Remembering Ben

Friday, August 13, 2004 The phone started ringing at 6:30 a.m. It had been ringing for a while, but I hadn’t heard it because the bedroom door was shut and Joe had been in the shower. He woke me gently, “Jenny, your mom is on the phone.” I faked a cheery “I’m awake!” voice and said, “Hey Mom! What’s up?” “Ben was in a car accident last night.” “Oh. Well, he’s ok, right?” “No. I’m sorry, Jenny. Ben died.”

Time stands still in that moment, as I try to comprehend what I have just heard. They, whoever they are, are still trying to piece together what happened, but they think he ran a stop sign and was hit on the driver’s side by a van. They spent much too much time trying to open his door, and when they finally got him out, they called for life flight, but then told them to turn around just a few minutes later. It was too late.

When Joe answered the phone, Mom said, “Joe, I have some hard news, and you will need to help Jenny and be there for her.” She told him, and then asked if he wanted to tell me, or if he wanted her to give me the hard news. He knew that I would want to talk to my mom. 

Later they would piece together Ben’s last evening as they talked to each other and to Ben’s friends. He had watched I.Q. with Rene and made her macaroni and cheese for lunch. She is happy with her last memories with him. Mom and Brent got to talk to him at the fair’s sheep barn earlier that evening. Dad had been able to see and talk to Ben at the house while Dad got ready for his stake meetings. Ben visited Devon Lauger, and then said he needed to go home and shower. He was going to go see his girlfriend, Kate. Funny thing—he had made several conflicting commitments with different people for Saturday. He hated to tell people “no.”

Friday, August 13, 2004. Mom and Dad, Rene, Brent, and two friends had been camping in the trailer at the Warren County Fair, and had received a phone call at 3:30 a.m. “Am I speaking to the Foster’s? Do you have any sons? What are their names? Your son, Benjamin, was in an accident, and we need you to come to the hospital right away.” Mom and Dad quickly dressed, woke Rene, and told her they were leaving. It was 45 minutes of silent thinking, silent prayer, and occasional audible speculation. 

Mom and Dad were taken to a small room near the Emergency Room, where they were told that Ben had died in a car accident. They were led to a table, where he was covered by a sheet, but he still wore a wooden beaded necklace. They walked around the hospital for a few minutes, hugging and crying, and then, instead of having time to grieve, they had to start planning. Who to call first? Young kids to take care of, a funeral to arrange.

They called Bishop Freestone. Then they asked the stake Patriarch, Brother Miller, who lived two miles from their home, to go to the fair to pick up their children and to figure out what to do with the friends who had stayed with them. Many other countless calls were sent and received that day, including mine.

Friday is a blur. Without thinking it through, I walked over to our neighbor’s apartment and told them I had to cancel our dinner plans because my brother had just died. They didn’t know what to say. Dennis, who was at BYU-Idaho, got a ride down to Provo and stayed with us. Joe and I asked him to watch Logan on Saturday so that we could go to the temple. We were asked to be the witness couple, but I started crying hysterically and explained that I couldn’t. The lady sitting next to me asked if I was ok; I told her what happened, and she asked, “Why are you here?”

Dennis, Logan, and I flew to Buffalo, NY on Monday. It was Joe’s first day of law school, and besides, we didn’t have the money to fly both of us. Brother McDunn picked us up from the airport. It was a quiet day with silent thoughts and tears. When we arrived at the farm, there were so many cars at the house that people had started parking in the fields. There were people painting the porch, tractors tearing down and moving an old, falling down granary across the road. There were people inside cleaning the house and collecting clothes that needed to be ironed. 

I later found out that Mom and Dad had surprised the ward by showing up on Sunday to their early morning meetings. Everyone stood up to greet them, and then asked what they could do. Mom shrugged her shoulders, but Dad said, “Connie is worried about everyone coming to the house from out of town. We need help getting ready for visitors.” My parents, who had always been the ones to help others, finally needed help themselves, and the service they received was staggering.

