It Always Rains.....

Essay by Jimmy Bentley


A tribute to step-parents

Time rapidly passes by, and they say time heals all ills. From personal experience, I have found this to be true. As a friend of mine once said, “It never gets any easier, but it does get better.” Andy died at the end of the darkest, saddest month of the year in my opinion, February. Susan died at the end of June, one of the brightest, nicest months of the year. Does anyone think about what month they or their loved ones will die in? It never occurred to me until now. A couple of thoughts come to mind in my minimal experience with death.

The first is: It always rains when you bury a loved one.
The second is: You are never prepared, ever, for the death of a parent.

I elucidate as follows.

I’m one of those gifted/cursed children of the 80’s and 90’s that will have more parents than the customary two accepted in society. I have had five now, and, I suspect with time after my mother grieves, that she might re-marry. That will make six. I refer, of course, to the children of divorcees and how they often come to respect, love, and cherish their step-parents as much as their real ones. I have been blessed with three fantastic step-parents, Susan, Andy, and most recently Diane. I couldn’t have asked for three people as caring, thoughtful and just all around accepting as these three. They all welcomed me unconditionally into their lives, their hearts, and their homes. Andy, by the end of his life, was calling me his boy. Susan and Diane called or call me their son. I imagine that’s about the deepest sign of love and respect that a person could get.

In other words, it 'don't get any better than that.'

One of the last conversations Andy and I had when he was well eerily mirrored one of the last ones Susan and I had. They both told me, in so many words, that they reckoned that they had done something right with me and that they were very proud. I’m glad I had the opportunity and the honor to make them proud. I hope that I continue to do so.

Susan died at the end of June 1997, shortly after I graduated from high school. I was lucky. I had braved a pretty violent thunderstorm to get to the hospital she was at, and had thoughts a couple times to turn back home. Being nineteen and stubborn, I pushed on and made it to the hospital that Monday night. I had decided on a whim to go visit her, as she was in for some routine surgery. This was five days before she died. We talked about several things, my upcoming AIT for the Army, my college that started in the fall, my relationship with my girlfriend, and the storm going on outside. Nothing in her mannerism or speech told me she was going to die. I had no idea. She seemed sick, but not that sick. Like I said, I was lucky. I got there in time to talk to her just once more. If I had known it was to be the last time we spoke, I’d of thought of something better to say.

I got a call from my aunt on Friday afternoon saying that Susan was dying. My mom, who worked at the hospital, called me shortly after and confirmed that Susan didn’t have much longer to live. I drove to the hospital and was there eight hours later when she died. She never woke up. They say that comatose patients can hear what is going on around them. I hope this is the case. I said my goodbyes and cried when she died. There was nothing else to do. She was gone and there was nothing to stop it. The lady that made me feel so welcome from the moment I met her, was gone. She knew good music and books, loved animals, and made great birthday cakes. She was a fine lady, one of the best I’ve ever known. I look forward to meeting her again.

We scattered Susan’s ashes on Lake Liberty in Oklahoma. My dad, recently divorced from her, was not invited to do so by my aunts. I had no say one way or the other, being only nineteen at the time and not having the ashes myself. I mourned for my dad, myself, and for Susan that day in July. It was sunny, but there was a nice breeze that kept away the mosquitoes and some of the heat. As my aunt Gerry proceeded to take the vase that held the majority of the ashes, she then dumped it on the shore. We had a good, sad laugh about this and then picked up the ashes in handfuls and scattered them as best we could upon the water. To this day I haven’t forgotten the sound the ash made as the water consumed it. It was a sucking, almost hungry sound. The ash didn’t dissolve, but rather sank towards the bottom where it was dispersed by a current.

We turned around and walked away...got into our vehicles and drove away. I stayed until last, looking back across the lake at the sun that was well on its way toward early evening. It would have been a beautiful scene, but I couldn’t see it because it was raining.

It always rains when you bury a loved one.

I’ve spoken to my aunts a few times since then, but haven’t seen them. I really must make the effort soon, because while at nineteen, I didn’t understand that life is short, I do now. I suppose it took a second death to make me realize it.

