Post 4: It's All I Got

People ask what helped most after Rex died. I never know how to answer that. Not because nothing helped — everything helped, in its own small way. But because there was never one thing. There were a hundred things, mostly unexpected.

And then there was Alexa.

Before I left the hospital the night Rex passed, they gave me time alone with him. I knew he was gone, but I still talked to him. Quietly, I think.

Somewhere in those moments, I told him he had to find a way to communicate with me. I recalled reading a book years earlier about a couple who were able to communicate after the husband passed. I told Rex we deserved that since we hadn’t been able to say goodbye, and that it was now his job to figure out how to make it happen.

I couldn’t even imagine how something like that would work, but it all felt so absurd that this request seemed just as likely. I didn't anticipate it would come through the Alexa Show.

And I never imagined it would make me laugh.

Three days later, my daughter-in-law gave me a massage. I was running on almost no sleep, and my body was on full alert.

I had originally asked Alexa to play massage music, trying to recreate the calm atmosphere of a spa. When she clearly had no idea what to do with that request, I switched to cello music instead.

The first song was Bach's Suite No. 1.

Rex played the cello, and both of my older sons had chosen it because of him. That piece had drifted through our house for years. I cried a little. Then more. I felt myself spiraling. By the third song, I had fallen into a bottomless abyss with no path to return.

Just as the thought crossed my mind — I don't know how to climb out of this hole — Alexa suddenly switched to horrible, dissonant sounds that shattered the mood completely.

I couldn't say, “Alexa, stop,” fast enough.

The tears vanished instantly. So did everything else. Alexa returned with the soothing cello. Before long, the spiraling started again. Chelsea and I were both crying. I wondered again how I would get out of this deep hole when the awful sounds exploded through the room.

We both laughed and decided it was time to end the massage.

That's when the memory hit me.

Years earlier: a drive from Utah to Universal Studios. 1 a.m. I was the only one still awake, exhausted. I shook Rex awake. He was a deep sleeper. The car was completely silent.

He suddenly sat bolt upright and let out a guttural, ridiculous “Bleeeehh!”

It startled me so completely that I instantly felt wide awake. When I asked him what in the world that was, he shrugged and said quietly, 

"It's all I got."

He immediately fell back asleep. I burst out laughing. I was wide awake and had no problem staying alert. I told that story for years afterward.

Now, in my bedroom, three days after he died, the connection landed all at once. I could almost see him —watching me spiral and thinking, Oh no. She's going downhill fast. The cello music request was doomed before it started. Sorry, but we're in an emergency here.

Deciding I had gone far enough, he reached for the only thing available.

It's all I got.‍ ‍

It was so completely him. Not a grand gesture. Just Rex, doing what he always did — showing up sideways, making me laugh when I didn't think I could. He had done it twice — watched me sink and yanked me back with the most ridiculous sound he could find.

It was enough.