Daffodils

Daffodils
By DJ Winters
April 27th, 2006
Edited November 2007


Bang! That’s it; you’re dead. As humans we never know when we will be forced to confront death. For some it is the beginning of a journey, others look at it as the end and some people never think about it until after the fact, that is if they can. Death is not limited to the bounds of time or space. It has the ability to move freely; anywhere, anytime and knowing this we should all be ready. It may be experienced or observed as it takes another being and lets us move on, sometimes it try’s to take us, only leaving us imprisoned in lifeless bodies. However, we all need to be prepared for that confrontation no matter when or where it occurs.  It is because of one such encounter that I have come to ready myself to fall into God’s arms when the day comes.

It was the events of one spring morning that changed my life forever. For six and a half minutes I experienced a true hell on Earth. The passing of a very close friend caused me to examine my own life and ultimately live differently, coming to realize that tomorrow is a desire and not a promise. We must live our lives as best as we can to be prepared when God calls us home. Whether it is in the stillness of night or brightness of day, He will call out to each of us.

March 25th, 2005, Good Friday, I planned to go to a church service with my friend Joyce, something we commonly did on Holidays. The daffodils I planted the past fall in her garden were just reaching for the sky and a few were exploding into bursts of springtime yellow. It was a day full of promise and hope, however she was sick. I thought she was more tired than anything, but I pushed myself to come over, even though I was exhausted from the week’s toils.

Life at that time was good for me. Educationally I had just transferred to the Community College of Denver from another college and my classes were progressing well. I was enrolled in a program working towards my Associates of Applied Science in Architectural Drafting. It had become a great dream of mine to become an architect and I often spent restless nights fantasizing about it. Spiritually I had recently been baptized at Littleton United Methodist Church, where I had been a member for almost a year. Shortly before that I had become their chef for the Wednesday night service. The whole church was very supportive of me, they accepted me into their family with open arms.

Getting my degree was the central point and focus of my life, the reason I moved to Littleton. In doing so I had given up much of my life. I gave up family, a home and most importantly many friends. Students are not rich, nor have an abundance of time, but I made the most of what I had thinking I was living life as best as I could.  Joyce Biernat was one friend that I had kept a good relationship with. She and I had been friends for more than ten years. We met when her and her mother moved into the town home next to mine in Aurora, Colorado. Over the years I became well acquainted with her mother Bea. When Bea became ill and passed on, Joyce and I became strong friends, we had a lot in common including being Christians. She was a second mother to me, a comforter when I needed it and at times a source of strength. In return I helped do many things for her, from hanging Christmas lights to cleaning and fixing up the house. Most importantly though, Joyce and I grew to be just as close as a family, she was the mother figure and I was the son. Joyce was an important figure in my life because I did not have a “normal” family. We supported each other as much as possible and we were a great source of emotional support for each other.

         Joyce had curly reddish hair and always wore lots of wonderful bracelets and rings. She grew up in a very loving home in Minnesota. Her mother had owned a dance studio there and they were both dancers when they were younger. They both shared many stories with me about their youth. Joyce had one son and one daughter, but was no longer married when we met. Her only son had died from AIDS in his twenties. I assume that was most likely part of the reason Joyce was always so giving of herself and her time to others.  Her daughter, Terry, lived only minutes away. She had several children. They are all very bright children, and Joyce loved to talk about their accomplishments. She was very proud of all of them. Joyce worked two jobs; she took seniors on day trips and found jobs for the elderly. It often made her tired, but she enjoyed it.

In her sixties her health began to fade and I took her to the doctor occasionally. Many times I drove for her when I visited because she was tired from working at the end of the week. Joyce always had a few health problems and a few years back a heart attack which resulted in her having to get a defibellator placed on the heart.  I was thoroughly tired from my week at school and cooking my first meal for the church two days prior and she was sick, so we skipped church and went to the doctor; she was diagnosed was bronchitis. It seemed to be nothing serious at the time so we spent the evening watching television. (It seemed that we both benefited as long as we were together either in person or at the very least in communication.) She went to bed later that evening believing that everything was right with the world. She slept well and only got up once during the night. I was sleeping very well and I was thankful for the much needed rest.

At 3:26 I was jarred awake by a scream that haunts me to this day. A scream no one can describe. A sound that I had never heard before, nor is it a sound that I ever wish to hear again. It was a scream that said something was wrong, it left me confused and in a daze. It seemed to have no known origin, indescribable, eerie and downright horrific. I laid there for a very brief second, confused.  “Where was I?  What was going on?”

Then a crash thrust me ever further into the unfolding horror.  Later I would come to see this as the beginning of an emotional roller coaster. I was going from utter confusion to fear to despair to a deep sadness, my emotions were like water erupting from a bursting dam. They never left; rather they covered me like blankets on a cold winter’s night.

I ran to her door, just outside of the room I was in. It wouldn’t open. I ran through the bathroom and saw her on the floor; her body was limp, her arms by her side and her head hung down. She was alive, breathing, but unconscious. I turned on the light and I grabbed the phone, all hell was breaking loose before my eyes! Without thinking I called 911 and proceeded to summon help. As I tried to restrain my inner chaos, I turned on the lights and unlocked the doors while talking to the 911 system. Most of the time, past training for emergency situations was taking over and I did most everything without even thinking about it, with God given strength and wisdom.

