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anigoSo, as I briefly said in my last two posts, my friend and skipper Thom passed away on Boxing day. For anybody who's new to my journal, my number one passion is sailing. I met a bunch of guys on a sexy boat about 13 years ago and I have been sailing with them, with Thom as the skipper, ever since. I've done races from Canada to France (there's a story there!) I've drank, I've thrown up, I've laughed and I've cried. Skim through my journal and you'll find lots of stories. My real family, or rather, my blood family, comes with a lot of baggage (most families do.) They come with a lot of strings attached. They can be petty and tend to enjoy trying to make themselves feel bigger and better at your expense. When I met the crew I realized that THESE PEOPLE were my real family. These were the people that I yelled at and laughed with and who accepted me regardless. These people were the brothers and sisters that I'm certain I have collected from earlier lives. Thom was the head of the clan without being the patriarch. He was like the big older brother. And I loved him.
On Sunday night, the 21st, I had a call from a friend saying that Thom was in the hospital. That he was diagnosed with Leukemia and that the doctors said it was very very serious.
In the wee, wee hours of the 26th, Thom went quietly off to sail into the sunset.
I worked Monday and Tuesday the 22nd and 23rd. And besides, It was very very serious, but it was cancer. He hadn't been hit by a bus. The literature I'd googled said that there was only a 12% success rate for people to be alive after 5 years. That was very very serious, but to be clear, he hadn't been hit by a bus. There was lots of time between now and five years.
Ah... nope.
The crew met for a Christmas Eve drink, as we're wont to do, and then we all trucked off to the Hospital to visit our Skippy. He was in bed and was pretty disoriented. We went in in pairs, and he knew me, but he was having a hard time breathing and it was putting him in quite a bit of emotional distress. I told him in no uncertain terms that he had better get his shit together and get better or I would be very angry with him. Gave him a squeeze and left. The crew had a pow-wow in the hallway, but his wife asked us to leave since she felt Thom needed some quiet.
Overnight, Thom needed to be moved to intensive care, was intubated and at some point during the night he lost consciousness. Christmas day I spent most of the day in the hospital - either with my sailing family or at Thom's bedside. The first time I went in with his wife. He looked terrible. A couple of hours later I went in with one of my fellow crew members, Carl. To me, Thom somehow looked better. Carl and I bantered over him, reminding him that the last time he and I were in the hospital together it was because he drunkenly fell over a flower pot and dislocated his shoulder just before our last Marblehead race.
And Thom squeezed my hand. His unconscious, intubated self. He squeezed my hand.
Now, those of you who know anything about anything will tell me that it was my imagination. Or a muscle spasm. Or something. But I know what it was. It was him telling me he was still there.
I joked with him. Told him that if he did it again I'd let him squeeze my boob.
But he didn't.
Not long after that I had to leave to tend to my blood family.
And not long after that, Thom left us. Boxing day morning I had a text from Carl saying "Best that you call me." We both cried on the phone for a very long time.
So now I'm sitting here listening to the playlist I've created for his memorial next week. It's an hour long ceremony that includes a couple of people singing, a tribute from the crew by Carl, followed by a party to celebrate his life. He would have liked that. Lots of Bob Marley and Bob Dylan and Dave Matthews and Jimmy Buffet. Who would have thought that Bob Dylan's "Stuck Inside of Mobile With the Memphis Blues Again" could make a person cry. Well, it can. It's funny really. You're going around living your normal life and then something will happen that reminds you and it hits you in the face like a shovel.
My big brother's gone.
And I'm sad.
On Sunday night, the 21st, I had a call from a friend saying that Thom was in the hospital. That he was diagnosed with Leukemia and that the doctors said it was very very serious.
In the wee, wee hours of the 26th, Thom went quietly off to sail into the sunset.
I worked Monday and Tuesday the 22nd and 23rd. And besides, It was very very serious, but it was cancer. He hadn't been hit by a bus. The literature I'd googled said that there was only a 12% success rate for people to be alive after 5 years. That was very very serious, but to be clear, he hadn't been hit by a bus. There was lots of time between now and five years.
Ah... nope.
The crew met for a Christmas Eve drink, as we're wont to do, and then we all trucked off to the Hospital to visit our Skippy. He was in bed and was pretty disoriented. We went in in pairs, and he knew me, but he was having a hard time breathing and it was putting him in quite a bit of emotional distress. I told him in no uncertain terms that he had better get his shit together and get better or I would be very angry with him. Gave him a squeeze and left. The crew had a pow-wow in the hallway, but his wife asked us to leave since she felt Thom needed some quiet.
Overnight, Thom needed to be moved to intensive care, was intubated and at some point during the night he lost consciousness. Christmas day I spent most of the day in the hospital - either with my sailing family or at Thom's bedside. The first time I went in with his wife. He looked terrible. A couple of hours later I went in with one of my fellow crew members, Carl. To me, Thom somehow looked better. Carl and I bantered over him, reminding him that the last time he and I were in the hospital together it was because he drunkenly fell over a flower pot and dislocated his shoulder just before our last Marblehead race.
And Thom squeezed my hand. His unconscious, intubated self. He squeezed my hand.
Now, those of you who know anything about anything will tell me that it was my imagination. Or a muscle spasm. Or something. But I know what it was. It was him telling me he was still there.
I joked with him. Told him that if he did it again I'd let him squeeze my boob.
But he didn't.
Not long after that I had to leave to tend to my blood family.
And not long after that, Thom left us. Boxing day morning I had a text from Carl saying "Best that you call me." We both cried on the phone for a very long time.
So now I'm sitting here listening to the playlist I've created for his memorial next week. It's an hour long ceremony that includes a couple of people singing, a tribute from the crew by Carl, followed by a party to celebrate his life. He would have liked that. Lots of Bob Marley and Bob Dylan and Dave Matthews and Jimmy Buffet. Who would have thought that Bob Dylan's "Stuck Inside of Mobile With the Memphis Blues Again" could make a person cry. Well, it can. It's funny really. You're going around living your normal life and then something will happen that reminds you and it hits you in the face like a shovel.
My big brother's gone.
And I'm sad.
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no subject
Date: 2014-12-30 05:20 am (UTC)I'm so sorry for your loss :-(
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Date: 2014-12-30 05:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-12-30 01:11 pm (UTC)My condolences to you and all who he influenced.
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Date: 2014-12-30 01:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-12-30 06:33 pm (UTC)Just for the record, I have lots of experience in the ICU and that squeeze he gave you was real. He was inside, listening but unable to talk (of course, no one can while intubated!) Hearing is the last sense to leave the body, and we always remind the family and friends of this in the ICU because we don't want anyone having squabbles in front of the very ill person since they cannot rebut anything. People tend to forget that the person lying there can hear you. But he did.
His squeeze was his way of saying, "I hear you, I love that you are here visiting me, and I wish I could joke alongside you but I can't. I need to leave you, and soon. Please give yourselves a big hug from me." Believe me when I tell you that most likely that took all his strength which is why he did not repeat it. His body simply couldn't muster the strength a second time. But you were worthy of that one good squeeze, thank God.
What a good and faithful friend you are to him to have honored him with your love and presence in the last moments of his life. That is a wonderful tribute.
*hugs*