino or billboard for a strip club to distract you. It's just a flat region of short trees. And you just turned left from another stoplight, so it's not like you had highway hypnosis. So how the fuck do you miss that? Seriously. I want to know. Not trying to be judgmental, but... at the very least, can we all just agree that it's shitty driving? Come on, man.

I knew this without a doubt, long before we got the police report that included a chart of trajectories. I knew this to be true, just by knowing the road and the direction Juliet was taking: it wasn't her fault. I never doubted that, although she was immensely relieved to be told that. No, the other driver was just a shitty driver. I don't want his head on a pike, but don't be like some Facebook friends and suggest that I am not allowed to feel angry at him for it. That's just absurd. As I said on the now-deleted thread, I have handled all of this like a damn Jedi Master, so where do you get off warning me about such things? What did I possibly say (until now, obviously) that could have justified that?

No, I don't hate him. But I do angrily rebuke him when it comes up. Just the other day, driving Juliet and my mom back to Florence, we passed through that intersection, and I gestured at the stoplight from the direction the other guy was going, "How the hell do you miss that? I mean, look at it!" It just bothers me how... easily avoidable this whole, dark chapter really was.

From Juliet's perspective, it has been very strange. She woke up badly wounded, disoriented. She has no memory of the accident. Everyone around her has been scared to death that she was, in all likelihood, shuffling off this mortal coil. She said to me, "I don't know who is more stressed out. You, my mom, or [my sisters]."  To her, she missed all the stress. She is bored and frustrated and tired of being in constant, severe pain and nausea, and dearly misses spending more time with her toddler and husband. She wishes she could get back to the normal life she was having, but she has no anxiety over the accident.

The rest of us went to Hell and back.

I don't know where this is going to take me as a human being, since the process is far from over. But, so soon after all that despair and fear that was the cancer year, this feels like I am being forged in a crucible of pain. I don't know what I am going to be forged into yet. But man, I am worn out on a deeply spiritual level.

So, just be nice to me for a while. It's still a burden on my end. But the worst is over.

That's my account. Incomplete, but there it is.

Five more months to go. I hope.