         As I headed back to the bedroom the operator asked if anyone was with her. No one was. As I came around the corner he asked “. . .is she still breathing...”, and I stood there looking as the earth stopped spinning for a second. The breaths from her chest had stopped, in that second it seemed my world ended because I was realizing it was far worse than I thought. Life rushed through my mind; I came back to my senses and replied all in that single moment, “No!”

He responded, “Can you do CPR?” Again for no more than a second, millions of bits of information flooded my mind as I answered, “I think I am going to have to.” I threw the phone on the bed and grabbed my friend, moving her so I could open the door and gently laid her in the hallway. I talked to her, thinking maybe, just maybe she would survive. I began doing cardiopulmonary resuscitation, talking as often as I could. I began to realize, with each breath and compression, where my friend once was, now laid a lifeless body, I have no doubt that the room held angels trying to comfort me. I never gave up the hope; I had to do everything I could.

It seemed only mere moments had passed when I heard the Emergency Medical Technician at the front door and I yelled, “In here sir!” Still doing CPR, I was quickly pushed away by the enormous amount of medical personnel entering the house. I picked up the phone and told the operator they were here, the call had lasted six and a half minutes. I then called her daughter Terry. (I only told her that her mother had collapsed; I saw no need to tell her that Joyce was gone. She knew her mother was sick, but could not imagine that this was going on.) I asked which hospital her mother was being taken to, and told her to go there. I was then bombarded with questions by the EMTs. I got Joyce’s wallet and her driver’s license and health insurance card for them. The house kept getting filled with people, I had no idea what was going on. They were keeping me away from the horror that was continuing to unfold in the living room.

As they left with her I locked the doors and raced to the hospital, I sprinted across the parking lot, hoping they might have saved her. The nurse stopped me, told me to wait and asked Terry if I could come in. The nurse began to explain to me as I entered the room, it was a massive heart attack, the heart had seized. Nothing could have been done; I did a great job and so on. The daughter was there and she was sympathetic towards me. She was making calls to other family, very distraught over the sudden and unexpected loss of her mother. I reached Joyce’s side, which was my first experience with a dead body. The body was still and covered with a sheet neatly tucked under her. I reached for her arm, perhaps hoping, but she was gone, Christ had called her home.

I stepped back and let myself breathe, it was over. I started to make my own calls; I don’t know why I thought people wanted to know at 5:00 in the morning. I guess it was due to shock; it was invading me like a virus. I had just stared death in the face, and now it left me partially dead as well. (Later I would certainly recognize certain parts that died within me that frightful morning.) The ordeal was not yet over, it would not end that day, nor months later as I would be forced to question life, and my own understanding of death.

I returned to the house thinking that the family should be left alone to deal with their loss. I gathered up my things from staying over that night and tried to clean up some of the mess that was made that morning.  (I also tried to find information the family would need.)  Terry arrived from the hospital and we talked for a little, it was hard for both of us.  As I left the house that morning, I walked past the daffodils one last time. I did not realize it at that point, but that is the memory that will someday bring me joy out of this situation. They seemed at peace in the early morning light as to say; it would be all right. The last thing I recall from that day is driving away. When I came to the first stop light I looked at the dashboard clock, 6:20 a.m. it had been three hours, and my life would never be the same.

The weeks after Joyce’s death I cannot recall very many memories. I know there was a funeral and I handcrafted the most beautiful urn the Earth has ever seen.  I tried to bury the memories by going back to school and staying enrolled throughout the summer. However, when I was trying to getting ready for the fall semester, life overwhelmed me and I became depressed. I was at my wits end, I picked up the phone, I needed to talk to someone, so I began to dial Joyce’s number. I had dialed about five numbers when the reality hit me again, she was gone, and it had been four months. Never again would I be able to call her, talk to her, or cry with her while I am on Earth. It was like a scab being pulled off a healing wound.

Overwhelmed with feelings and nightmares I tried to find some help, someone to talk to, because I thought I was going insane. I thought that it had been four months, and I should be done crying, shouldn’t I? Christians believe that they will see their loved ones again.  I had weird feelings and thought often about giving up my “useless” dream of getting an education. Nightmares paralleled suicidal thoughts and I often thought of giving up. I kept my feelings inside though and told no one about the hell I was living. I kept trying to forge ahead like all was normal, but I couldn’t. I found a therapist and that let the healing began.  I opened up to people about what I was going through, my thoughts and feelings. I sought out more help, my church and their grief group became very important in my healing. I found out who my true friends and family were or weren’t. Some were supportive while many were unsupportive and left me beside the road to wither and die. My therapist diagnosed me with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I went through several Eye Movement Desensitize and Reprocessing sessions to cope with what happened that fateful March morning. As I healed I began to see things differently.

I wrote my will and funeral script to let people know what my final requests are. I may only be 27, but you are never too young to die. Inside I have tried my best to laugh each day. I try not to use phrases such as, “what if”, “wish I could have”, “I regret”-and many others. I have discovered the importance of prayer, and strive each day to be a better Christian. I love more and I am more open to let people know when they have touched my life. I thank the cashier and the waiter for their thankless service. I have done a lot of soul searching and ask myself often if I go right now, right here-“Am I ready?” Each day I live life to the fullest and am always looking to improve it. This experience opened my eyes, I learned that life is a precious gift and too short for us not to live it!