'Cause if there isn't I'm gonna raise Hell
10:45 p.m. last Tuesday night. The phone rang. Mind you, the phone doesn't ring at my house after 9 p.m., unless there's a problem, just courtesy. It was my wife's cousin, "Heather, this is Sis, call me back." We don't have Sis' number. After calling anyone she could remember, we found out her uncle was in the hospital, possible heart attack, probably wouldn't make it. We packed a hasty suitcase while I explained the situation to my boss. Fifteen minutes later we were on the road for a seven hour trip back home.
Now for some explanation. After all he was only her uncle, right? Wrong. My wife's family is a close knit bunch. Call it a clan, that would work, they're from West Virginia. Her uncle is 14 years older than she. She is also the first grandchild. They shared a bond more akin to siblings. As she grew, so did the bond, first to friend/confidante, then to a fatherly, teacher like role, with all the previous versions still intact. He was her big brother, she already had two little brothers. And he helped to fill the missing male archetype in her single parent environment. She knew all his girlfriends, she was a bridesmaid at his wedding, he attended her college graduation. He was a rock. For everybody. He was the light of the family, he was the humour, he was the anchor. Hence the reason for the midnight ride.
My cell phone (work phone, mind you, I can't stand modern communication) only works to the Pennsylvania state line, so we expected a call at anytime good or bad. None came and the ride was uneventful through its duration. At 6:30 in the morning we arrived at her aunt's house, where we quickly learned that he had passed a half hour after we began our journey. My dear wife took it like a sledgehammer blow to her midsection, screaming and crying and coughing from the heaving. I just felt numb. I had known him for almost eight years and loved him dearly. He was an immediately likeable guy. A self proclaimed asshole, he was far from it. He had no enemies. So after catching our collective breath, we went to see her grandmother, his mother. As I said before, this is a close knit family. All but two families (ours included) live within 10 minutes of my wife's grandparents. So it took all of a minute to pull into the driveway. It was a cool, grey morning, storm clouds looming large overhead as they travelled quickly through from mountaintop to mountaintop. On a good day it would look somber.
After the unpleasantries had passed, we came to understand how Torrin had died. Apparently, his aortic artery had torn or split, causing a loss of blood flow to his stomach and intestines. He became very ill, much in the manner of food poisoning and his wife rushed him to the hospital. The local hospital determined the problem was extremely serious and sent him to a Pittsburgh hospital, where they determined the full extent of the situation. Having been deprived of blood for so long, his digestive tract died and he soon followed. It was very quick indeed. He was 42.
Not long after that, the food began arriving, along with the sobbing masses. Wednesday passed as a blur for my wife and me. Thursday arrived quickly with the family viewing. Until this point in my life I thought I had felt pain. I was gravely mistaken. I understand much now, and never wish this pain on anyone. It will live in my mind as the longest day ever. The funeral home did a spectacular job on "getting" his attitude or him. It was the saddest moment I have ever been personal witness to. Torrin was the third of three children, and the only boy. He had a heart valve problem as a child, corrected in his teen years. He lived a literal stone's throw from his mother and father, my wife's grandparents. He helped Pap take care of the farm, roughly 200 acres. He was an integral part of the runnings of this little community, a go to guy. His wife is 33.
Heather's oldest little brother, in the Air Force, arrived Wednesday night. He didn't have the luxury of that day's mourning. It tore him up beyond belief, Torrin being his "big brother" and all. Thursday night for many of us became an alcohol induced escape. We told some stories, anecdotes, toasts and memories. Humour, unfortunately couldn't find a safe haven with us that night.
Friday was the public viewing. I, being one of the newest members to this, sat the day out. My wife spent the entire 8 hours there. That was the first time I realized she was stronger than I was. Torrin had worked for a racetrack/casino in northern West Virginia, called the Mountaineer. He had so many friends at work, the company had to bus them in while they were working, to be able to pay their respects. It must have been a sight. I was a fool and a coward to have missed it. Friday night turned into a bigger gathering, albeit subdued. We managed to call it an early night though.
Saturday was the service. It began at 11 a.m. It lasted about an hour, with the minister who married Torrin and Jen being the minister giving the service. It was a beautiful service. The home played music at the outset, Neil Young mostly. After the preacher gave his oration, he asked if anyone else would like to say any last words. My wife was the only one. She gave about a two minute speech, very well delivered and with enough humour to keep most from weeping. It was a phenomenal test for her, and another example of the strength and will she possesses and one more reason why she is a better person than I. To conclude the sermon and speech, the home played a song at his widow's request. Stevie Ray Vaughan's "Little Wing", a guitar instrumental of a Hendrix tune. I fell apart, floating with the music, its highs and lows.
After everybody payed their last respects and were dismissed, the home played one last song. It was "The Chicken Dance", a wedding favorite. Torrin loved that song. He first heard it at his wedding. Being Torrin, he jumped in the middle of the circle and proclaimed himself the "rooster", stomping and clapping and have a gay old time. So a small group of mourners formed a circle and danced in front of him. The funeral director and preacher claimed it was a first for them and suggested that it become a staple of every funeral henceforth. It was a rather heart lifting experience.
The rest of the day was a celebration of Torrin that lasted until daylight Sunday. Countless people came and went, alcohol flowed like a newly tapped spring. I found my little corner to hide in and mourn in my own little loner way. I thought of ways to sell our place and move up there to help the family and thought of my own self pity. I thought of the repercussions that Torrin's death would have on the rest of the family and mourned them also. I hoped there was a God, I hoped Torrin was up there, playing with the past blues masters, playing golf, walking through that happy hunting ground in the sky. I did much self reflecting and self criticizing. I frowned often and smiled little. I knew I shouldn't drink in my condition but did anyway. Mercifully, my wife took me back to her mother's house instead of letting me drown.
We left Sunday afternoon. I miss Torrin. It won't be the same going back. He loved music, loved to hear me play. He was a happy soul, he was the example of good, decent living. My wife will never be the same, his wife will never be the same, no one will. If only the good die young, then I am destined to walk the earth for eternity. I thought I was strong, but I got nothing on my baby. I regret we didn't have a child before he left us, but I'll make sure our child knows his/her Uncle Torrin. Great people are never forgotten.
His name is Torrin Page. His father wanted to name him Torn Page when he was born, but his mother thought better of it. The last line of my wife's speech was "The Book of Life now has a Torn Page in it." God also tore that Page from my heart and I don't know if I'll ever be able to forgive Him for it.