This Side of Heaven: A Memoir

By Valerie Staggs

Just a few days before Christmas 2009, Valerie Staggs received a call that would change her life forever. Her husband, Ken Staggs, had been found unconscious at the bottom of their pool. Four days later he would be declared dead leaving her a widow at 42 and her son, Ryan, fatherless at the age of seven.

This Side of Heaven chronicles the lives of Valerie and Ryan as they struggle to survive the aftermath of Ken’s death in a world that neither they nor anyone around them really knows how to navigate. As they search for help from friends, family, school, church, grief groups, therapists and strangers, Valerie gives us a raw look into the unique experience of loss from the perspective of both woman the unique experience of loss from the perspective of both woman and child and shares the fallacies that we all hold of the grieving process. From the initial shock of sudden death and the harsh realities of a grieving child, to the sticky nuances of being a widowed woman, to the surprisingly humorous side of death, This Side of Heaven chronicles exactly how life goes on after loss.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Total Publishing
• Release date: Jun 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9781633020443

Valerie Staggs

Valerie Staggs is Head Person at Ryan William’s Agency, the full-service advertising firm she founded in 2002 to fulfill her passion for writing scintillating advertising copy. She has won numerous industry awards for her advertising campaigns, but she is most proud of the award she won in a sixth-grade statewide writing competition for her essay “How to Eat Jell-O with a Knife.” Valerie is the founder of Pandora’s Kids, a non-profit organization that supports families in grief. She lives in Palm Beach Gardens, FL with her son, Ryan, and their dogs, Jack and Jessi. She is currently working on her next book, a novel. For more information feel free to visit www.valeriestaggs.com.

Book preview

day.

Christmas Night 2009

Air whooshed from the machine in regular intervals, as though each rush of oxygen could pump life into the still figure that lay silently in the hospital bed. Dozens of monitors huddled together stretching their tendrils in a mass of cords attached to face, arms, hands and countless points below the bed sheets. A few emitted quiet beeps, speaking their own language of heartbeats, blood pressure and body temperatures. Every so often an alarm would sound announcing a drop in some vital statistic. No one would come and eventually the noise ceased on its own volition, returning the room to just the whooshing and emitted beeps.

I sat as close to the bed as I could manage and held the hand of my husband of 14 years. I had been in this spot for four days now, and the hand in mine had become more difficult to hold, the fingers stiff and swollen, curving in on themselves. Still, it was big and warm and familiar, this hand which so easily slipped into mine for so many years.

I rested my head on my husband’s shoulder, careful to avoid the snakes of cords wrapped around his body. This spot, this little alcove between his shoulder and his neck, was where my head had rested almost every night of my married life. At the end of a long day, here was where I would lay my head and, along with it, a litany of my life shared with the man who I had chosen to be my partner.

Like so many times before I spoke quietly to him, the words floating to his ear just inches from my lips. I told him about my day, as though it were any other day, how we had left milk, cookies and carrots on a plate the night before, and how, despite all odds, Ryan, our seven-year-old son, still believed in Santa. I told him how excited Ryan had been to see the Lego kits under the tree and how he had already put one of them together.

I told him about Christmas dinner and about how hard everyone had tried to make it festive and about how Ryan and his cousin Nicholas were even getting along, a rare occurrence at family gatherings. I told him about all the people who had called and visited and about how much they loved him. I told him that Ryan had wanted to come, but then changed his mind at the last minute and that I thought he was scared even though I told him his daddy just looked like he was sleeping. I told him that Ryan had said, Give Daddy a big hug for me and tell him I love him. When there was no more to share, I told him all the things I never took the time to tell him before. I told him about the time I flew into San Francisco to meet him at a technology convention Motorola had shipped him off to and when I saw him walking towards me across the airport terminal, I thought how proud I was that this man was my husband. I told him how I looked forward to the end of every day when he would come home from work, walk into the kitchen and give me one of his hugs, the ones that made me feel warm and loved and somehow forgetful of all the things that had stressed me out during the day.

I told him that my favorite picture of him was the one I took on a camping trip a few years ago when Ryan was about four and sat nestled in his dad’s lap at the fireside. I told him how much I loved their smiles and how they were so similar and how it made me smile the way Ryan’s hand rested so contentedly on his arm. I told him I had framed it and put it on my nightstand so it would be the last thing I saw before I went to sleep.

