I Couldn't Save Him

24 November, 2019


It's been almost a year since my life changed, and not for the better.  A person who was loved by his family left this world and I was one of two people to see him at his end.  I knew from the start that I was going to have problems dealing with what had happened but dove in anyway.

A trucking company parks some tractors and trailers in our yard as a "swap lot".  Full trailers are brought in from another location, the drivers who park at our shop hook up and pull those trailers out.  The drivers who brought in the full trailers then take the empty trailer back to their location to be loaded again.  "Drop and hook" is the term used in the trucking industry.

I know the drivers who park at our shop but don't know the other drivers who bring in the loaded trailers.  It's quite routine and the whole process happens in less than an hour starting around 21:00.  There's a lot of traffic in and out of our yard which, mostly, goes by unnoticed.  5 February, 2019 changed that routine.

The usual trailer swaps had gone on and my coworker and I had just continued working on the jobs we had to get done.  At the end of the shift I went outside to get the service trucks started up in preparation for bringing them inside.  I noticed a tractor, lights on, hooked up to a trailer and had a listen.  Engine wasn't running but the lights were on.  Not normal, but not unusual either.  Sometimes tractors get parked and the driver forgets to shut off the lights.  "Christ, I had better go shut off those lights so we don't have to do a jump start later" I was thinking. 

I walked over to the rig, around to the driver's door and noticed it was slightly ajar and didn't see a driver.  I opened the door and saw the driver's foot in the door jamb, looked up and saw the driver in his seat, slumped over a little bit.  "Hey buddy."  No response.  "Hey buddy!!"  No response.  I climbed up and looked... "Oh shit..."  Even if you've never seen a person at that kind of moment, you just know.  I hauled ass into the shop and on my way to the nearest phone my coworker was in the midst of saying "What's going on..."  "Get out of the way!!" I hollered at him.  I picked up the phone and punched in 911.   I told the operator who I was, where I was at and that there was a truck driver who was unresponsive.  The operator arranged for my coworker to call them so we could be connected at the truck.  "Mitch!  Call 911 and follow me!!"  Mitch did just that and we were out at the truck, with the operator on speaker phone.

We, in a nutshell, were told to get the driver out of the truck and on the ground.  We were told to see if the driver was still warm and if there was a pulse.  Mitch, I feel for him because he had never been in this kind of situation, reached out, hesitated, then checked for a pulse.  Nothing.  The 911 operator then talked me through CPR.  Emergency teams were on the way.  I did as I was told and started doing chest compressions.  The gurgling coming from the driver has come back to haunt me many times.  I suspect it will continue to haunt me until my dying day.  I could hear sirens but "Why aren't they here yet?"

I kept doing the chest compressions as instructed and the paramedics seemed to pop up out of nowhere.  Pump, pump, pump "Do I stop now?" I asked.  Pump, pump, pump "keep going" they said as they hooked up respiratory stuff and got a backboard placed.  Pump, pump, pump "OK.  We have it." the paramedics said.  It was seamless.  I stopped compressing, they took over and then I fell onto my butt, turned around and started crying like a baby.  I don't know how long I had been crying but I felt a hand on my shoulder and heard a voice saying "You gave him a chance..."  It was February and I had started to feel the cold.  Thinking back on those moments, I now know the driver was already dead.  The ambulance was in no hurry to leave the yard which tells me that driver didn't make it.  Massive heart attack from what I found out later on.

I made phone calls to the driver's dispatcher, helped the police find info in the truck and such, called my boss.  I was numb and Mitch was visibly shaken.  Mitch and I had a conversation after everyone had left.  Having been through a similar situation with my Dad, and having had to deal with break down later, I told Mitch to go home and tell his Mom, Grandma, Sister...  Just tell someone everything you had just gone through.  "If you bottle it up it will just come back later and it will be twice as bad." I told him.

Mitch has some habits that are annoying but I know I can rely on him when the shit hits the fan.  The day to day stuff is petty now that I know that he's a good person and will be there, even if the situation is dire, when he's called upon.  I have a lot of respect for Mitch now.

Not long after, I received a phone call (at the shop) from the driver's sister.  She hadn't received any straight answers regarding he brother's death.  She asked questions and I answered the questions I could.  She also asked if she could come to the shop some time.  I, of course, said "Yes.  Come after 15:00 and ask for Tim."  She came to the shop that spring.

