15Oct2009 - Day 69

The last blog was the first time I've said that Pepeir died. I've not said it aloud. I don't know if I can. I can only say that he passed. For some reason, it sounds so much more pleasant. It makes it sound as though he's moving on to something better. It makes it sound less final. It makes it feel less painful.
It was strange, how quickly the life left his body. Within minutes I noticed how different his face was. It was hard, and cold, and suddenly his cheeks were gaunt. He was gone. The most amazing man I've ever known had left his body and was gone. Seeing death happen was jarring. I didn't expect there to be a difference in how he looked so immediately and so noticably. Everyone was crying. Some were pacing, angry, scared. Some were quiet, sullen and staring. Memeir was sobbing quietly at his side. I kept it together, for the few hours his body was with us, until the two men from the funeral home arrived to take him. They were going to move him. They said that the family would probably prefer to leave the room, because it was hard to watch. Everyone stayed. I kept picturing it. I pictured his head falling back, and no one catching it. Like a sleeping child being picked up, but this was no sleeping child. It was my strong, gentle, loving, wonderful Pepeir. This was a site I knew I couldn't bear. I left and went into the living room. I walked in, and was overcome like I've never been overcome before. I staggered, falling onto the edge of a chair. I felt faint, and could barely walk to sit in the chair. I held myself so tightly. I rocked. I cried quietly. I heard the bed squeaking, and the horrible sliding noise of the thick plastic bag that he was being placed on. I couldn't stop hearing it. I couldn't take it. Bruce came in and saw me, and stood in front of me and blocked the view to where the men were taking Pepeir outside. He rubbed my back, and I sobbed. Mom came and sat next to me, and I sobbed louder. I couldn't stop. I didn't want to stop. I needed to cry. I lost my Pepeir. I had to cry as much as I could. I couldn't breathe and I kept crying and crying. I knew everyone was around me now, but I didn't care. I wasn't embarrassed of the love I felt, and the grief I felt. Slowly, I calmed down and people trickled out of the room. Soon it was just a few of us. Then, something turned my sobs into laughter. Mom farted. (sorry mom, for putting it out there). But, it was loud and funny and so totally innapropriate and obviously accidental. We all roared for a few minutes and I started to breathe again. I will cry for Pepeir, probably often and for the rest of my life. But, I will never cry like that again. I don't know if I could ever cry like that again.
I went to bed, sometime around 3 or 4 am; because I knew that Taylor would be up in the morning no matter what time I went to sleep. Strangely, too, after Pepeir passed, Dana put her to sleep and she went right to sleep. It was as if she knew, and wanted to be there. Truly, if I've learned or experienced anything, it's that we are all truly connected. She can't communicate well, at all. But, I truly believe that she knew. I truly believe that she said goodbye, the she grieved..if only for a few brief minutes. It was as though she had some sort of clarity in her face both times that she was in the room with Pepeir, and it was brief and it was something amazing to see.
That day was a blur of activity, phone calls, food arriving, family coming and going. Billy arrived in the early evening. For all of us who'd witnessed it, there was a definite darkness that Billy didn't have. I was truly sad for him not to have been there, but it was really difficult to see and the protective, older cousin in me was glad that he wasn't. Memeir seemed to not be able to even sit down in a chair, let alone stop calling and arranging. I don't know where she found the strength, but she did and I was inspired...She called each and every family member and close friend, herself. Over and over again, she did it. Over and over again, she told them that he had died. I don't know how she did it. She wouldn't let us help her. She kept saying that she wanted to tell all the people that he loved and that loved him the most, herself. It truly moved me. I hope that if I am ever in her situation, I handle it with the grace and strength that she did.
I felt out of place. I felt lost. Already, I didn't know what to do with myself or my feelings. I just kept drinking coffee. I didn't bring my big cup with me, so I was super annoyed with having to refill and refill. I wanted a drink, a real one. Real bad. I wanted maybe a few of them. It hurt really badly, and it didn't stop hurting. Even when there were jokes, and hugs, and coffee. It hurt. I understand wanting to numb that hurt, but I also believe that I need to feel that hurt to understand it, to understand the opposite of it, to really grieve and learn to move on and be healthy.
I felt an array of emotions. Anger at Uncle Mike for leaving and going home. Sadness when I saw the picture of Pepeir that Dr. Raab had made. Uncertainty about what to do to help Memeir. Awe of my mother who kept it together, and kept the house running. Gratitude toward Cathy who always seemed to know what to do to help, and seemed to never mind. The first day without Pepeir was the first day of the rest of our family. This day was awkward, and sad, and the hurt was so fresh on all of us. Over the course of the week, we'd all try to fill his shoes. We'd all try to step into his roles. Over the course of the week, I marvelled at how it took all of us to do it. And how even with all of us trying, we seemed to fall short. But, on this day, this first day, we were just us. We were just inherently us, sad and grieving and alone. Everyone seemed alone with their grief, despite our physical togetherness. I wanted comfort, but so did everyone else. Yet, none of us could do what we all wanted. None of us could bring back our Pepeir.