Repeat, Repeat …

My inquisitor and I ended up sitting almost knee-to-knee.

I was asked to recount the whole experience up until then. I tiredly, bare-bones explained the events of the night before and the morning of.  I was asked a lot of clarifying questions.

I told him about sleeping on the couch, about the bacon and about Sadie sitting perfectly still.

When asked if I thought Jeff might have decided to overdose on purpose, I said, “No.”

“Maybe accidentally?” was the next suggestion.

“Absolutely not,” I insisted.

“Was he depressed?”

My hesitant answer was yes, but that Jeff was taking medication to help with that.

We spoke for a while about how Jeff felt awful he couldn’t work. How he hated saying he was on disability. How he meticulously filled his tackle bait box to avoid any over or under medication misses.

How he was doing less of the things he enjoyed. But, also about the way he rose each morning, verbally thanking God for another day. And how he repeated the sentiments aloud each evening, saying it had been a good day to be alive.

Then, we went back to the sequence of events.

I explained again what had happened.

There were questions about what time it might have been at certain points and when Jeff last took meds.

I guesstimated on the times and had no idea about the drugs. I learned later, Jeff’s estimated time of death coincided with Sadie’s signals.

What I find odd now, is that I really don’t remember Jeff taking pills. I can’t even picture it in my mind. I obviously recall the medication box and the myriad of reminders I arranged to be sure his meds were taken. To-do lists, email, phone calls.

Insulin was occasionally out in the open. Sometimes right before going into a restaurant, sometimes at a restaurant table, but rarely at home.

I suppose Jeff may have been discreet for my sake. Likely, though, it was more for Jeff’s sake – so he didn’t have to listen to my objections about his self-administering through the leg of his jeans or through the middle of his T-shirt.

It was commented more than once, that they would be able to tell by the pill count if he might have overdosed.

I repeated, “Absolutely not.” More than once, as well.

Then, came the canned movie line. If I thought of anything else that might help, I should call the number on the card I was handed.

I took the end of the interview as a sign that it was settled; that he finally believed me.

Jeff would never do that.

Quote for the Week: 2019 11 26 There are times when it is appropriate to be thankful jakorte

The Oddity of a Moment

What happened next, seems like an out-of-body experience to me, now.

I don’t remember any logical thought process. I can’t explain it. I clearly see myself glancing at the linen closet. In a fractal second, with no room for self-question, I pulled out a blanket.

It’d never happened before. I never even entertained the idea before. I only know this. I settled on the couch, fluttered the blanket over me, and seemingly instantly, fell asleep.

My reality memory kicks back in here.

By my best approximation, it was between 3:45 AM and 4:00 AM when Sadie decided to use me as a trampoline-style dog run. She ran straight up my body, barked in my face, and took off running. I curled protectively onto my side and sighed.

Seconds later she ricocheted. Running the prone length of me again, Sadie barked in my face, again, and sprinted down the hall toward our bedroom. I was hoping her antics might have woken Jeff up, so he could take her out. After her third round of nonsense, I threw off my cover and stomped to the back door.

Sadie followed me but refused to go outside. I picked her up and took us both over the threshold. When I set the squirmy girl down, she stood at the slider staring into the house. So, we went back in. As I struggled to un-clip her, she pranced in antsy expectant circles. “You’re not going to get a treat for that,” I admonished, but Sadie-lady didn’t stick around to hear what I had to say.  She immediately galloped away, rocketing back to the bedroom.

Passing by, I saw Jeff was still blissfully asleep and wanted to cry. With spiteful thoughts, I closed the door. She can just stay in there with HIM and the next time she thinks she needs out… she can wake HIM up.

I went back to the couch and grumpily set my phone alarm to be sure we’d be up in time to eat breakfast and get to church. A blink of sleep later, I was up and making breakfast.

I fixed the bacon, first. When that was done, I mixed up eggs for a scramble, started a pot of coffee. Amused that the yummy wafting smells hadn’t roused man or dog, I went to wake them, both. 

I opened the door I had so surly shut a few hours earlier, and immediately asked Jeff if he’d rather have toast or a bagel. It took me a second to scan the situation.

With one paw on Jeff’s knee, short-time-ago spastic Sadie the hyper-pup was sitting stock-still. Oddity registered, I stared.

Unblinking, maintaining constant contact with Jeff, Sadie’s return stare seemed pointed, communicative, a bit impatient; like she was waiting for me to catch on.

Quote for the Week:2019 09 24 Not everything that’s real is true jakorte

 

 

A Jeff Day

We had an awesome visit, laughing and listening to Jeff stories; g-rated versions, revised for the one, single-digit aged member of his audience. Covering youth into adulthood, he regaled us, and our impressionable-aged nephew, with hilarious MIS and other misadventures.

Falling asleep in the bathroom for hours, being so unruly his brother and buddies stuffed him into a race tire. How his Mustang got totaled without his help, sitting on the front lawn with a for sale sign, in park.

Jeff recounted having fun jamming his buddies (all the same size and stature) into a tiny Fiesta. Driving to Ohio, for bowling and drinking and a breakfast they called, “a heart attack on a plate.”

He’d said that he’d consume a pound of bacon, a loaf of toast, and a half-dozen eggs. I’m not sure that part wasn’t a bit of an exaggeration. Although, I don’t have any doubt it was a necessarily-big, semi-sobering meal before the return drive home.

“Don’t do that.” Jeff said when he told this particular story. “Don’t drink and drive. We’re lucky we’re all still alive.”

All of these stories, I knew well. I enjoyed them, because he was enjoying himself. It was so much fun to watch others hear them for the first time.

Jeff would end each hilarious story, endearingly, with a serious advisement. “I tell you this,” he’d said to our nephew, numerous times. “I tell you this, so you know what not to do!”

Reminiscence is therapeutic. Sometimes. Sometimes, not. I found myself sadly wishing that everyone could have had a last “leave them laughing” day with Jeff like this one.

Paused, sweet revelation allows me to gift you this tear-drying truth:

This Jeff day was like any other – truly, like every other. Filled with stories and laughter; wisdom and care.

No matter who you are, no matter when that last day was, every single person who ever knew Jeff  had a last Jeff day – exactly like this one.

Quote for the Week: 2019 08 06 It’s a rare person who doesn’t leave behind jakorte