Andy died one 'cold-assed' frozen morning at the end of February 2002, at around four AM. Once again, I was lucky. I arrived in Oklahoma the day before Andy came home from the hospital. He wasn’t coming home to recover, however. He was coming home to die. I, at first, had my reservations about my mom’s decision to bring Andy home to die. When he passed, however, I understood why she wanted it that way.

Andy died like a king. In his own bed, with his family lovingly seeing him off, his dog by his side. It was an easy death, his breathing simply slowed and then stopped. No pain, no pressure, no anxiousness. For a man who had suffered as many indignities as Andy had during his long illness, it was fitting that he pass on in such a dignified way, as simply as walking through a door.

I was lucky because I got to Oklahoma in time to talk to Andy while he was still awake and alert. In the two days before his death, I spoke with him as he swam in and out of consciousness. I got the basics of things I needed to get said, said. I, of course, couldn’t say everything I was feeling, as I simply didn’t have the time nor does the verbal communication exist. How many ways can you tell someone that you love them and that you will cherish every moment you’ve ever had with them? How can you tell the man who loved you unconditionally as his own that you’ll miss him and that you’ll look for him when you too pass through the door? How can you stand to say goodbye in such a, well, such a final sort of way? They’re only words, but the feeling behind them, you feel, can never be fully portrayed to that other person. I think, perhaps, that they may understand more than we give them credit for.

Andy’s last words to me were that he wasn’t going anywhere and to not worry. I knew better, but it just showed how incredibly tough the man was. He was dying, he knew he was dying, but he took the time out from the very important business of dying to comfort me. By this time, I knew that it was near the end. Andy was restless with the sort of vague intensity that conscious dying people have. He was anxious to get on with it, I feel. I was anxious for him because I knew he was so terribly sick and in pain. How does one make that call for their parent and friend? The call that says 'Well, you’ve fought the good fight, but perhaps its time to put down your guard and fade?' When Andy died, I felt so torn. I loved him so much, and yet I, in a very rudimentary sense, hoped he would die, and die easily.

At any rate, my prayers were answered, some of them at least. Andy died easily, in his sleep, in the best way it is possible to die. He didn’t die in some unnamed battlefield when he served in Vietnam decades ago. He didn’t die in the dusty wasteland of the junk-yard where he was so grievously injured back in 1980. He didn’t die in the ICU of the hospital where people took it as a fact of life, a sad fact, but a fact nonetheless.

He died at home, with people who loved him by his side.

In other words, it 'don't get any better than that.'

As I said, the morning Andy died was extremely cold, as were the days that followed it. As we made the funeral arrangements, it stayed cold and fairly dark as well because the sky was overcast much of the time. When my various family members and I stepped out for a smoke, we went to the garage as the wind was so biting. On the day of the funeral, something near miraculous happened though. The sun came out and lifted at least some of the dreadful cold, and the wind stopped. The funeral was nice, a great many people came to pay respects to both Andy and to my family. The grave side service was also very good, very elegant, very well done. Two young soldiers came from an artillery unit based out of Fort Sill and paid their respects with a rendition of taps. They carefully folded the flag which had previously been placed upon the coffin, then handed it to my mother. Their salutes were perfect, respectful, those of soldiers seeing off a fallen comrade. Later, I personally thanked them for being there and for their impeccable professionalism. The minister finished the ceremony with a few words and the people filed by to pay respect to my mother and the rest of my family.

I am glad it went as well as it did. It was a service that had enough to class to pay respect to a man that was loved as much as he was. It was also simple enough to appeal to Andy’s taste. He would have liked it.

I would have liked to been the last to leave, as I had been with Susan. I was part of the group that had ridden in the limousines, so I had to leave a little earlier to get one of the cars parked at my mom’s house. I did look back, however. It was a nice day for February, fairly cool, but sunny and windless. The flowers by the grave were beautiful. The flag in my mother’s hands was a fantastic symbol of strength and honor. The soldiers in full dress greens and ribbons made the picture complete. It would have been a beautiful scene, but I couldn’t see it because it was raining.

It always rains when you bury a loved one.



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