"Tim, someone's at the front window asking for you." I heard.  I walked into the office and said "I'm Tim.  What can I help you with?"  She introduced herself as the sister of the driver who had died.  I walked outside with her so we could have some privacy.  I had talked to Mitch and said he could come along with us if he wanted and that if he chose not to he would not be looked down upon.  She asked to see the place where her brother had died and I took her around back to the yard.  I wasn't able to show her the exact spot because I hadn't been paying attention to that sort of thing on the night it happened.  I was able to only say "It's one of these parking spaces."

She asked if she could spread some Holy water (they are a Catholic family) and I told her she could do whatever she wanted.  If she wanted a memorial stuck into the ground I would see that it happened.  She asked if it was okay to hug me and I said it was.  We hugged, cried and then she gave me two laminated copies of the driver's obituary.  One for me, one for Mitch.  I told her everything that had happened that night, she thanked me for trying to save her brother and then left.  I told Mitch that if he wanted a copy of the obituary that it would be on my toolbox.  He didn't take it and I don't hold anything against him for not wanting to.  I, on the other hand, read the obituary and then knew something of the man I couldn't save.

I had planned on visiting his grave on a motorcycle trip but I didn't.  Maybe in 2020 I will.  I didn't know the guy from Adam, but I was there at the end of his life.  I did my best to save him but failed.  He was dead before I found him.  I wish that he had survived.  I wish that I had met him after the fact.  I wish that his family had only a scare and not a funeral.  Life doesn't work out like that.  Sometimes people die and families are left with holes in their hearts.  First responders have to deal with these situations on a daily basis and, sometimes, mechanics have to deal with that situation and can't fix it.

I never knew that driver.  I never said so much as "hello" to him, but he is now part of me.  In his time of dying I was there and it will haunt me until I'm gone.  I'm just glad that I was able to provide some sort of closure for his family.   

What Do You Say?

4 October, 2019

I got the news yesterday that a second cousin, Christian, had died as a result of injuries sustained while fighting a forest fire.  I don't recall ever meeting the man, also an Iraq war combat veteran, but I have met his parents and sister.  They all live in the Pacific northwest so family visits don't really happen.  Still, it's family.  My family, despite being spread out, is pretty tight.  If some distant relative contacts someone from out of the blue the response is "Come on over, we'll put you up for a few days."  I think that's really cool.

Facebook, love it or hate it, has provided me with a way of keeping in touch with my more distant family.  I love it, but FB still has the stink of disconnection.  Before the internet as we know it, the phone and address lists kept by my parents and grandparents were epic sagas.  Just as I was leaving on a solo motorcycle trip to my Dad's home town this summer, Mom handed me a slip of paper with the last known phone number of one of her friends.  Just in case.  I've gone off on a tangent.

With the news of Christian's death, my immediate reaction was to go forth and support the family.  Christian's sister and father had posts on FB (which is how I found out about his death), but I didn't know how to respond.  I never know how to respond to that kind of news.

I've written about the death of my father, brother and one of my best friends (Audra) before so I won't rehash those stories.  The relevant points are this.  When Dad died I heard "I'm sorry for your loss", and minor variations, so much that I swore I would never say that.  "I'm sorry..." equates to an apology.  Why are you apologizing for my Father's death?  You didn't kill him.  "Thoughts and prayers..."  Well, after my Grandfather's death (a Methodist minister for four decades) and then my Father...  That was, almost, the final nail in the coffin of the belief in God for me.  Prayer meant nothing to me.  Toss in my Brother and then Audra...   There are a lot of mental scars that just can't absorb well-wishes anymore.

Maybe it was the trauma of losing my Father that short-circuited my brain into analyzing how people responded as a way of not thinking about what had actually happened.  The kind people who propped up myself, and my family, at that time (repeated when my Brother died) were great.  They were also struggling with "What do I say?"  Just the fact that people gave a damn, in any shape or form, did wonders.  At my Father's funeral the assistant manager, Dave, from the grocery store showed up.  He had flowers from the store and a card signed by all of my coworkers.  I still get a little teary-eyed thinking about that kind gesture.  My best friend (his future wife and his three siblings by default) and a good chunk of his family (all of them had adopted me as family) were also there.  All of it was a show of friendship and support.  I will never forget any of them.  What I learned was that actions mean more than words.  My whole world was chaos.  I didn't know up from down, left from right... It's like I was in the middle of the Atlantic and just trying to keep my head above water and then "There's Dave, there's Adam and his family..."  Just those people being there gave me something to focus on and it was like they had thrown me a rope and were pulling me to safety. 