I couldn’t sleep, and I hadn’t been able to sleep since receiving the news on Friday. I was exhausted physically and emotionally, but still, my mind would not stop racing as it replayed memories and tried to comprehend what I knew was true but didn’t seem possible. On top of that, 10-month old Logan was waking up every few hours, and because we were staying in the house, I was worried about him waking everyone. That night, no matter what I tried, he wouldn’t stop crying. I was crying myself, and Dad came upstairs and told me to let him take Logan so that I could sleep. It felt like an order, so I handed Logan over and tried to rest. I still couldn’t sleep because I felt badly about keeping my dad awake, and after a while, realized that it was very quiet. I tiptoed down the stairs to see if he had gotten Logan to sleep but couldn’t find them. I noticed that the light was on at the apartment over the garage, so I put my shoes on and walked across the yard. When I cracked open the door, I saw Dad on the floor playing with Logan. He noticed me, and mouthed, “Go to bed. Sleep.” It was, perhaps, one of the greatest parenting moments I have ever experienced.

Again, the next days all blur together. There were a lot of people in and out of the house, a lot of hugging and crying, and a lot of work to be done. Dad’s birthday was on the 17^th, and he and mom celebrated by driving to the airport to pick up family who were flying in for the funeral. There were no presents. People brought food, until food had filled up the fridge and the freezer. Eating was a mechanical action; no one felt hungry.

The viewing was on Thursday. And there was Ben, in a casket, wearing a dark suit and looking nothing like he did in real life. His skin was pale, covered in pasty makeup, and his longer blond hair was parted and combed to the side—not the crazy, sticking up hair I had been used to seeing. I speculated on the purple bruises on his hands. Were they from gripping the steering wheel? Caused by the impact of a van going 55 miles an hour into his side? Did he know what was happening, did he feel terror as he realized that he would be hit? Did he feel pain? Numb. That is the best way to describe how I felt. More and more people walking by and hugging me, until I didn’t want to have to smile at anyone anymore. I started to feel like I was going crazy; people would hug me and give and me their condolences and I would giggle, realizing that my response was inappropriate, but unable to stop. Someone took Logan into another room so that I wouldn’t have to chase him around.

The funeral was on Friday. The family got to see his body one more time, say goodbye one more time. Dad took off Ben’s jewelry, the wooden necklace, which he gave to me, and the bracelet, which he gave to Rene. Then they closed the casket and we all filed into the chapel.

The chapel and the overflow room were filled with Ben’s family and his friends, many of whom we had never met before. They told us stories about how they had met him, and the small acts of service he had performed; stories that made us feel happy and sad all at the same time, because maybe we hadn’t realized just how good of a person he really was.     

      

Bishop Freestone spoke, and told the story about Ben agreeing to remove the granary in exchange for his prom tux rental. He said, “Ben, we are happy to report to you that your debt is paid.” President Martin started a fantastic talk about flying out of the airport on a rainy, cloudy day, and discovering the sun after getting through the clouds. He went on to explain to the non-members that going on a mission, in the LDS culture, was similar to a parent’s hope and dream that children would attend college. He then reprimanded the members in the audience who were speculating about Ben not going on a mission, and what that would mean for him now that he was dead, and for judging him in their hearts. He explained that only our Heavenly Father could judge. My mom said that it was a comforting talk, for her, but our non-LDS family members and Ben’s friends were upset because all they heard was that Ben wasn’t good enough to go to heaven.

After the funeral, we drove to the cemetery—the one that is a three-minute walk from my parents’ home. We parked and walked over to the hole in the ground, easy to find because of the large mound of dirt next to it. The coffin was placed inside of a metal box, and the man in charge warned us not to touch the lid, as it was very sticky. Uncle Randy, of course, had to touch it, and after ripping some skin off, confirmed that it was, indeed, quite sticky. It felt good to laugh again.

From there, we drove to the fire hall, just a few minutes away, and ate the obligatory lunch. Grandma Evie convinced my parents to pay to have the luncheon there instead of doing it in the backyard. It was, I imagine, less work, but at the time I think my parents felt like kids again, with a mom bossing them around. I don’t remember staying to clean up, so I suppose it was a wise suggestion.

The night before Ben died, Joe and I walked outside of our apartment to avoid hearing Logan cry himself to sleep. I remember looking up at the stars and wondering at the vast universe, and realizing that there was so much that I didn’t understand. I had wanted to call home that night, but knew that Mom and Dad would be at the fair, and I didn’t have anything to talk about with Ben, so I didn’t call. 

We were only 15 months apart--meaning we were at times best friends, and other times biggest competitors. When we moved to Pennsylvania, our two zebra finches died. We buried them in a McDonald's Happy Meal box and made a parade and banged on some sort of homemade drums as we marched around the house and mourned for those birds. Another time, we got tired of waiting for the chickens to mature enough to lay eggs, so we snuck some eggs out of the fridge early one morning, and then surprised Mom and Dad by “finding” the large white eggs a few hours later. Those were the friendly times; I often find myself regretting that we grew apart as we grew older. 

