These New Realities, They Wait For No One!
By: Jebb Dykstra
Tags: Resilience, Mourning, Grief And Loss, Literary Memoir, Recovery

New Realities. Part 1 of 15. Gotta Go Luv u. Think about the last conversation, the last words you might have with a loved one. What would you say? Would it be simple filler words like me? My words to my wife were, “gotta go. luv u.” I ran off to work. Are well planned goodbye’s better? These words of mine were not glamorous. I next spoke to her at the hospital, but there was no response. These next words and lyrics were now being sung to her by us, her family. They were as deep and loving and as soulful of words as I have ever uttered. She was already gone.

©. Untitled. Dykstra, Jebb. 1999.

My wife, Michelle, died that day. She died, or more precisely was killed, during a routine doctor’s visit. A simple procedure by a doctor, who gave her a lethal dose of the numbing drug called Lidocaine at approximately 9:30 am on a Tuesday morning. Lidocaine stopped her heart the first time sometime around 10 or 11. They resuscitated her once and even a second time, they were able to bring her back to life. And then she died a third and final time. Her heart and body were too traumatized and she couldn’t recover and slowly she slipped away by 4 pm that afternoon. Gotta go luv u. I think about this so often. Such a simple goodbye. So unremarkable. Gotta go luv u.

Warrior Wife. Part 2 of 15. Michelle Dykstra, my wife, mother of M and L, she fought so hard to live!! This beautiful face is the face of the ultimate warrior. She fought so hard the fucking Universe had to kill her three times to take her away from her children and me and her family. From this reality. Think about that harshness. Fighting that hard to stay in the present. The here and now.

As you read this, think about the question as to whether, on your best day, have you ever fought that hard to stay in the present. To stay alive. To stay in your reality. To get back to your family. To get back to your children. To get back to your spouse. To make a difference with this life of yours. Of mine. She fought that hard to stay with us. That is how strong and tough my wife, Michelle Boyer Dykstra was. My warrior wife. I say her name Michelle Boyer Dykstra.

©. Untitled. Dykstra, Jebb. 2015.

Pancakes. Part 3 of 15. That morning, pancakes were made by me and served to the kids by her for breakfast. Michelle drove M to high school. I took L to middle school. Off to school the girls went and off to work I went. Meaningless and stupid work and wasted meetings. Why didn’t I just stay home that day. I would have gone to the doctor’s appointment with her. I control my schedule. Would I have made a difference? Would the doctor have checked his syringe a second time if I was there? Would I have yelled at the doctor’s staff to help her quicker. Would that have made a difference. But to work I went. Nobody cared either way if I had stayed home or went to work. I didn’t stay home. I didn’t go with her. She died in the arms of strangers the first two times. The two times that made the third time forever fatal. At least during the third dying, she had all of us. Now everything has changed from before March 7 to after March 7. These morning rituals of pancakes made and delivered by a family, these old ways die slowly, but these new realities wait for no one.

©. Blue Hole. Dykstra, L.. 2018. Reprinted with Permission.

Missed Conversations. Part 4 of 15. One of the first thoughts that came to mind when I learned that they brought her back to life was — “the conversations we will have.” What did she see and experience? Was there a light at the end of a tunnel? Did she hover over us? Is this really just an illusion? Is it a fantastical simulation? Are we living multiple lives simultaneously in Hawking’s multiverse? Was she with us? Is she still with us? Is she in us even now? Is there even a Universe? How deep do the illusions go? So many moments now, I feel almost as if we are sharing my body. I sit and watch Netflix in her space in the bed. But when it is time to go to sleep, I go back to my space. I know she is right there beside me. Those next conversations are going to be amazing. I can’t wait!

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Light and Black Holes. Part 5 of 15. Obviously, I didn’t believe that she was really, really gone. The power of suspended reality. The permanence of her death is overwhelming. It’s almost impossible to comprehend what was really happening even while experiencing it and watching it happen. Will I wake up from this nightmare. I have honestly tried to pull myself out of this dream hundreds, maybe thousands of times. To no avail. There was no light. There is no light. This day, this life, this moment has been sucked into our own personal black hole. There was no light, there is no light.