When Best Friends' (meaning all of them) Father died, I was there.  I had no clue what do do, but I was there.  Best friend's wife died, I was there.  I was a pall bearer and let me tell you, carrying one of my best friends to her final resting place, that hurt.  A lot.  Best friends' Aunts died, I was there. Still had no idea what to say but at least I could "be there".  Not my family, but kinda my family...  My default position in any of those situations is to just hang out in the background and be ready should someone need something.  Ran out of TP in the bathroom?  "I'm on it!"  I could say.  Physical presence.  They helped me when I needed it so I wanted reciprocate.

But with Christian I can't do that.  I'm thousands of miles away from them.  I can't be there to hang out in the background.  I can't give them hugs.  I can't make supply runs to the store when the TP runs out.  I don't know what to do and I can't find any words that won't sound like something on a cheap wall hanging from Target.  My response thus far has been a "sad face" on FB.  I had to do something.  I can't even write a letter because I don't have an address to send it to. 

What do you say, what do you do, in a moment like this?

Motorcycles, Ignorance and Tolerance

I've been commuting on the Bonneville recently. Who can argue with 47 miles per gallon and a whole lot of fun? I rolled into work Wednesday and as I entered the yard there was a truck driver getting out of the way. Imagine "Larry the Cable Guy" getting out of a square-nosed Peterbilt. Stereo-typical (I wonder if there is such a thing as mono-typical? I digress) truck driver.

I park the motorcycle and head into the office, gear is still on, and I see that driver at the front desk. Everyone is busy so I go to the window and ask if I may help with something. Helmet is off, unzipping the jacket and "Larry" says "So you're the guy who whizzed by on that rice bike." I replied with "Excuse me?" (still had ear plugs in). I pulled the ear plugs out and Larry says "The rice bike..."

The look of confusion and mild offense (we'll get to that) on my face made Larry explain that he is "a Harley guy" with a smug smile upon his face. To which I replied "There's a Sportster in my garage and that 'rice bike' you saw is a Triumph Bonneville." He had nothing. He's a "biker", not a motorcyclist.

When I'm out finding those hidden curvy roads and spectacular scenery, I wave at every rider I see. Even the scooter bros. Trikes get no love. 99% of the time the other rider waves in return. Larry is the 1% that doesn't return the wave. Larry is a dick. Larry's "gear" is probably just what he had on driving his truck. Ball cap, good 'ol southern boy "christian" jewelry, sleeveless plaid shirt and plain 'ol jeans. I can throw stereotypes back. With a healthy dose of sarcasm. #superpower.

Though I think it's insane to ride without proper gear (imagine opening the door of your car and jumping out with what you have on. Will your OOTD save you?) I will defend a person's right to ride without gear if they choose to do so. It's the wrong choice, in my opinion, and the beanied, gear-free, motor company faithful/sport bike squids, have never been sliding down a pea-graveled road (local county Rd. in my case) at 50mph. I had to toss out the helmet and gloves, but got away with a scraped knee, scraped leather jacket (from Sears no less), bent handlebar and broken turn signals. Oh, and a major sense of dread when I had to tell Dad that his worst thoughts about motorcycles had come true.

This is a lesson in how to be a decent person. Instead of "You rode in on that rice bike..." how about "What's that motorcycle you rode in on?" Or instead of "ATGATT (all the gear all the time)!" I wait for a question about the gear I have. "...No it's not hot at all. These vents here, here and here do..." Tolerance. Some people like obese land yachts with no ground clearance, some people like motorcycles with good brakes and enough ground clearance to enjoy curvy roads.

My ideal is not your ideal. You can't go through life with the "Hell hath no forgiveness for those who do not think like-wise" attitude. 

Religion

I will be as blunt as possible right from the start so you don't waste your time reading something you disagree with.

