Where my story begins

The headline in the paper read, “Dayton man Life Flighted following Highway 99W crash.” The article, dated December 19, 2002, included a picture of a mangled, silver 1988 Dodge Dakota pickup truck in the middle of the Highway.

When I started writing, it began as a "book", but then the internet got bigger and blogging happened. (Yeah, it's been a while since I was widowed at a young age.) This first post will be a greatly condensed version of my original book story - you know, just to introduce you to who I am and how I got here.

Here's the thing: I realize that losing my husband in an auto accident does not make me special or different and it is not a situation that's unheard of, thus inspiring some fantastic I-came-out-the-other-side Hollywood drama. It is, however, the most profound thing that has ever happened to me. In my world, it was only me. Who else could possibly understand? I didn't know anyone who had lost a spouse at a young age - I was 36...how does this happen? Why did this happen? Death doesn't happen to young people, right?

And then it happened to someone else I knew. A gal I had gone to church with lost both of her children in an auto accident. Nine and twelve...my heart broke for her. She knew me - she knew my husband. I reached out. It turned into months of conversations that helped us both. It was incredible. I had been "stuck" for a while, but in talking with her, my own grieving turned a corner - I discovered that I was working through the grieving process as much as I was trying to help her through hers; I began to think maybe I had a gift to share with others - a gift of comfort. In the wake of loss and discovery, my mission was born.

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My husband, Robert, was born on Valentine's Day – February 14, 1962. His friends called him Robert, his family called him Bobby – he hated it if you called him Bob and he would immediately correct anyone who did. I met Robert in the Fall of 1996 when the property management company I worked for hired him as a Maintenance Tech. My first impression of him was not good – I thought he was arrogant and rude. He smoked, he cussed, and his blunt, honest approach to people was not something I had encountered much; it was off-putting.

Over the next few weeks, we got to know each other better, though. His family was extensive, with two sisters, a brother, and six step-siblings. At 35, he had never been married – didn’t intend to - and had no children. He shared dark things about his life that still haunted him but didn’t offer a lot of detail, just that he deeply regretted some of his former life choices but was working to better himself. He had come to Oregon for a fresh start.

In my family, I am the oldest of three. I grew up in a small, nuclear family in the Pacific Northwest. In the middle of my sophomore year of high school, my Dad decided to pursue a pastoral career and moved us from Washington State to Oregon, where he attended a Bible College. When I graduated high school, Dad was still in college and we couldn’t afford for both of us to go to school, so I joined the Air Force, hoping to eventually take advantage of the GI Bill education opportunities through the military. My first assignment, after tech school, was on a brand new base on the island of Sicily, where I met and married my first husband. We had a daughter right away but after 9 years we were divorced.

I was raised in a Christian home that taught values and morals but as a strong-willed kid, I often bucked against authority and generally made life difficult for my parents and teachers. I didn’t really pay attention to the importance of faith when I was young, and when we moved to Oregon, I did not like the extra restrictions placed on us as “preacher’s kids”. As a young adult, I had not made good life choices and I was not living a life that reflected the values I had been raised with. My relationships were carefree and I did not choose people that shared the values I was raised with, much to my family's dismay.

When Robert and I eventually began dating, he had coined himself a ‘forever bachelor’ and never wanted any children; he never figured he would ever marry. I was a bit dismayed, but we kept seeing each other anyway. As fate would have it though, I discovered I was pregnant and instead of being upset, Robert was ecstatic. We were married right away.

This time around I wanted things to be different. I wasn't known for making good choices, but it was never too late to turn things around and turn back to my faith. My Mother taught me that. I had been going 100 miles an hour with my hair on fire for far too long; it was time to grow up.

In August 1999, we bought our first home, an old 1898 Queen Anne Victorian – my dream house – that had been abandoned and decaying for years. One day, we saw someone renovating it. Driving by it every day, we marveled at it, and then one day a FOR SALE sign went up. We couldn’t resist and went to look. Six months later, by a sheer miracle, it was ours.

Shortly after we moved in, I started a home daycare business. We were regularly attending a small church and had become very close to a small Bible study group. Our lives weren't perfect - we had ups and downs like everyone but we were doing good.