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The Shattering Glass from Mortal Wails. Part 6 of 15. We were with her in her final moments. Brain activity was approximately at 30%. So much activity still! And so little at the same time. She had to know we were there. So many of us were with her. From around noon until when we really knew that there was no return for her from this killing by this reckless or drunk or high doctor and/or nurse. The smell of alcohol wreaked from one of them. Yes, I was with her. M was with her. L was with her. Her mother, father and sister and brother were with her. My family was with her. The room was filled with love and terror. I was chanting my chants that I have never chanted or uttered in my life. Weird humming sounds. Low wails that have never even surfaced in me in my entire life. These wails, more like WAILS, whale songs even, that I have never seen people do in person. Yes they let them out on television shows, but have never seen or ever felt so moved or saddened or tortured to release these sounds non-stop for almost 3 hours. Mortal wails, so sorrowful. Unless you have been so tortured, I can’t even explain them to you. I hope you never have to feel them, let alone listen to a loved one make them. You only can know them. You can only feel it or see it? To be touched by it, you can never be untouched. Once the glass shatters from these mortal wails, you can not fix it or forget them. Sadly if you know or have been so touched, I am so, so sorry because then you have traveled a woeful road. Like we did. And that was only the first few steps on our journey.

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Soul Mates. Part 7 of 15. M was with her — with her own private trauma and grief so sorrowful and helpless that I just wanted to hold my little big girl. The girl who has it quietly all figured out, but not really because she is only a 16 year old girl. The one who can’t be touched. She holds herself tightly enclosed with a walnut like exterior, so no one but mom (and maybe me if I am really lucky) can ever get to her true inside. No one except mom. Not even me. If I prayed, I would pray that she will let somebody in and let that someone really know her and love her. And love her deeply and unconditionally, like Mom did and like I do. It is the only escape. And it is so sad that the one person with the secret key to M’s heart is no longer here. M was bleeding out emotion as if … I honestly don’t know. But the crush of sorrow for her as her father was overwhelming. And still is. What do you say to a person who has just lost her first soul mate. Her mom. No words. And then when you realize the pain is times two. Because this is also true for L, who also lost her soul mate. Two daughters losing their mom. Then for yourself and for the rest of the family. How do you ever replace a soul mate? Such was Michelle. She had many soul mates. She was that kind of person. That is our loss.

©. Untitled. Dykstra, Jebb. 2019. Reprinted with Permission.

I’ll love you forever. Part 8 of 15. L was with her. Shaking and voice vibrating. Singing. She started the “bedtime lullaby lyrics’’ that have defined our household sleep ritual for our family. L saved me when she started singing “I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always, as long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be… dnnt dnnt sweet dreams good night.” Part from the book “I’ll Love You Forever” and part from our made-up bedtime lullaby by M. Our ritual was started by M when she was little, but then she grew out of it. Picked up by L and sung every night at bedtime by mom and me to L, and L to us as long as I can remember. And still to this day it goes on. The words crashing in my ears and hearing them differently this time. This was a horrible new rendition of “as long as I’m living” and “sweet dreams goodnight.” I still love this song, but I’m not sure why. Maybe because tradition consumes me and soothes me? L was shattered and wailing. No parent ever wants to see their children in this kind of pain. We huddled over Michelle. Touching her, holding her. Caressing her. Willing her. Hoping for our miracle. Her miracle. We held her hand. Stroked her forehead. We touched and talked to her. We sang to her. So many of us silently stood and prayed for her. But we don’t get miracles in our family. We are not that lucky. I guess that’s the punishment for not believing. But Michelle wouldn’t believe and neither do I. So fuck you Universe. Fuck you! And fuck you doctor and fuck you nurse and Universe for everything you did to cause this and did not do to fix this. And sweet dreams and goodnight to you Michelle. We’ll love you forever.

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Cat5 Hurricane. Part 9 of 15. Michelle’s Mom and Dad and her Dad’s significant other were there. Brother and his significant other and sister (and her husband). C and D were there. The family who is such family to Michelle, not blood, but still spiritual blood. Caring is all that matters in these moments. Thank you C and D forever you have my heart. My family all showed up. My big brother, Alpha, and his wife. And three of his daughters who had no idea what Cat5 Hurricane they just entered into. Oh their poor fragile minds. I hope they are ok. They did not deserve this. Such a harsh and ugly reality. My estranged brother and his wife. Upon Michelle’s death, we simply became un-estranged as if the Universe takes mercilessly and gives back as naturally as we breathe in oxygen. The Universe and storms, they have no emotion. They just swoop in and wreak their havoc. And then we are left with a mess that can never be cleaned up.

