The Circle Never Diminishes

"When bad things happen, good people have to take what they've learned and make the world a better place, and that is precisely what I hope this film will do--make the world a better place." -Kurt Kuenne, November 2006

I want to tell you all about a film I saw a couple of weeks ago, a film that I can't get out of my head.

It's called "Dear Zachary." Released in 2008, it is a documentary made by Kurt Kuenne which tells the story of his best friend Andrew Bagby, a dynamic young doctor who was brutally murdered by his ex-girlfriend. When they find out that his accused murderer--who had fled back to Canada to avoid being arrested--is pregnant with Andrew's son, Kurt decides to make his film a letter to Zachary about his dad. So that he could know what an amazing man his father had been.

I don't want to say more about the contents of the film, or about how the Bagbys' story continues. I watched it based only on the Netflix blurb, and because I thought I recognized the movie poster. I was totally unprepared for the raw, searing emotion of the film: the righteous anger, the blazing, transcendent love, the joy and humor and deep, deep grief.
It's best to watch it without much warning.

I think you should watch it. Yeah, you. I really really think you should watch it.

It's an understatement to say I was distraught by the tragedy of the story--I wept like I haven't wept since my dad first died. "Dear Zachary" is both harrowing and heartbreaking. But to say I was moved is also a complete understatement. I feel honored to even know about Andrew Bagby. I feel lucky just to know that tremendous people like his parents exist. I feel like my life has been enriched by even this peripheral connection to his life and his family and the incredible love that shines through this film.

Afterwards, I tried to understand why I was so glad to have seen "Dear Zachary," a movie that was difficult to watch because of my own, echoing grief. It's hard for me to articulate it. I guess it's partly because being with people who also know grief is just easier. You don't have to pretend anything; you don't have to explain yourself. I recognized the truth of their loss and their love. It resonated in me.

And I also loved it because "Dear Zachary" was such an incredible memorial to this man. Anyone who sees this film can feel like they know him. He won't be forgotten. His goodness won't fade away. Even a murderer cannot diminish his legacy or his memory.

No one will ever make a brilliant documentary about my dad. No one will write a biography of him. (No, I probably won't. I don't want comments on Facebook about how I "should write a book.") We don't have hours of footage. We hardly have photos of him either, since he was always behind the camera! We will forget the sound of his voice. Yet we can still tell stories about him, we can share memories and live out the things he taught us. We can love as he loved, we can give as he gave. These things help him to live on--even after death.

This reminds me of the time I spent with my dear friend Amy, right after her dad died. I sat with her family around the kitchen table for hours that day, listening to story after beautiful story about a man I'd never met. You might think it would have been awkward, or odd, or even boring, for me to talk about someone I didn't know. But it wasn't--in a profound way. I felt honored even to know about him, to be a witness to the shimmering, abiding love of his family. I learned of a quiet man, a kind man. A man who dedicated his medical practice to those who needed him the most, the lost causes, the hopeless. Though I wasn't lucky enough to meet him in life, I know I have been impacted by him: through my friend and through her family.

When I write about my dad, when I tell a story about him, when I listen to a story about Paul Bither, when I think, "Wow, what an incredible man he must have been," when I see the pain and love in the eyes of Andrew Bagby's parents, I think: we are spreading the goodness. We are sharing the inspiration--it's like that movie, "Pay It Forward." Our love, our tears, and our laughter are shining testimonies to these lost ones' impact on our lives. Sharing memories and living after their example only spread it further.

The circle of those impacted by our dearly departed never diminishes. The circle never diminishes. It only grows, like ripples on a pond, spreading out beyond the edges of sight.

"He was remembering the nights he'd sat upstairs with one or both of his boys or with his girl in the crook of his arm, their damp bath-smelling heads hard against his ribs as he read aloud to them from Black Beauty or The Chronicles of Narnia. How his voice alone, its palpable resonance, had made them drowsy. These were evenings, and there were hundreds of them, maybe thousands, when nothing traumatic enough to leave a scar had befallen the nuclear unit. Evenings of plain vanilla closeness in his black leather chair; sweet evenings of doubt between the nights of bleak certainty. They came to him now, these forgotten counterexamples, because in the end, when you were falling into water, there was no solid thing to reach for but your children."

--Jonathan Franzen, The Corrections

Six Months

"Grief is how you know your love was profound."

Tomorrow is the six month anniversary. It's interesting how the memories can come in flashes--in separate, glittering shards, like stained glass. How some moments are crystalline, absolutely clear, yet others are hazed over. Alongside the memories I cannot forget are cloudy hours of sitting, of waiting, of merciful sleep. I see fragmented, blurry images: Benedryl-laced dreams and half-eaten bagels. The smell of lilies and the cold cold cold of his hand, after.

Six month ago, yesterday, was the last time I spoke with my father. Dad grilled steaks; we ate them out on our brand new patio. Dad and I talked about Rushdie's novel Midnight's Children. Later, we had a bonfire and Chris, Mom, Dad, and I sat around and told funny customer stories. 