If you live your life in accordance to a book written thousands of years ago (and embellished throughout the generations to accomplish some selfish assholes' goals) you're a fool and cannot think for yourself. 

If you wait for God, Allah, Buddah, Odin, Ares or some other mythical "being" to solve your problems you get what's coming to you.  The whole of any religion is contradictory to itself.  Religion is a way for a few to control many.  The Devil is in the details.

Generally speaking, most Muslims, Christians, Buddhists and Pagans are all about supporting their communities.  Feeding those who are hungry, housing those who have no home, aiding those who are sick...  That's not religion.  That's just being a decent human.  What difference does it make if a hungry person is homosexual, muslim, christian, pagan etc.  When someone falls, you pick them up.  Period.

I was forced into attending church as a child.  I didn't believe any of it and rebelled at every opportunity.  I skipped out of the conformation classes frequently and when confronted by my parents I would ask "What are they gonna do?  Hold me back another year?"  It was important to my parents, but not to me.  There's a twist to the story.

My Mother's Father, Grandpa Arnie, was a Methodist Minister.  Grandpa had married Grandma, in secret mind you, had three children (my Mother being their first) and were farmers.  This all happened in the midst of the Great Depression.  Grandpa, due to having a family, or being a conscientious objector, worked in a bomb factory during WWII as his way to contribute to the war effort.  I don't know the details, but at the end of WWII he heard the calling of God and gave up farming to become a servant of God.  Though I'm not a "good" christian, I can't help but respect my Grandfather for having the cajones to throw everything to the wind and pursue something he thought was his destiny. 

My Mother's family was living on a shoestring as farmers but once Grandpa started his journey to becoming a servant of God, things for them became dire.  Mom frequently tells stories of how they depended on donations to keep them alive.  During Grandpa's time earning his theology degree (something most "preachers" don't possess) his youngest child, my Uncle, contracted polio.  You anti-vaxxers are idiots.  Through hand-me-down clothes, used cars and donations of food, Grandpa completed his degree and became a Minister.  He became an evangelist of the purist form.  Not the Billy Graham type of bullshit "evangelist".  Grandpa took care of his flock.  He visited people at their homes, made sure they had enough to eat, fixed their tractors (he was an old farm boy after all), visited the sick in hospitals...  He was being a good person and looking out for his fellow man. 

Grandpa baptized countless babies, married countless couples and presided over the funerals of his people.  It was this world in which I was raised.  Though I did not like being forced into attending church every Sunday, Grandpa's humanity was passed to me.  It is a gift of which I am most thankful for.  That gift is, for me, what "religion" is.  Taking care of your fellow man.  Regardless of what a person's beliefs are.  If you are hungry I will feed you.  I'll also show you how to bait the hook so you can fish for yourself.  If you are cold I will bring you firewood to heat your home.  I will also show you how to sharpen an ax, fell a tree and split logs.

Outside of the sermons I heard Grandpa give, I never heard any of the "The bible says this and the bible says that..." nonsense.  I have exactly two sermons of Grandpa's on tape.  They are very precious to me.  In those two sermons he is expressing how to be a good person.  Help your fellow man.  To me THAT is what religion is all about.  Helping people.

Replace, Don't repair: A lesson In Corporate Greed.

The faucet for your bathtub starts dripping.  What do you do?  Those of you who didn't grow up with a Dad who fixed things would call a plumber, be handed a bill for a few hundred dollars, mutter a few curse words under your breath and then hand over your credit card. 

Those of you who did have a Dad, Grandad, Step Dad etc. who DID fix things, you would take the faucet apart, figure out how it works and do what you had to do in order to make the faucet work properly.

If you fall into the first category, I'm not trying to degrade you and make you feel like less of a man.  Not being sexist, the man typically gets the "fix it" tasks.  Or the more manly man of the two if that is your situation.  If you're using a butter knife as a screw driver to assemble your shitty Ikea "furniture" I will applaud you.  You are taking the task into your own hands and doing the job the best you know how.  Conversely, I will chide you for not having taken advantage of your "smart" phone to look up the task on YouTube.  Or, perhaps, order up an old shop class textbook from Amazon.  The demise of shop class in schools has put a massive surplus of those old textbooks on the market.  There is no excuse for you to NOT have one of those books.  Read it.  You will become more independent.  Even if you have no desire to build things or repair things, reading old books will, at least, give you some idea of what you're dealing with.  An informed person cannot be taken advantage of.