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Gossamer Threads and Ghosts. Part 10 of 15. So many threads tied to one person. One day you have your agreed upon life. The next day, a whole new reality is thrust upon you. When you lose someone like our family did in a space of 6–7 hours and actually watch your loved one die, what’s really hard about accepting this new reality is sometimes plainly simple — it is just hard to believe that this person whom you love so much, this wife, mother, daughter, sister, niece, aunt, friend, this person that so many of us were intimately connected to, this living person — beating heart with love, thought and conversations and all — this person who was a daily part of our life, this person that in my case, we created 2 lives with (meaning our kids), that she is just gone… Where does she go? How can people just disappear? Ghosts. They quickly become a part of your life. This one person created so many threads, gossamer like, that you can never see them until something like this happens. Then and only then, the light shines on the dew drops and it reflects the light, it reflects the full impact of this one person’s life. This life, Michelle’s life is then magnified. Over time, you see thousands of little threads that were once her life. Once upon a time these threads, they were our family life. On one hand, it is awe-inspiring because so many of us have this quiet but magnificent and profound impact on the world around us without even knowing. On the other hand, honestly, I just can’t grasp it. How do people disappear? But they do every day, right. It just wasn’t connected to us yet? Now it is. These new horrible realities are just so rare in our lives, I don’t think we are ever prepared to accept them on so many levels. These new realities, they wait for no one.

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Please Come Home. Part 11 of 15. More often than I should, I find myself pleading in private — “where are you Michelle?” Will you please come home…knowing these words are the most hopeless words I have ever uttered? Maybe. Asking this same question over and over. Not telling anyone, but almost positive they are asking the same question. Privately silently asking (so that others don’t know about these quiet conversations) — “are you lost, are you mad at me, I can make it better. I promise. Just come home. Where are you? I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” For what I don’t know. But I’m so so sorry. Even now almost eighteen months later, I still ask this question — “Where are you?” In my mind, it’s so hard to comprehend and reconcile what really happens to the loved one who dies. I feel you and hear you all around me, but you’re not here. Your shadow is felt. I know you were with me two weeks after you passed. I saw you in my peripheral vision. You covered your face with your hands. I know you felt the change and were embarrassed at what you had become. But please don’t worry, me and you, we are one. We always were. Arguments and disagreements, but we were each other. You were me and I was you. I know you are here surrounding us. Sometimes even sleeping quietly next to me in bed on some nights. I feel you peek in the girl’s rooms. Just to see how they sleep. We always loved watching them sleep, didn’t we? The creeks on the wooden floors in the hallway. They make your noise. I have heard the noises you made for 21 years. I know them well. I know you are home with us. Just different. If you could come home, I know without doubt that you would. For me, for Makenna and for Lily and for all of us here and more. But sadly these new realities, they wait for no one. Rest here in peace. And know we are all here with you. Love you forever!

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Big and Small Deaths. Part 12 of 15. I survived your immediate death and its resulting chaos, but honestly, I don’t know how. I wonder every once in a while, how you would have handled it. In bad moments, I wish you were the one to be here to take care of everything. The shattering of us seems as real as a large mirror smashing on the floor in a sunlit room. Big and small pieces scattering far and wide with tiny little reflections shooting out into the world and finally disappearing and dying. The ensuing storm that followed your death — so much of me died that day. Nothing and everything is the same. The real me doesn’t exist anymore. I am here but it’s not me. You know that. Yes I am partly you and me now. But much of what was me is now anonymous or is gone altogether. I am us and no one at the same time. Anyone who has gone through this sort of thing knows that and understands that. People who know this horror understand what I am saying.