Six months ago, today, Dad suffered the stroke that killed him. The day dawned beautifully--it was one of those gorgeous fall days that inspires me to improve my life. I had the day off work. I made one of my frequent resolutions that I was going to get skinny. I went running! I discovered some new Marcus Foster music. I sent someone an email about renting a room in Bourbonnais so that I could be closer to my friends. It was a beautiful and optimistic day--the last day of my previous life. Even when Mom called to say Dad was sick, I didn't think that he might die. Even when we sat in that conference room talking about the stroke with the doctor, I didn't think that he might die. I thought maybe he would be changed, that he might have trouble talking or walking. That we'd have a long road ahead of us. I had no idea.

That night, I got dropped off at Fort Hamilton Hospital so that I could drive my mom's van home. As I pulled in, I saw my sister standing outside, crying on the phone. I stopped in the middle of the driveway and opened the door, desperately pleading to know what was wrong. He stopped breathing on his own. They asked about our wishes regarding resuscitation. I was suddenly panicked--I didn't think to put the van in park and I couldn't remember how to open the garage door. She went into the house and opened the door for me. I knelt on the concrete of the garage and cried.

Six months ago, tomorrow, we removed the breathing tube and Dad slipped away. I barely slept the night before, thinking only about what I'd say to him if I had the chance. We drove downtown to University Hospital and waited. I felt alternately frozen and hysterical--oh my god he's going to die oh my god my Dad is going to DIE oh my GOD. Deanne Crane kept on trying to calm me saying, we don't know yet. But I knew it. I knew it in my heart.

 After some time--I couldn't possibly tell you when--we met with the head of the Neuro Intensive Care Unit. She showed us a scan of my Dad's brain. "The white is the area affected by the stroke, the part affected by lack of oxygen," she told us. I stared and stared...It's nearly the whole thing. The whole brain is white. She used words like massive. She used words like irrecoverable. She told us that they could keep him comfortable until we were ready. Chris was sobbing, his head on my lap. Steph was crying on the couch. I think Jon was behind me, his hand on my shoulder. I didn't cry. A bit later, I called Brittany Frost and sobbed to her that my dad was going to die. I sat on the floor of this narrow hallway in the nurses' station, my sprawling feet blocking the way for the busy doctors. 

Sometime during that lost afternoon, I walked out of the waiting room and leaned up against the wall of the hallway, sobbing. I kept on asking my sister, "What are we supposed to do now?" "How are we supposed to keep going?" Neither of us had an answer.

Jason called me to ask how Dad was. I had to tell him--I couldn't keep it from him. As I choked out the words, I kept on apologizing for telling him over the phone, for telling him while he was alone in an airport. I can't forget his silence. I drove with my aunt and Jon to pick him up from the Dayton Airport. I burst into tears when I saw him, my baby brother.

Later we all stood around the bed, thanking Dad for all of the wonderful things he taught us. For the vacations he took us on. For the jokes and the memories and the Saturday morning breakfasts at Waffle House. For not having to yell at us--the idea of his disappointment in us was enough of a deterrent. For being a great doctor and saving so many people. For teaching us to love God. I held his warm hand so tight.

Then, it was over. It was all over.

Maybe, Just Maybe

This isn't a post about Dad. It's not even really a post about grief. But I don't think it would be possible without everything I've been through the past six months. Instead, it's a post about that frustrating moment when you realize you are fed up with your own approach to life. When you think, "Wow, I have been an idiot for a long time." When you think, "I can't even remember when I decided this was right, and why!" When you think, "I have been so afraid for such a long time, I don't know what it would feel like to be brave."

It's frustrating, but also liberating.

So here goes:

Hello my name is Jessica, and I am an addict. (Don't worry, it's not drugs.)

I am addicted to control. For as long as I can remember, I've tried to exert control over the circumstances around me, to shape my world into understandable and comforting patterns. I loved school because it made so much sense: work hard and you will do well. Nothing was ever unexpected, nothing was ever out of my control. Learning made me feel that I was gaining more of a handle on the world around me.I didn't have to be so afraid.

It's not change that I dread; I dread uncertainty. What will this change bring? When will I know? How will I deal with it? What if I make a mistake?

It's always been a problem. When I was ten, my family went on that fateful mission trip to Argentina. As a result of the stresses of travel, my sister suffered two Grand Mal seizures that first day, and my brother also had a seizure. It was (at that point and for many years after) the scariest day of my life. I was tired and jet-lagged and absolutely terrified for my family. I remember: we were at some missionary's house in an unknown city, and I watched my parents crying over their sick children. I thought, with a ten-year-old's mistaken logic, that if I started crying too, my entire family would fall apart. Game over, we're done. My world, kaput. But if I didn't cry, I reasoned, we'd be okay.

And I didn't.

Even now, when things get out of my control, I get really anxious. Missing a bus in a foreign country, sickness in a family member, unknown social situations...First dates and all the maybes and I don't know yets that go along with them. I feel either very frustrated that I can't fix things, or totally set adrift by uncertainty and indecision. Obviously, those feelings suck, so I have carefully crafted my life to avoid them.