I told him I had put his wedding ring on a chain around my neck and that I had forgotten it was supposed to be engraved, but the jeweler never did it. I told him I would press its circular band into my chest just to feel its imprint above my heart. I told him the chain once held the gold cross he had given me many years ago, but I took it off; I didn’t believe in wearing crosses anymore.

I told him I was sorry for the fight we had the night before the accident and how I wished I had given him one last hug instead of speaking the words I would forever remember as the last words he would hear from his wife. I told him I was sorry I hadn’t been more understanding in the past months as he struggled with demons he thought had been left in the past. I told him I had been scared, terrified that the reckless boy he had been back then was still part of the man he had become.

I told him I loved him with all my heart and that I would have spent the rest of my life with him no matter what that life had in store for us.

I asked him to watch over me and Ryan because I no longer believed anyone else was watching over us. I begged him to come to me in my dreams, to somehow let me know he was still there because it felt as though he had been gone forever, not just a few days. I thanked him for being in my life and for loving me as only he could, and I told him I would always remember how much he loved me and Ryan.

Hours later, I unfolded myself from the plastic chair, one hand still entwined in his. With the other I brushed some hair gently off his forehead. The tube which fed oxygen into his lungs pulled his mouth to one side causing his tongue to slip from between his lips. I tried to close it, but his mouth always drooped open again.

His face was too round, bloated from the fluids they were pumping into his organs to keep them as healthy as possible. His eyes were closed, but underneath their lids I knew the warmth was gone from their hazel depths. I brushed my knuckles over the one-day growth on his cheeks. They had shaved him yesterday. There hadn’t been any need today.

I leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. I inhaled trying to drink in the scent that was distinctly his, but it was gone, replaced by unfamiliar hospital smells. Tears rolled silently down my cheeks as I gently disengaged my hand from his. I put my head on his shoulder one last time, holding his face next to mine.

See you in my dreams, I whispered in his ear.

Then I stood and walked away, leaving the whooshing and beeping and the man that had been my husband behind.

The hospital doors opened and closed as I drank in the warm Florida air. Tears ran down my cheeks as I walked to the car, climbed in and locked the doors behind me.

Through my windshield the hospital sat brightly lit against the night sky. A sudden relief came over me with the knowledge that I would never have to return to this place.

Tomorrow I wouldn’t have to return to the pointless whooshing and beeping, to the pitying stares from the nurses, to the endless I’m sorry’s from doctors who couldn’t fix what was wrong. Tomorrow I wouldn’t have to face the friends who cried at his bedside and hugged me just long enough to once again start the tears I held back so strongly most of the time. Tomorrow I wouldn’t have to hold a hand that no longer felt like his and talk to a husband who could no longer hear me.

Tomorrow I would sign my husband’s death certificate and begin life without him. I wondered how I would ever survive.

Three Days Before

December 22, 2009

Papers were strewn across my desk, faxes and printouts from television stations in four different markets across Florida. On my computer screen a spreadsheet displayed columns and rows of statistics analyzing every television program from Jacksonville to West Palm Beach. The buy was scheduled to start January 1 st and I was only halfway through inputting the data I needed to even begin negotiating with the TV stations.

It had been a great year for the advertising agency I started eight years ago. Despite the depressed economy, we posted our best year yet. The weeks leading up to December had been busier than ever. Even though I collected the TV data weeks ago, I hadn’t had time to begin putting the buy together until three days before Christmas. It was crunch time and I was inputting numbers as fast as my fingers could work the keyboard.

The phone rang throughout the office. I ignored it. One of my employees would grab it. After several more rings and the realization that no one else was going to answer the phone, I snatched up the receiver on my desk with an irritated Ryan William’s Agency. May I help you?

The voice on the other end said, This is Cheryl Baker, the housekeeper for Valerie Staggs. I must speak with her immediately. This is an emergency.

Cheryl had been cleaning my house for five years. She often called me at work to discuss things she considered far more urgent than I did. I inwardly sighed. Her frantic voice on the phone served to increase the annoyance I felt over having to answer the phone to begin with.

Cheryl, it’s me, I said into the receiver. What the matter?

It’s your husband, she blurted back in a rush. He fell in the pool. The paramedics are here.

He fell in the pool? I was having a hard time figuring out why this was such an emergency. Ken could swim. How could falling in the pool require paramedics?

