Wristband
Do you look at me from wherever you are now and wonder why I have this blue wristband on? I’m fairly certain, Bobo, those not in the know, probably wonder why I keep this wristband on that announces that I’m of legal drinking age to whatever establishment I was in. But maybe you’re in the know. Maybe you, from your perch or big comfy chair, know things and don’t question it. Because you’re aware, similar to the long distant past, this wristband is like the black veils that the women used to wear to mourn their lost.
They affixed this blue wristband to me when they checked me into the Pediatric ICU at the hospital where you died. At the time they did it, even though my worst fears were nagging at me, I’d wanted to believe that I’d be able to remove it as we left together at some unknown date. Later I’d realize that you would leave with me, but not walking by my side or in my arms (God I wish I could hold you in my arms) but flying above me, with your memory safely and securely packed in my heart.
Another thing they did was they gave me a sticker that loudly exclaimed “This guy is supposed to be here” and was stuck to my T-shirt. After your passing at 1:25 a.m. and a long period of being in the room with you as your body laid lifeless in the ICU bed, your mom and I headed to a hotel across the street that your sister and her boyfriend graciously vacated to allow us to stay in. I pulled off that sticker and couldn’t throw it away. Your mom did not have the same attachment to it (quite understandably) and would leave it behind. I took that sticker and put it on the side of my wallet / credit card holder / money clip thing. And there it sits, almost two months later. Still there, slightly worn. But hanging in there. As a reminder of the day our world stopped.
But this wristband, unlike the wallet, is almost constantly there in my vision at some angle. It’s actually holding up quite well. Through countless showers and whatnot over the last 50+ days it doesn’t look much different then when that hospital worker put it on. No one else kept these things. All were removed pretty much immediately in the effort, I’d assume, to not be reminded of that part of the horror at least. The overall horror stays with us all. But at least there isn’t a reminder, affixed to your body say, that keeps dredging it up. For some reason, I can’t take it off. I run my fingers along it while I’m at work and remember that day, that night, all of it.
Before your heart stopped, the nurses in the ICU took a recording of your heartbeat. So we could hear it whenever we wanted. They also printed out your EKG reading (is that the term?) which shows your heartbeat in the all too familiar black and white line form. Your mother came up with the idea to get tattoo’s with that heartbeat traced on our wrists, arms, somewhere. Somewhere visible to us so we can keep checking on you. My addition to that heartbeat is a tracing of you writing your name. Which, even at six, was a challenge for you. But we have a pretty good photo of it that whomever the artist is should be able to recreate easily. I have no tattoo’s Bobo. I’ve never really been inclined to them. I have nothing against them, I just never felt they were right for me. Now, I realize, now I have a reason to have one. To keep you as close as I can to me… always.
I tell you this because, I believe that’s the day. When this wristband comes off. I will swap one reminder for another. A similar something that’s affixed to my body that keeps me in touch. That says “Hey Dad. I might not be there to touch, but I’m still with you. And I love you, just like you love me.”