Joe and I spent the summer in between undergrad and law school in Pennsylvania, and Ben wanted to take baby old Logan with him everywhere . . . to the mall, to his friends' homes, on walks. He bought Logan a few outfits, which I still have and am saving to pass down to the next person in the family with a boy.

When someone dies unexpectedly you go through a stage of denial. They must be wrong. How could something change so suddenly? How could it possibly be true? Gradually, you come to accept it, and accept that your life will never be the same, but instead there is a new normal—a life in which this is what happened and you don't know any different.

You start measuring time, measuring absence first in days, then weeks, and eventually years. Your memories turn into pictures and stories. When strangers, or even friends, ask about family, you have to decide in that moment how much you are going to reveal; always there is the desire to recognize that defining piece of your life, but you often abstain from that impulse, knowing that it will cause a momentary shock, an uncomfortable silence, apologetic words. Sometimes you gain an unexpected bond when you find a friend who knows about grief and loss.

There are people who ask me how we do it, how we can move on even when something so hard happens. Sometimes people say they wouldn’t be able to handle it if "it" happened to them. My response is always the same: yes, you could. You have to. We have to. There’s no other choice. The reality is that life keeps on going, and we still have to keep living, so we do it as gracefully and happily as we can. I take comfort in our religious beliefs, our knowledge that we are sealed together, and that we will see Ben again. I especially love Mosiah 16:7-8.

7. And if Christ had not risen from the dead, or have broken the bands of death that the grave should have no victory, and that death should have no sting, there could have been no resurrection.

8. But there is a resurrection, therefore the grave hath no victory, and the sting of death is swallowed up in Christ.

But I never stop wondering what if . . . what if I had been able to talk to Ben that night? What if he was still alive? Would he have kids? Where would he be living? What would he be doing? Would we be better friends? Ironically, when I allow myself to think about Ben and remember and feel . . . I think about how a lot of the last memories I had of him had to do with death.

I remember just months before, when Misty, the dog, was hit by a car a mile from home, and Rene, running barefoot and sobbing as she hugged the dog on the side of the road, and then Ben driving up in his white truck to pick up the dog and take Rene home. How he asked Joe and me to stop walking on the side of the busy road with Logan in a stroller because he feared that a speeding car would hit us. “I don’t want you to die,” he had said.

I remember him as the protective younger brother, who dared to tell me not to date boys he thought would not respect me, even when some of those boys were his best friends. When I pointed that out, he said, “Yeah, so I know what I’m talking about. They are ok for friends, not ok for boyfriends.”

I remember him cleaning cars and riding on tractors and dancing in the kitchen to country music. I remember crying when it was his turn to drive because the rule was that the driver got to choose the music, and I hated country music.

I remember Ben, taller than I, and thin but sturdy, strong and tan from working hard outside. I remember his spiky blond hair, his pointy elf ears, his high cheekbones and large nose, his perfectly shaped eyebrows. I remember Ben, who loved to have fun and who was always ready to be spontaneous. I remember the last time that I saw him, covers pulled up to his chin in bed, with Logan sitting by his head. We woke him up early that morning to say goodbye on our way out to Utah.

I remember that after the funeral, Dad said, “I found some illegal fireworks in Ben’s stuff. I think he’d like it if we went across the road and set them off.” So we did. We lit those things up and we celebrated Ben’s life.

to try or to attempt

I started my second class, creative non-fiction. Right now it seems that it is really a class about essays, which is fine because I like essays. So far I have learned about the father of essays, Montaigne, and a little about essay theories and theorists.

Did you know that the word "essay" comes from the verb "to essay" which means "to attempt, or try."

A major theme of essaying is that you write to discover truth, and to track the way your mind moves. Montaigne's essays tend to be quite random, and his conclusion often contradicts what he started off writing. To be honest, it is hard for me to spend very much time reading his essays, but they are good--a little at time. Anyway, his essays remind me a lot of the way I blog. I just write stuff down, and hope that for some reason, you, the reader, find something interesting, or something that you can relate to.