Is he alright? I asked, stupidly. Then a moment of clarity found its way through my confusion. Is he breathing? I asked, hardly daring to breathe myself.

No, she said. He’s not breathing.

I’m on my way, I said, grabbing my purse, causing an avalanche of papers to cascade off my desk.

I ran down the stairs past Dave, my graphic artist. I’ve got to go, I yelled over my shoulder. My husband had an accident.

Is he okay? Dave called after me.

I don’t know. I’ll call you later.

The drive from my office to my house was 30 minutes. It was midafternoon and traffic was light. I drove calmly, but I could feel the knot in my stomach tightening as each mile brought me closer to home. Please, God, I prayed over and over. Let him be okay. Please. The journey home seemed to take a lifetime.

A few miles from my house my cell phone rang. Mrs. Staggs? a deep male voice said. He introduced himself. Officer Something. I immediately forgot his name. I’m at your house and I have a few questions about your husband.

Ok, I answered in a shaky voice.

How old is your husband?

47.

Does he have a history of heart problems?

No.

Does he have any allergies.

No.

Does he have headaches or dizzy spells?

No.

Was he feeling okay this morning?

I didn’t see him this morning. I left for work before he woke up.

Is he on any medication?

Yes, I think so, I answered helplessly. At his last doctor’s visit, Ken was diagnosed with high cholesterol. The doctor had prescribed medication for the cholesterol and some other sort of drug that was supposed to take the edge off during his effort to quit smoking. I was pretty sure he never took any of it. Whatever he was taking is in the cabinet over the phone in the kitchen. I heard the officer instructing someone to look for the medication.

I took this small break in his questioning to ask the question that I was most afraid to ask. Is he breathing?

Right now, we’re breathing for him, he replied.

I wished I had someone to breathe for me. Breathing was becoming increasingly difficult with the huge knot in my gut now lodged in my lungs.

This medication is for depression, the officer stated, reading off the name of the pills. He read off the names of two more medications, ones that had been prescribed to Ken several years ago. I had forgotten those pill bottles were in the cupboard.

I don’t think he ever took the depression stuff, I told the officer. It was supposed to help him quit smoking, but he didn’t like to take that kind of stuff. The other bottles are old.

So your husband is a smoker?

Yes.

Heavy?

Yes, I suppose. About a half a pack a day.

Does he drink?

Yes.

Heavily?

Yes. I felt the need to explain. He’s been under a lot of pressure lately with his job. Plus, he’s off from work for the year so he’s been drinking more than usual.

Was he drinking today?

No! I replied a bit harshly. He doesn’t drink during the day, only at night. I finished lamely.

Was he drinking last night?

Yes. I tried to think of an explanation for this, feeling as though a police officer would expect one, but nothing came to me. The phone line lapsed into silence.

Ok. He was finished with his questions. The paramedics are getting ready to transport him to the hospital now.

I’m about five minutes from home, I said. Should I come there or go to the hospital?

Go to the hospital.

Which one?

Bethesda.

Ok, I said and hung up, detouring south on Military Trail away from home.

Suddenly I realized I didn’t know where my son was. He had been home with his dad and Cheryl. I dialed Cheryl’s cell phone.

Cheryl, I said when she answered. Where’s Ryan?

At the neighbor’s, she replied.

I’m going to call my mom and dad and tell them to come. Can you stay until they get there?

I don’t know, she said crying. I don’t think I can clean today.

I know, I said, surprised at her assumption that I might just expect her to pick up her feather duster and go on cleaning like nothing had happened. Just stay until my parents get there, okay?

Okay.

I hung up and dialed my parents’ number wondering how it was possible I could think clearly enough to drive and manage to dial the numbers on my cell phone.

Hello? My dad’s voice came on the line.

Dad, it’s me, I blurted out. Something’s happened to Kenny. I think he had a heart attack or something. I need you to come to the house and be with Ryan. I have to go to the hospital.

Oh no. Worry crept into my dad’s voice, a voice which was usually so solid and even-keeled. I just got out of the shower. Your mom and I will pack up and leave in a few minutes. You need us to come to the house then?

Yes, I said. Ryan is at the neighbor’s and Cheryl and the police are at the house. Someone who Ryan knows needs to be there for him. Please. I felt a little panic start to creep into my voice and took a deep, uneven breath.

Ok, said Dad. We’re on our way.