Yet finally, at 23, I realize that I have only been hurting myself. I wasn't being smart, I was closing myself off from new experiences and relationships because I didn't know where they would lead. Losing Dad forced me to function without that control. I learned how good it can be to rely on other people. I learned that I can't control everything, and also that I don't really want to anymore.

All this to say is that I've been trying to act differently lately. To take chances and say what I want without considering all sixteen different outcomes first. To figure things out as they happen, without maps or notes or plans. Because I've realized that I almost always decide the risk isn't worth it. At some point, being discerning turned into being defeatist. It'll never work out, he doesn't actually like me, I'll get annoyed and break his heart. I don't know those people, I won't know where I'm going, I won't get accepted. It's just better not to bother. 
 
But.

Maybe, just maybe, I can change. Maybe, just maybe, I can act despite my fears. I can let myself be unsure and make mistakes and grow from them. I'm sick of having regret not for the things I've done, but for the things I've not done.

I was sitting outside Starbucks today, enjoying the sunshine and my coffee before work. I was reading Rainer Maria Rilke, my favorite poet, and I came across an incredibly beautiful poem. Normally I would be perfectly happy in that moment, but today I had a fleeting thought: I wish I could be sharing this moment with someone. As I sat there, I realized that maybe, just maybe, it's not enough anymore.

"Never change. Never change."

Betty and Harold Brown, with baby Caleb, last March.

This past Friday, my mom and I drove down to Ironton, Ohio, where my Grandma and Grandpa Brown live. Ironton is one of those dying blue-collar towns, so common in the Appalachians. It sits right on the Ohio River, at the point where Kentucky, Ohio, and West Virginia meet. The downtown looks unchanged since the 1950's, back when business was still thriving, except for the general air of dereliction. The storefronts are boarded up, the sidewalks empty of people, the roads potmarked, the factories abandoned.

We actually didn't spend much time in Ironton, but drove over the river to Ashland, Kentucky to visit my grandma at the hospital. Last week, at 90 years old, she underwent a partial knee replacement after a bad fall. The fact that the doctors approved surgery for a 90 year-old woman is a shining testament to her vitality and her spirited personality. She's feisty! She's the kind of lady who drives her 70-year-old friends to the doctor (speeding all the way) because they're too old and sick to manage it. Just two days after the surgery, though, she was able to walk around using only a walker for balance. She is still as hilarious and spirited as she ever was; while stretching her leg to keep her knee moving, she claimed that she was practicing kicking in case Harold got out of line!

Even at 90 and 92 years old, after 60 years of marriage, my grandparents are adorably still in love. They tease each other--even when Grandma has to shout because Grandpa's nearly deaf now. One lights up when the other walks in the room. Grandpa kissed Grandma goodbye as we left to go to dinner. At times, when Grandpa laughs or Grandma says something silly, you can see glimpses of the young people they were so long ago. It's hard to imagine Harold and Betty Brown independently--they have grown to compliment and complete one another perfectly.

As Mom and I chatted with my grandparents that afternoon, I kept on thinking about the last time I'd visited Grandma in the hospital. Five years ago, my grandma fell and broke one ankle and a bone in her other foot. Unable to walk as she healed, she stayed at a nursing home for a few weeks. Grandpa stayed by himself in the house they've shared since 1955. One weekend during this time, my dad and I drove down to visit her. I remember it as such a good day--Grandma was so obviously happy to have visitors, and Grandpa admitted that he was relieved we were there because he worried about her. She hated being confined to a chair. She hated being alone.

(Even then, she healed remarkably quickly. A few months later, we visited them and I remember her dancing around their laundry room. I tried to get her to stop--"Grandma!," I said, scandalized. "You'll fall again!" She just giggled and continued doing her little jig.)

That night after we got home, I wrote a journal entry about our visit--I was impressed by Grandma's resilience, amazed by the visible love my Grandpa had for her, grateful for the opportunity to know such wonderful people. Happy for the day spent with my dad during my last summer before college. I wondered about how much time we'd have left with them: "Five or so years, maybe more, maybe less." It's ironic that it was my dad, not my grandparents, with whom we only had five more years. You just never know.

As I reread my entry from that night I was impressed by the things I understood, even then. Before everything happened. Before my gut truly knew what grief could feel like. My heart ached at the idea of either Betty or Harold without the other, and I didn't know how any of us would cope with it. But, I said, "I guess that all we can do is cherish the time we do have left. I can love and relish their company, and maybe learn something about life from them. I suppose that's all we can hope for in life, until we are together again in eternity."

Hmm. Not bad advice, younger self.

---

"As we were leaving, I gave her a hug and as I pulled back, she held onto my hands. She looked at me, smiling and mouthed to me that she loved me. I told her I loved her too, but she kept on holding onto my hands. She said, 'Never change. Never change.'" 

 ---July 28, 2007