Ed has been gone three months now. In some ways, it seems like he was still here yesterday. In other ways, it seems he's been gone much longer.
It's funny how we still refer to things that belonged to Ed, as 'Ed's'. Ed's car, Ed's chair, Ed's tools, Ed's shop.
It's hard to think of his things as no longer his. Even though he is no longer of this world, his things...are his things.
Now his things are, by the way it goes, Mama's things. It's now Mama's car, etc., etc. But even she refers to these things as 'Ed's'.
When we get ready to go someplace...the doctor, shopping...she asks 'Do you want to take Ed's car?'
Out of all the things he left behind, I guess his car does have a special place in my heart, because he and I spent much time in that car as we traveled back and forth to doctor's visits.
When Ed was diagnosed with a GBM (brain tumor) in November, 2008, he never drove again, except maybe to move the car to a different spot in the drive way. His seizures made it impossible to drive safely, as he had only seconds warning when a seizure was about to occur. And so, the man who always drove, became the passenger.
In the beginning, he seemed pretty much the same as he always was, and he adjusted the air, adjusted the radio station and volume, and gave directions. We would talk about this and that as we drove down Hwy 316 or the long back roads he preferred. When we weren't talking we listened to the radio; an old time station that played the oldie goldie country tunes. He could get himself in and out of the car and walk inside. He could get himself to the rest room and feed himself the lunch Mama packed or I picked up at fast food.
As his disease progressed, our talking became less and less, and we rode and just listened. He could still adjust the station and volume, and I was happy to let him choose what he wanted to hear and how loud he wanted it. Mostly, he could only answer yes or no to my questions, or occasionally I could make out a word or two. Now, he pointed out directions, with few words. His speech became so garbled, I could only make out a few words. He began using a walker and he tired easily. When we reached the cancer treatment center, I retrieved a wheelchair from inside and pushed him inside. He could usually make the short walk to the restroom without a walker or chair. His meals were a little messy, but he could still eat with no problem.
In the last few months, he pointed only if I asked for help. Often, he dozed in his seat as I drove us to his chemo treatments and back home. We used the wheel chair almost 100% now. He could usually stand to be weighed, but had to sit right back down. Now I pushed his wheelchair into the restroom and then stood guard at the door until he called me or tapped on the door. I watched him closely when he ate, because he could easily get choked now, or spill his drink or food. Getting him in and out of the car was now a struggle as his strength was leaving him and he could barely assist anymore.
It's strange that as often as he had seizures, he never had one while we were on the road. Our trip to and from the chemo treatments were about 40 minutes one way. I only saw Ed have two seizures the entire time he was sick, unless the tremors he had the last three days of his life were seizures.
The other day, me and my Aunt Judy washed Ed's car. It is mostly parked under a tree, and only driven a couple of times a week, and the tree had dumped it's 'stuff' all over the car, plus a few birds had decorated it also. We hosed it off, scrubbed it down, then rinsed it. Mama asked me to take it to get the brakes inspected and so I drove it home.
Don't ask me why, but I cried all the way home in Ed's car. Ed's car. I could still see him sitting there, slumped a little to one side, a hand on each knee. I remember having to help him put his seat belt on, and thinking how cruel life can be sometimes, that the man who always took care of others, had to have help buckling his seat belt. I kept thinking how my cousin Stacy told me that a few days before Ed died, they had raised him up in bed and he had pointed out the open door, and she followed his gaze to the bird feeder by the front porch. She said the birds were flocking around the bird feeder, red birds, blue birds, brown birds. She looked back to Ed and he was smiling. I think how seeing those birds must have made him happy in that moment, and made him smile. I cry because he wanted to live, and even though he wasn't going to get to live much longer, he found something to be happy about.
(this pic taken at Christmas, 2007, one year before GBM discovered. Back row, Mama, Ed, my brother Bo. Front Row, me and my brother Bob.)
People always said, and still say, 'Ed was always smiling'. He always was. I can find comfort in knowing he still is, in Heaven.
