Except for a slight reference on September 17, 2012, I cannot recall having mentioned the freakishly horrible death of my dear friend, Tim, on my blog. It is one of those events in my life that is engraved deeply into the very core of my being as he was killed on the 17th anniversary of the death of my son, Alexander.
Tim and I had been friends for a couple of years. He had just retired from the USMC and had served several tours in the middle east. He was an accomplished rifleman — a USMC recognized sharpshooter — a member of the Marine Corps sharpshooter team as well as an instructor. The list of awards, accomplishments and commendations he received while active duty, just in relation to his rifle skills, fills two pages. He was THAT good. The funny thing is though, when Tim first joined the Marine Corps, he couldn't hit the broad side of a barn with a cannon. He really was THAT bad. So, over the years he had accumulated quite an impressive gun collection, almost all of which he used regularly on gun ranges.
Tim was legally separated from his wife almost a year before his death and he was in an on-again/off-again relationship with a woman at work that, in the end, had hurt him a great deal. He spent a lot of time in the middle east for work so he and I would go weeks without talking with each other.
Three weeks prior to Tim's death he called me from his car and asked if it was okay to stop by my apartment on his way home from work. When I opened the door 15 minutes later I knew instantly something was wrong. I also knew that Tim was a Marine through and through and showing weakness, well, it just didn't happen with him. I had been watching a movie before he arrived so we sat down on the sofa and stared at the screen. After a few minutes of silence he asked me if I thought he should still go on vacation with his on-again/off-again girlfriend; an all-inclusive 7-day vacation that she had already paid for. They were scheduled to leave in a few days and he was so wrecked with indecisiveness that it was palpable. I told him he should skip the vacation with her because when they came back she would dump him again and go back to a guy she was on-again/off-again with too. To add insult to injury, for Tim, was that the three of them worked for the same company, with offices in close proximity to each other.
Tim's eyes filled with tears and he dropped his head into his hands. I went to him, wrapped him up in my arms — and didn't say a word. I had never seen Tim so vulnerable as I did in that moment. When he finally spoke he told me he thought that if he took this trip with her that it would give them a fresh start by getting her away from the other guy. We talked for a little while longer, Tim going back and forth between going on vacation with her and not. When he left my apartment he still hadn't made a decision one way or the other.
I didn't hear from Tim again until September 11th. He called me from his car as he was leaving work and asked if he could stop by. Not long after, he was standing on my doorstep. He was tan, yet looked tired and sad. He had decided to go on vacation with the girlfriend after all and regretted that decision almost immediately. Tim does not drink alcohol. Not a single drop. The girlfriend likes to drink, a lot, and frequently. Tim doesn't typically mind when the people around him drink because anybody who knows him, like the girlfriend, knows he doesn't drink and respects that. Typically. According to Tim, they had met another couple at the resort and the four of them spent a lot of time together. Three of them drinking — a lot and frequently. Tim was cool with all that — right up until the moment the girlfriend turned to him and said, "You would be a lot more fun if you drank." It went downhill from there and he couldn't wait to get home.
Shortly after Tim left my apartment he called me from his car again and asked if it would be okay if he and his dog, "Red", stayed the night with me. Without hesitation my answer was "yes" because I knew if he were home alone, he would either be pacing the floors or he would be driving by her house and/or the house of the other guy to see who was where for the night, then calling her to hear her lie about it. I needed to save him from himself.
"Red" was a Pit-Bull puppy that was more likely to lick you to death than tear you apart. He came bounding into my apartment like bouncing ball and had to sniff every square inch of the space before he finally settled down enough so I could pet him. "Red" and I had never met before that day and in all the excitement I wound up with a pretty deep scratch on my right thigh from one of his paws. Tim brought along a dog bed for "Red", food and water bowls, yet forgot his leash, so I took a large/long strap off a big canvas bag I have so Tim could walk him before everyone settled in for the night. It took awhile to get "Red" unwound and to stay on his bed so everyone could sleep. We found out why "Red" was so restless when he threw up on the floor.
The next morning Tim and "Red" were up early so Tim could drop "Red" off at home before work. We had plans for Tim and "Red" to stay over again that night, September 12th, because Tim didn't want me to be alone. He knows I come unraveled every year on September 13th — the anniversary of my son, Alexander's, birth and death.
Tim and I texted throughout the day. We were both proud of him when he managed to actually eat a slice of pizza for lunch. He had been a wreck since returning from his trip and was barely eating. We changed up plans and Tim asked me to come to his house for the night instead as it would be easier than dragging "Red" around town. He suggested we order pizza for dinner and asked me to bring a movie because he didn't have cable at his house.
This was the first time I had ever been to Tim's house. "Red" was excited to see me again and followed along as Tim gave me a tour of the main floor. He showed me part of his gun collection, various military awards, medals and ribbons; and the most magnificent hand-carved cherry wood desk I have ever laid eyes on. It was huge with various drawers and doors and hidden compartments. Tim bought it when he lived in Japan and told me it cost a fortune to ship back to the states, and how glad he was that the government paid for it when he eventually returned to the states. He showed me his back yard and the landscaping he did and the deck he had built — he was very proud of how nice his yard looked and was looking forward to replacing his patio furniture and adding different outdoor lighting.