So today I'm just going to let my fingers take my mind where it wants to go, and where it wants to go is about a try, an attempt, that we made today. If I were Montaigne, I might title my (very informal) essay

Of Pinewood Derbies

Logan got his block of wood about a month ago. Of course, we did not realize the passage of time until about a week ago, when our Scout Master emailed and asked if we had been able to finish the car, and if not, she was arranging a workshop for the boys.

Logan and Dad went to Mike's Wood Shop and cut the car into a thinner, shorter rectangle shape, about the size of a dollar bill. The next day, Logan mixed two shades of green paint (that we already had) and painted his car green. They returned to Mike's Shop to sand the spurs off of the nails and prepare the wheels. A few days later we counterfeited a $100 bill at home and modge-podged it on the top (that's about the extent of my crafty skills right there). The car looked cool, and Logan thought it was a winner.

Short story made even shorter: it wasn't. He got 6th place out of 7 places.

He was sad.

I didn't know what to do as he avoided eye contact with those around him, and the tears silently slid down his face. I hugged him and told him I knew it was a bummer. But he had fun making it, right. He would feel better about it tomorrow.

Didn't help.

So I told him about my 6 year cross-country running career. I never got first place. Or second. Or third. I pretty much always came in towards the end, maybe even sometimes--the very end.

He asked me why I was talking about it. "Isn't that embarrassing to admit?"

I had to think about it for a minute. I might have been a little embarrassed about it in high school, but I kept on joining the Cross Country team each year, for six years. I am definitely less ashamed about my slower times than I used to be. But honestly, I'm proud that I kept running. I wish like crazy that I could run a minute in 7-8 minutes these days! I wish I could even run a mile without feeling like I was going to die, not to mention 3 miles, or 5 or 8!

Then we talked about the time he and Dad spent making the car. Well, actually Mike did a lot of the making of the car, but Logan and Joe spent a lot of time together in the car driving to Mike's Shop. And the car does look pretty cool.

Then the conversation backfired because instead of making Logan feel better, he said he felt worse about being such a bad sport (actually he said that he made a scene and acted like a baby).

I guess we just have to keep trying, keep attempting. Attempting to make cars, to run a little faster, to help those around us to feel a little better.

The good news is that we don't have to compete in the Pinewood Derby for two more years.

new best friend

About a month ago I visited the cardiologist to try and get some answers about the heart palpitations I had been having. They did another EKG--saw nothing in 10 seconds--and the doctor said that because I was young, at a healthy weight, and my blood tests looked good, that he didn't think it was anything to worry about. In fact, it might be completely normal and as simple as heartburn. He advised me to stop drinking caffeine, carbonation, and alcohol--all things that I don't put into my body. He wouldn't even look at me while he was talking. I wasn't very happy because 1) it isn't normal for me and 2) it's NOT heartburn, and I'm pretty sure it's not garbage going into my body. I'm not very good at being assertive, especially when I'm talking to someone clearly more knowledgeable than I--which is kind of dumb, because I have the ultimate knowledge about my body and when something feels wrong. I tried to explain that I wasn't worried about individual heart flutters, but the fact that my heart would flutter every 5-6 seconds for hours. He decided to have me use a 24 holter monitor to see if they could catch whatever was happening.

Of course, not much happened that 24 hours. Two weeks later they called me with the results: I am having premature ventricular contractions (PVC's). Basically, my heart is adding a beat in, and then skipping to make up for it. The doctor then decided to put me on a 30 day heart monitor so that they could see what an episode looked like.

So--this is what I'm hooked up to for the next 30 days. I have two electrodes on my chest that constantly monitor my heartbeat. I get to attach this awesome (and large) thing to my pants and try to hide the wires by tucking them into my clothes.

Probably the most awesome thing is the high pitched wailing sound that goes off whenever it detects an abnormality in my heart beat. And it screams at me for a looong time. The kids get nervous when it goes off, and ask when it's going to stop making that noise. Then the eCardio people call to ask me how I'm feeling and what I was doing when the alarm went off. I'm really looking forward to it going off during the middle of church, of course.

All joking aside, this test does help me to relax a little. Even though so much of what I've read says that it's probably not a big deal (I've discovered that there are a lot of people out there who are living with messed up heartbeats), it's not something I'm ready to get used to. I'm glad to know that it's not all in my head--they can see that something is going on--and hopefully they will be able to figure out why it has started and how to get things back to normal. And, I guess if I have to live with it for the rest of my life--at least I will know that it isn't going to wear my heart out.