I drove the rest of the way to the hospital in silence, the knot in my stomach continuing to tighten. I focused on breathing in and out, in and out. I carried on a mantra to God. Please God. Let him be okay. Please God.

I believed God was listening.

The ambulance arrived at the hospital shortly after I did, but the receptionist said I wouldn’t be able to see Kenny until they got him settled.

How is my husband? I asked.

I don’t know, she replied, her eyes focused on the blue light on her computer screen.

A woman brought me forms on a clipboard. I blindly signed my name in the spaces that she pointed at.

How is my husband? I asked her.

Oh, I don’t know, she said. I’m just in charge of forms.

They left me alone in a plastic waiting room chair. Only two other people were in the waiting room. Neither seemed to be injured. After a few minutes, a couple of young guys wandered in, one bleeding from his left hand. I heard the receptionist tell him to go in the bathroom and get some paper towels. She said she didn’t want him dripping blood on the floor.

What kind of person said things like that in the course of their workday? I wondered. Hello, sign in here please. Help yourself to some coffee. Oh, and go get some paper towels. You’re dripping blood on my nice, clean floor. Your husband? I have no idea how he’s doing. Go get some Kleenex or something. You’re dripping tears on my nice clean floor.

I sat quietly in my plastic chair, digging my fingernails into the palm of my hand and wondering why I was always the type of person who chose to sit and wait instead of storming through the swinging doors, demanding to see my husband.

Please God. Let him be okay. Please God. I repeated over and over in my head.

Fifteen minutes later God appeared in the form of my church’s pastor. His presence was so unexpected, I had a hard time making the connection between him and this stark hospital setting.

Pastor John? I said, confused.

Your housekeeper called, he explained, settling into the plastic chair next to me. She told me there had been an accident. How is Ken?

I don’t know, I replied. They haven’t told me anything.

What happened?

I don’t know. I guess he fell in the pool. Again I thought how ridiculous it sounded. He could swim for Christ’s sake. Why hadn’t he?

Shall we pray? Pastor John took my hand and began praying for Ken.

His words flowed over me unleashing the tears I had held at bay. Silently they tumbled down my cheeks. His prayer sounded so much more powerful than my Please God. Let him be okay. God would surely hear him, I thought, this man who dedicated his life to serving the Lord. His prayer would fix everything.

After we both said Amen, he paused to let me blow my nose.

Just then a nurse announced that they were ready for me. I stood.

Do you want me to stay? Pastor John asked.

No, I’m okay, I said. But, thank you for coming.

He hugged me and I followed the nurse through the swinging doors.

We’ll be praying for you, I heard him say behind me.

* * * * *

Although I had been let into the inner sanctum behind the swinging doors, I was not yet allowed to see my husband. Instead I was led into an exam room and asked to wait. They were still getting Ken settled in, the nurse explained. Someone would be in to see me soon.

I sat quietly, kneading a crumpled up tissue in my hand. Bits of conversation drifted through the half-closed door, nurses and staff filling each other in on the new patient down the hall. A phone rang. I heard a nurse having a conversation with someone on the other end.

We have a near drowning here, she told whoever was on the phone, so emotions are running pretty high.

Whose emotions? I thought.

A police officer appeared at the door. He introduced himself as the officer in charge at the scene.

I just need to ask you a few questions, he said, pulling out a notepad from his pocket. He repeated many of the same questions the officer I had talked to on the phone had asked. I confirmed Ken’s legal name was William McKinley Staggs, Jr., he was 47 and had no medical conditions or allergies. Yes, he was a smoker and a drinker. No, he wasn’t drinking that morning. I wasn’t sure what medication he was taking. I only knew about the high cholesterol pills. He was probably taking them, but probably not the other stuff.

Okay, he said. Let me fill you in on what we know. He flipped a few pages in the notebook. His words came to me from a great distance, as though I was attending a public speech or reading, only one in a crowd of thousands. The scene unfolded in my mind as the officer read from his notes

Cheryl had chatted with Ken over lunch. Then he had gone outside to clean the pool. Cheryl saw him through the sliding glass doors on her way to the laundry room. Some ten minutes later, walking by those same doors, she saw him face-down in the shallow end of the pool.

I could picture all of this clearly in my mind. I could see the blue of the tiles around the pool, the raised edge of the Jacuzzi, the bright orange Bird of Paradise we had planted around the pool. I could see through the clear water to the figure floating in its depths. I could see my husband motionless in the water.

