I chose not to go to Thad’s (long time work client who died at the beginning of December—see an earlier post) celebration of life this evening. As I write this, the celebration is in full swing across town at an accessible location which is of course fitting and everything that Thad would have wanted. I imagine he would be astounded by the number of people there and possibly blushing and shrugging as best he could, being humble, at the speech which has probably just finished. I’m there with everyone in spirit. And tonight at work I will help to bed those who have been there and I’ll hear all about it.
But for now I’m at home in the semi-darkness: one lamp, the bright computer screen and a lit three-wicked candle as my light as I remember and honour Thad in my own way. Writing and thinking. I’m inbetween midnight shifts and for that reason alone, it felt easy to not go. I find it difficult to leave things like that, once you’re connecting with everyone and sharing memories, but I’d have to leave early to get to work. But I’m not sure I wanted to face all that then work a long midnight shift alone with his locked door, his apartment stripped of everything meaningful. I lit this candle purposefully—it smells of pine forest and Thad was all about the wilderness. Before his accident, he flew planes, explored the wilds, camped in the wilderness with wolves howling nearby, trekked across lakes to watch the northern lights, canoed lakes and rivers and so much more, I’m sure that I never got to hear. His accident which left him a quadriplegic occurred when he dived into a rock pool. He knew the tide levels, knew that his timing was off but dove anyway and hit rock. He somehow learned to live with that. He was snarly at first, many were terrified of feeding him, telling stories of how their hands shook as they brought the food to his mouth. He was controlling and precise. The first time I met him when I was training I held the straw the wrong way (I was used to working with quads and held it the way my other client preferred) and he snapped at me. The person training me told him off and I learned how Thad preferred it. But over time, with meds, he mellowed considerably and it became a pleasure to see him. Thad was one of my biggest supporters with my writing, always asking how I was doing, reading and often commenting on my haiku on instagram, determined he was going to write haiku too. He did write a very moving memoir. He was a pioneer with everything he accomplished. Melissa, our coordinator at one point, commented how amazing it was that he ran his wheelchair by blowing into a straw. It’s true, he did. Used to Thad, we had long since taken it for granted. Long before voice controlled devices, Thad used a straw to open his doors, write on his computer, call phone numbers, watch TV and participate in meetings. I was working the midnight of the day Thad died. I had worked the night before and had become very worried about him as the night progressed. My co-worker and relief sent him to hospital where he later died in ICU later that day. I found out about his death an hour and a quarter before leaving for work and I was a mess. Crying uncontrollably, no longer wiping tears away, letting my face mask absorb my tears and snot, I entered our office. A blue disposable glove was on the floor which was unusual. My co-worker who I was relieving was busy but came in briefly to make sure I knew about Thad. He knew I knew by one look at my tear-stained face and he left to finish his routine. Alone again, I put on a blue glove from the box that had been on the table the evening before, from the box of perfect gloves. No problem. The next glove I pulled from the box was ripped up the middle. And the next. And the next. And the next. And the next. All ripped, all unusable. I felt like a magician pulling handkerchiefs from my sleeve, only I was pulling ripped gloves from a box. Finally, a glove that wasn’t torn. I put it on. It ripped up the middle. I swear I could hear Thad laughing. He could be a jokester. I banged my fist on the table and said aloud, “Okay, Thad, this isn’t funny any more!” The next glove I pulled out was fine. And the next and the next and the next and all the rest of the gloves that night were good and all the rest of the gloves the next night were good too. But I felt reassured that Thad was fine now. I didn’t feel alone working that night. It’s even funnier now. A few days later I met with Melissa and told her this story. “Ah yes,” she said, “Thad always hated us wearing those gloves, didn’t he?” Indeed he did. I had forgotten but appreciated that validation that yes that made even more sense that that had been Thad’s way of connecting with me after his death. His last gift to me had been the gift of laughter. Stories and memories. That is how I can keep Thad’s memory, him in this earthly form, alive. Thad wrote his own legacy by the life he lived and the person he was.
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AuthorWelcome! I'm Sue Blott: a writer of all things, a poet at heart, mom, wife, daughter, step-mom, grandma, tea drinker, tai chi-er, mystic, artist, dreamer...and now a blogger! This is my world. Categories |