My bathtub's faucet started dripping again.  I have "hard" water in my home and the plumbing is subject to the effects of mineral deposits and scale.  About nine years ago the bathtub's faucet started dripping and I had to address it.  Being outside the "normal" business hours, something I deal with as a night shifter, I had to do with what was available.  That's my super power.  I make things happen with few resources. 

I grew up in a rather frugal house.  When a faucet started to drip my Dad would fix it.  He would take the faucet apart, inspect it and repair it if he could.  If seals and springs need replacement he would take me in tow and head off to the hardware store.  He would take the old parts along so he could compare them to the variety of replacements, purchase what he needed and then we would return home.  The new parts were installed, the faucet didn't drip, Mom was happy and then he would give the old parts to me.  Maybe I was different, maybe not.  I found those old valves, seals and springs to be more fascinating than the toys I had.  I would assume my parents knew that I was interested in those things.  Otherwise they would have just thrown those old parts into the bin.

So nine years ago I took that bathtub faucet apart and inspected the parts.  Mineral scale had built up on the seals and the bore they resided in.  The scale prevented the seals from seating, completely, against the valves.  I scraped the scale off of each part, used pliers to stretch the springs a bit, resurfaced the face of the valves and put it all back together.  That repair lasted nine years.  Then the faucet started dripping again.

I expected to go through the same process of disassembly, cleaning and reassembly but it wasn't to be.  The cup seals had wear in them that was beyond repairing.  Home Despot was still open so I figured I would go out and get a seal kit, install it and be done for another decade.  Nope.

Home Despot had a valve and seal kit from some shit-hole Chinese manufacturer for $10, but they had only one in stock. The sealing face of the valve was plastic.  Not the brass of the original part.  $10 for injection molded nylon, two o-rings, a spring and cup seal.  That's a ridiculous price.  Oh, but wait, the genuine Delta valves are plentiful.  $10 each, but no cup seals or springs.  The only cup seals and springs available were in a "Pro Pack" of 50 for $10.  I was pissed off. 

You can bet there was some suit, who had no idea that Phillips head screw drivers came in different sizes, who meticulously planned the exact situation I was in.  When my Dad and I went to the hardware store a kit of valve, seal and spring could be had.  Dad didn't have to purchase a 50 pack of seals and springs because the valves did not include those parts.  If you're one of those suits, go fuck yourself.  You're the kind of douche who buys a diesel pickup because you don't know any better.   I see that and will rake you over the coals as revenge.  You twats couldn't change a tire without calling for help.  Enjoy your extra long wait and extra billable time as your family waits to get "up north" for your vacation.  If you could get out of the mindset of blue collar tradesmen being "below" you, you might just get better service.  Your "nose in the clouds" attitude is what your level of service is based off.  Us "lower" people know you couldn't fix your way out of a wet paper bag.   Maybe you should have taken a shop class instead of calculus I.  Shop class would have been a better choice.

It is plain to see that the suits know most people, younger generations in particular, haven't had the benefit of shop classes.  [sarcasm] "Who would want a shop class?  Nobody would want to have such a lowly blue collar job.  They can just call a plumber to fix that leaky faucet. [/sarcasm]  Yeah, sure.  With their nearly maxed out credit cards on top of their crippling student loan debt.  Those young folk couldn't take a shop class because shop class didn't exist.  They're at the mercy of those who DID have shop class and bothered to learn, on their own in many instances, how to work in the skilled trades.  I find that shameful.   One of my nephews was told by the local "quick lube" place that his car needed an air filter.  He doesn't even know how to change an air filter!  The shop classes were gone when he was in school.  The suits know of my nephew and others like him.  They're taking advantage of it. 

Through my YouTube videos (amongst other YouTubers) I am doing my best to wrest control away from the corporate bean counters and put it back into the everyman's hands.  Did your tire go flat?  YouTube that shit and do it yourself!  Plugging a tire is not rocket science.  Do NOT let the fear of the unknown stop you.  The information is out there.  You just need to search for it. 

"Throw off those chains of reason and your prison disappears" - Neil Peart, Rush, Hemispheres, Cygnus X-1,  Book II.