For The Next Thirty Seconds ✓

a 'the end'

L A N E

The funny thing about tragedy is that you never expect it to strike when it does. The funny thing about tragedy is that it always seems to strike at the most inconvenient times. Although, I suppose now that I'm thinking about it, is there really a convenient time for tragedy to strike?

A convenient time, in my mind, would've been any time other than when it did. But I guess that's probably a standard viewpoint.

I never know what to do when I think about him. He doesn't have a grave I can go visit; like he said, he wanted his body cremated or donated to science. I don't know what happened. I don't want to know, because Jack's body is Jack's and it shouldn't be a pile of ash and it shouldn't belong to anyone else, and I don't care if that's selfish because it's true.

I thought about buying him a star. People do that, you know; buy stars and get them officially renamed. When I told Thalia about that idea, she said it seemed right. But, she only knows Jack through my stories, and I know him in my heart, and I know he wouldn't want that. Buying him a star, as ironic as it sounds, is cheap.

Why should he need a star when he's already living amongst them?

I still have nightmares about that moment. I suppose they're not really nightmares as much as me reliving the exact moment over and over again, but my point still stands, because it's a nightmare to me.

Every detail is etched perfectly in my mind, impossible to forget. I remember him laughing and then I remember him stopping. I remember him wheezing and gasping, and I remember that stopping, too. I sat up bolt right and when I looked down at him his eyes were closed. I remember thinking that since his eyes were closed, he still had a chance, that real death happens with open eyes.

I screamed at the people in Central Park to call 911 and I tried to remember everything I knew about chest compressions and CPR, and then, somehow, he started breathing again, and he opened his eyes and he looked confused. I was relieved, so relieved, but it, of course, was a sick game, played on us by tragedy.

His eyes were open when he stopped breathing this time. He had a small smile on his face, because he saw me, and that's what hurt the most. That's what still hurts the most. He thought he was safe and he wasn't.

When the EMTs came they didn't even try to save him. They just put him in a body bag, like he didn't matter. They asked me for his information and I remember refusing to tell them anything until they did more to help him. In my mind, they were annoyed with me, but when I think about it, now, I suppose they were sympathetic.

I didn't find out until later that Jack died because of a pulmonary embolism. It's a complication caused by his cancer, I guess, and they said he was lucky to live so long with an untreated blood clot in his lungs.

I don't think he was lucky at all.

I have to describe the dream to my therapist in vivid detail every week, because she thinks it will make things better, although I'm not sure how that's the case. If anything, it's making everything worse.

I told my therapist that I think his family is mad at me. She thinks I'm crazy. But, they must be, right? They didn't get to see him for four months. His sisters and his mom were nice enough, but I'm the one who stole his last moments, his last day. Sometimes I wish I hadn't, but then I yell at myself, because Jack is worth everything.

When I told my therapist about not knowing where to go to grieve Jack, she didn't give me any helpful advice. She said I should journal about him, which might make sense for her other clients, but I don't have much to journal about; I only knew him for twelve hours. Twelve blissful, wonderful, eye-opening hours, but twelve hours all the same.