About a week before Christmas 2002, my day was wrapping up as it usually did. Just after 5pm, the last of my ‘littles’ had been picked up for the evening; I expected Robert home from work at about 5:30, and went about my evening, getting things ready so we could go to our Bible study group. I noticed it was raining quite heavily. At 6:30, he still wasn’t home – unusual, but I reasoned that it was the rain keeping him. I worried, nonetheless. I decided to call the non-emergency police line, just to see if there was an accident that might be the cause of his delay. Accidents were a common occurrence along his route home; some morbidly referred to it as “Blood Alley”. The operator told me, “There was an accident a little while ago, but it’s clearing up now – they had a helicopter in the road.” A bit more relieved with an explanation for the delay, I called our Bible Study hostess to tell them to start without us – we’d be there a bit late.

About 10 minutes later, I saw headlights in the driveway. Relieved, I went to the door to greet Robert and hurry him along so we could leave, but was surprised by a Yamhill County Sheriff instead. To this day, I don’t remember everything he said. I saw only my husband’s wallet in his hands; he handed it to me with his business card, which had the phone number of a hospital emergency room written on the back. I remember he said something about “Life Flight” and asked if there was anyone he could call for me; I was shaking and couldn’t think straight – I told him ‘no’ and quickly ushered him out. I tried to call the number on the back of the Sheriff’s card. My hands were trembling and made it difficult to dial – it took three tries before I got the number right. After identifying myself, the nurse who answered said, “Oh! Um…well he was brought in with a head injury. Do you have someone who can drive you here?” I said I had, hung up made arrangements, and headed to the hospital - they had taken him to Portland, about an hour north of us.

At the hospital, waiting seemed an eternity. Eventually, a doctor came to the waiting room, a woman in magenta-colored scrubs, accompanied by a couple of nurses. Her face didn’t look like she had good news – she didn’t – she looked quite solemn. She explained that they had cut a patch of bone from his skull to allow his brain to swell; apparently, his head had hit the window of his vehicle on impact. I still had no details of the accident, so it was unclear what his injuries were. I asked what the prognosis was – she gave the typical “we’ll have to wait and see” answer but her face said "not good." She proceeded to explain the Glasgow Coma Scale (GCS) to me: “The GCS ranges from 1 to 15. You and I would score a 15; a table lamp would score around a 4. He is currently at 3.” I wasn’t comprehending and I think she could tell.

Disappointed that we didn’t know anything for sure, I accompanied her and the nurses back to his room. On the way, one of them asked me, “Is he a runner?” Caught off guard by the nonchalant question, I told her he was not but that he used to be; Robert had run a few marathons as a younger man. She commented on how fit he was; a bit cold and inappropriate, I thought. In his room, it was very quiet, except for the sound of the ventilator he was attached to. The top half of his head was swathed in white gauze, his left leg was immobilized – they said it was fractured. A bruise was beginning to form across his chest where the seatbelt had wrenched across it in the collision, and there was a bandage covering a surgical incision where they said they had removed his spleen. Despite all that, he just looked like he was sleeping. I expected more, somehow – it didn’t look like his injuries were life-threatening. I felt hopeful.

We spent the next few days going back and forth between sitting by Robert’s bedside and making chit-chat with friends and family in the waiting room. Many filtered in and out every day; people from the church, friends in our neighborhood, and other family members. His family arrived and were able to sit with him for a while. Because head injuries are unpredictable, there were never any encouraging answers to how long this would go on.

The day after his mother and sister visited, I was sitting by his bedside and noticed that he looked “different”. Nothing had changed, physically, but something had – I can’t explain it – it was like his soul was no longer there, just his body. The machine breathed for him, the nurses came and went; he had a different aura about him. Sometime later I reasoned that he had hung on long enough for his mom to get there and then “left”. He was alive, but only mechanically; his spirit wasn’t there anymore and I could tell.

Eventually, the nurses tried to prepare us for a lifetime of care facilities since his condition was unchanging. At one point, a doctor came in to talk to us and asked what I wanted if his condition should change. He explained that the brain injury was such that they may need to cut another bone patch so that it could continue to swell, uninhibited, but that it was unlikely he would ever regain consciousness – he was in a permanent vegetative state. I told him, “No.” Robert and I had discussed this type of thing, and his wishes were not to be kept alive on life support if no quality of life was expected. “If it looks like he’s getting worse, please let him go.”