Cheryl had run outside and managed to get Ken above the surface, but she couldn’t get him out of the pool. She yelled to her son, Santino who she brought to work with her, and to Ryan, telling Ryan to call 911 and for Santino to go find a neighbor.

In my mind I watched the two boys now enter the scene, both white-faced, standing at the sliding glass doors, watching something unfold before them that they were both far too young to be witnessing.

Both boys did as they were told. Ryan called 911 and was able to tell the operator what was happening. Santino ran outside to find a neighbor working in his yard. Together the neighbor and Cheryl were able to get Ken out of the pool. They took turns doing CPR until the police came.

During that time, Mr. Staggs never regained consciousness, the police officer concluded, shutting his notebook.

He looked at me and I nodded, unable to speak. I blotted my eyes with the crumpled up tissue.

I’ll be around here for a little bit if you have any questions, he said kindly.

I nodded again and tried to smile.

Okay, hang in there. He left me alone in the room.

I stared at the linoleum floor, the image of my husband at the bottom of our pool implanted in my mind and there, in the background, my seven-year-old son looking on. I couldn’t wrap my head around the horror of the scene that had played out in my backyard.

A paramedic entered the room. He introduced himself as one of the team who helped Ken. Like the police officer, he filled me in on what had happened at my house. He told me that when they arrived, the police were already there doing CPR. They took over, worked on Ken for 30 minutes, and were able to get a pulse. They were not able to get him to breathe on his own. Once he was stable, they transported him to the hospital.

Once again, I nodded, and once again I received assurances the paramedic would be around for a little bit if I had any questions or needed anything. Once again, I was left alone in the little room.

A nurse finally came to get me and took me to see Ken. I glimpsed his familiar face through a mass of hospital staff buzzing around the bed performing various tasks. I was told to wait in the hallway until he was settled.

I stood watching through the open doorway, desperately trying to catch a glimpse of my husband, wanting the comfort of seeing him and knowing he was alive. I glanced down the long hallway and saw my father walking towards me. I started to sob.

In my 42 years as a daughter, the parental comforting had always come from my mother. She was the one I would turn to when I was hurt. She was the one I called when I needed a hug or needed to talk. She was the Band Aid sticker, the tissue distributor, the worry fixer. She was good at comforting because she knew what it was like to need comfort. One who wore her emotions on her sleeve, my mom was naturally sympathetic to the trials and tribulations of others, especially those of her only daughter.

Conversely, my dad was the rock. He looked on from the sidelines, a silent sentinel standing by to lend his support if it was needed. An engineer and internal auditor by profession, my dad quietly analyzed every situation, searching for the facts, splicing them together, engineering the best course of action in response to the situation at hand. In the face of emotional crisis, he was more likely to dole out level-headed advice than try to sort through the sticky illogic of feelings. He felt deeply for those he loved, but he rarely demonstrated this outwardly.

As he walked towards me I tried valiantly to hold on to the tightly wound control I had mustered in the last hour and a half. But, when he reached me I crumbled into his arms, the sobs finally escaping from the tight hold I had on them ever since Cheryl’s phone call.

He said nothing, just let me cry into his silent strength, holding me tighter than he ever had before. When I finally pulled away, he stood close by as though shoring me up for whatever was to come.

How is he? he finally asked.

I don’t know. I said. They haven’t let me see him. He nodded.

We stood in the hallway side by side, saying nothing. Minutes passed as a swarm of white coated figures bustled around my husband’s still form. Finally, one emerged from the pack and walked towards us.

He was a tall man, towering over my father’s six foot frame. Bald with glasses, he was dressed in blue scrubs. He looked about my age. He introduced himself. I immediately forgot his name.

Your husband was under water for an extended period of time. We don’t know how long, he told me. His brain and organs have been deprived of oxygen for some time. Although he has a pulse, he is not breathing on his own and has not been. At this point, you need to consider his quality of life and what measures you may or may not want us to take.

His words came out in a monotonous stream of language, no pauses, no change in inflection between Hello, I’m Doctor So-And-So and what measures you may or may not want us to take. He delivered this news as though it was nothing more than an everyday conversation over dinner.

I stared at him blankly trying to process what he was saying. Less than two hours ago I had been sitting at my desk at work, secure in the knowledge that my husband was home fixing what needed to be fixed and playing dad to our son, just as