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Chaos and Routine. Part 13 of 15. Now what remains is the routine — almost like a robot. I do what needs to be done. Don’t pull me out of the robotic routine. Being pulled off the routine hurts. The daily routine is so much the same. Just like we raised the kids. We always protected the routine. Bedtime. Wake up and daily rituals. We have always believed in routine haven’t we. We will always have the routine — the kids, they need it. Routine for them and avoidance of chaos for us. Now me. The routine.

In the days and weeks that followed, the remaining living (little and large) parts of me curled up in a corner. These parts of me quietly laid down next to you and we slowly died together. The “living us” died. But I walk and drive around town with you all the time in my routine. And I now know how many others this is true for — so many others! But this is me and this is real. I know so much more now than I ever did before and I “thought” I was a deeply feeling person. Inside “my self” or my brain or soul or my many thousands of souls or whatever you want to call it or them, constant chaos rings inside the mind and resounds everywhere in the outside world and it is only soothed by the routine.

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Juggling A Dozen Different Fidget Spinners — “while on fire.” Part 14 of 15. Nothing is the same anymore. My routine is really not my routine. No part of every single day is the same, especially not the soothing daily rituals. Not the mornings and getting the girls off to school, not the workday, especially not the shared carpools or evenings with homework and dinner. Not the unwinding together at the end of a well spent day. Down time or alone-time is not the gift it used to be. For sure, not the sleepless nights. None of this was easy even before. Any parent will tell you that. Now it’s like juggling a dozen different fidget spinners all of which are on fire, and some days trying to do it all with one hand. In reality, it’s the life of a single mother. Many times, I am getting nothing or little done. Now the day includes conversations with coroners. Really? Who has those? Today and now, that’s me. This is a new and different life for me than ever before. And the tired is a deep to the bone tired, more so than I have ever felt before. With a sadness that isn’t a dangerous depression, but feels close. Don’t get me wrong, all these tiring duties, these pick-ups/drop-offs, made dinners, laundry washed and dried (but probably not put away), lunches made and endless other things to be done and such, they are easy for me to do for the girls. I should say the decision to do them is easy. The drain of the “daily doing” is overwhelming, but I do get them done. So far! The only tired that seems to explain this fatigue, is the tired of a chemo patient. My mom told me that only another cancer patient, and she is one, knows the drain, the exhaustion, the pain of chemo. I don’t know that, but I know this. My days are filled with a sad and tiring drain that only shared grief can understand.

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Shiny Mental Objects. Part 15 of 15. Each new day now starts and ends with a brain that is so easily overwhelmed by distraction. My focus and concentration is that of a squirrel or a gopher. Both admirable creatures that I have come to love and admire as my spirit animals (along with the platypus). Every three minutes a new shiny mental object pops into my brain. Some are welcome, some are horrifying, some are just mundane. I set alarms on the phone for every activity ensuring that I won’t forget anything. God forbid, I forget to pick up a child. If I did, would someone report me to child services. Am I fit as a parent? What would happen to my girls if something happens to me? I need to exercise to stay healthy. Oh big sigh. I don’t have the energy — mental or physical to do that. I only have 45 minutes before I have to make dinner and then clean up dinner. Sitting down and watching TV or closing my eyes or surfing ESPN seems so much easier. All these worries, distractions, these new horrible realities… All of this chaos is almost comical in a dark humor sort of way — in that all the order and organization that we used to have as a family unit, for we were a well-oiled machine of a family, was driven by you my dear Michelle. You were the conductor, the brains, the librarian, the master of ceremonies. You do this, I got that. We got each other and we’ll get through this because we have each other. Losing you is like ripping the conductor out of an orchestra — what do you have without a conductor? What are we now? All of a sudden, our music becomes noise. Our sheet music and our perfect tapestry of a family is now ripped into a thousand pieces and this chaos is thrust onto me. It’s inside of me and surrounds me. And I was the disorganized one. You owned the calendar. You scheduled everything. You told me where to be. What to do… What now, what now? These new realities wait for no one.

J. Allen Dykstra Brief Biography

©. Untitled. Dykstra, M.. 2020.

I am an all around human platypus. I am distracted by shiny objects and quietly clever. I am part entrepreneur, lawyer, professor, novelist and poet. I graduated from University of Denver and University of the Pacific’s McGeorge School of Law. I married my law school sweetheart. I live in Santa Monica, California.