On day 6, Christmas Eve day, we had almost decided not to go to the hospital, to take a break and try to make the best of the holiday, but Mom and I decided at the last minute that we should go, just for a little bit. When we arrived, we noticed activity as we approached his room – they were wheeling him out. The doctor to whom I had given express instructions was about to take him into surgery, against my wishes! I approached him and yelled at him to stop, to leave him alone. I was angry and the doctor left in a huff. The nurses looked relieved.

They settled him back in his room and arranged for someone to come talk to me about organ donation. I signed a Do Not Resuscitate order (DNR); at that moment, it got a little more real and I knew he was gone. The nurses assured me I had done the right thing – they told me that they disagreed with the doctor’s plan to cut another patch of bone but weren’t permitted to say so; they had seen this many times before and knew from the first day that he would never regain consciousness; it seemed an unnecessary surgery and didn’t know why the doctor would bother. After I signed, they disconnected his life support; the room went silent. A nurse quietly told me, “This is not like in the movies. He’s not just going to drift away – this could take days. He has a strong heart and, in this case, that’s working against him. His head will swell, and this is going to get real ugly before his body succumbs; I recommend you not stay for this. It’s best you remember him the way he is, whole.” So, I sat with him for a minute, told him it was OK to go, kissed his cheek, and left the hospital for the last time. I suppose, since I had a strong sense that his spirit was already gone, I was OK leaving him in the capable hands of the nurses. I knew he was saved and was going to be in the arms of his Savior very soon.

As it was Christmas Eve, the rest of the family was gathered at my brother’s home. Mom and I headed directly there from the hospital. Everyone had been informed about the day’s events. When we walked in the door, my eyes fixed on Dad across the room; I made a beeline for him and wept in his arms. A day or so before, when I had gone to pick up Mom for one of our daily trips to the hospital, he had stopped me in the hall, hugged me, and in a shaky voice, expressed how sorry he was that I was having to go through this. Until that moment in my brother’s living room, it never felt quite final. I had been a ghost of a person, robotically going between home and the hospital – visiting with people who came every day to express condolences for the situation, never knowing, for sure, if he was going to live or die. When visiting with others, I had the sense that I needed to be strong for them, especially his mother and sister. I put on a brave face, not crying much – reminiscing about various antics that Robert was known for. I felt guilty for laughing as if I was somehow “not allowed” to.

I did cry though, just not in front of anyone else but my Mom and sister, away from prying eyes. I learned later that my brother had expressed concern, telling our sister, “She doesn’t SEEM that upset.” She told him, “Well, you haven’t seen her in the hall, crumbling to the floor in a puddle of tears while Mom and I try to hold her up.” I didn’t want anyone to see that – gotta stay strong!

After the festivities of Christmas Eve, such as they were, I had planned to spend Christmas morning with my sister and her family so the cousins could be together. It was late, probably between 11:30 and midnight. I had a few things to pick up at Mom and Dad's before heading out. The front door of their house was open so we could ferry things back and forth. Standing in the driveway, the air was crisp and a little foggy – I saw a brief movement out of the corner of my eye. A sparrow, flitting in the dark around the chimney, swooped down in front of the house and went right in the wide-open front door. At first, I thought it was a bat…this is not the season or the time of night for sparrows to be flying around. The bird had flown into the kitchen and landed on the curtain rod of the window over the kitchen sink. Dad approached carefully, and the bird hopped down into the sink. Dad took a hand towel sitting nearby, gently scooped up the bird, took him to the front door, and let him go. I immediately thought it was Robert coming to say goodbye, but I didn't say it out loud.

I finished loading up the car, and headed out. After getting all the kids settled into bed, my sister and I were sitting in her bedroom, talking about all the ‘what-if’s’. We decided to call the hospital to see how it was going and she spoke to one of the nurses we had become familiar with. She asked him, “Is there even a slight chance he could beat the odds, and this will all be OK? Did she do the right thing by turning everything off?” He told us, “Honey, there was never a chance; this was not the kind of injury you recover from.” They assured us they would call the moment he passed, telling us again that it could be days before that happened, and we hung up.

The next morning, sitting in the living room watching the kids open presents, I tried not to cry – I did not want to dampen the spirit of the moment for the kids. It was a surreal morning. A little after 11am, the phone rang. It was the hospital.

Robert was pronounced dead at 11:10am on Christmas morning 2002. He was 42 years old. Born on a holiday, and died on a holiday; he had lived, in my opinion, an incredible life in between. And he was gone. I was numb. Several times I had said ‘goodbye’ but it was still a shock when I heard those final words.