Having returned from his vacation just a few days prior he had not yet unpacked his suitcases, so "Red" and I sat on his bedroom floor and watched while Tim told me more about what happened while he and his girlfriend were away. He was quite distressed to find multiple items of hers in his suitcase and made a pile of her stuff on the top of one of his dressers. He was going to take the stuff with him to work the next day to give back to her. When Tim stopped unpacking to order pizza I telephoned my dad to wish him a happy birthday.
Tim talked about his kids, a son and daughter, and how proud he was of his daughter, a sophomore in college. He had finished unpacking just as the doorbell rang for pizza delivery so we sat down at the kitchen table and had dinner. I had brought along the movie "We Own the Night" and after dinner we settled in on the couch to watch it. Tim's only request had been, on movie genre, "none of that romantic shit". About half way through the movie we both started nodding off so we turned the movie off with plans to finish watching it the next night, September 13th.
Tim's house has an alarm system that could rival the one at Fort Knox and I slept in his room that night. He gave me strict instructions to not open the bedroom door, or if I needed to leave the bedroom to wake him first otherwise the sirens and lights would go off.
We lay there for hours talking about relationships, kids and broken hearts. I told him about the day Alexander was born and died and how it was a wound that would never heal and I cried. It was a day that, every year, still knocked the wind out of me and dropped me to my knees. At one point I said to Tim, "I'm sorry I got your pillow all wet with my tears." Without missing a beat he replied, "That's okay, just flip it over. There's a dry side." I giggled then and I still giggle now when I think of the memory. We eventually fell asleep.
When I left Tim the next morning, he was standing in the laundry room in his socks, white t-shirt and tighty-whities using the top of the washer and dryer, covered with a towel, to iron his khakis. As I walked through the garage I looked back at him, standing behind the screen door to the laundry room, and he reminded me that we would meet for dinner and finish the movie later that night. When I turned back around and walked to my car I told myself to remember to tell him later what a crush I have on him.
We texted back and forth during that day. I tried not to think about Alexander and the events of the day he was born and died. I walked around work that day on the brink of tears. Tim mentioned having to pick up a part for his car after work and that he would be working on his car after that. I just wanted the work day to end. I told him that that was okay because I had physical therapy and we'd figure it out. The last text I received from him — and what I couldn't have known at the time, was that that would be the last text I would ever receive from him, ever — was the price of the part he had to buy. When I arrived home from PT I sent him text wanting to know what time we were getting together and that if he needed any help to let me know. Later on I texted him again telling him that if his girlfriend was there to just let me know and we would talk later. I had a strange feeling in my gut that something was wrong. I almost drove over to his house with the plan that if she was there I would just drive by and return home. I should have driven over there that night, but I didn't. Something I will regret for the rest of my life.
I sent another text to Tim asking him to let me know if he was okay; no response. The next morning, Friday, September 14th, I sent him another text that told him I was really worried and to let me know if everything was okay. Still no response.
On my way home from work I did something completely out of character for me. I stopped and bought myself two bottles of wine with the idea that I was going to watch movies and just relax with a glass or two. I didn't keep alcohol in my house so it felt strange. I got to the movie part, while the wine remained unopened in my refrigerator for the time being. While watching a movie I had pulled up a local newspaper on my phone and was flipping through the stories when I came across a headline that said something about a man being killed while working on his car. I clicked the link. And screamed. It was Tim who was killed. I paced around my apartment screaming and sobbing with absolutely no idea what to do. This couldn't be happening! I went to the refrigerator and within mere minutes I had both wine bottles opened — and emptied into my stomach. I needed to be numb. I called my niece and tried to tell her, between screams and sobs, what had happened. Then the alcohol hit my bloodstream and I stopped making sense. She told me to knock on the neighbors doors and have someone stay with me until I sobered up, so I did. Nobody was home at the apartment across the hall so I called my friend Sean and he said he and JP would be there as soon as possible. My screaming, crying and knocking brought the neighbor in the apartment behind me into the hall and he stayed with me until Sean and JP arrived.
By the time Sean and JP arrived I was way past the "just drunk" stage. I'm a total lightweight because I rarely drink. Alcohol and my medications don't mix well so I abstain. The alcohol in my system was at a toxic level and I started vomiting. A lot. Sean called 911 and the paramedics that were sent were total assholes. They thought I was just another dumb drunk suicidal chick. I tried to tell them why I was drunk but it didn't matter. They purposely poked me more than once to start an IV.
The ER doctor who was assigned to me was awesome. She sat with me for a long time, which gave me an opportunity to explain to her what had happened to Tim and that I truly wasn't suicidal (surprise, surprise).
It took awhile, from various sources, to piece together what happened that night. Tim's next door neighbor was leaving for work early Friday morning when he noticed Tim's house was wide open, including the garage door, and all the lights were on, and went over to investigate. He's the one who found Tim underneath the car.
Tim, until that night, never took shortcuts. He was all about safety and doing things the right way. Which is why everyone who knew him, including fellow Marines, couldn't believe he would crawl under a car that was lifted/supported with just a standard jack — when he had proper floor jacks hanging on the wall.
Several months after Tim's death I had an opportunity to speak with the second officer on scene that morning and asked him if there was a moment when Tim knew he was fucked and he said probably not and that Tim died instantly. The officer asked me if there was an open casket and was visibly shocked when I told him it was, and that you could barely tell there had been any injury to the left side of his face.
So, last Thursday night I was quite surprised when Tim came to me in a dream. He said, "Hey buddy, how you doing?" I replied, "I miss you." "I know," he whispered. I asked him, "Who got your guns?" "She did," was all he said. Then he was gone.
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