David Edward Heyting

My David Speech - Part 2 I was so very lucky to spend a lot of time with David during the last year and a half of his life. It was really one of my main goals during this time of life and everything else needed to be secondary. I joked that I would always be his backup if he needed to get out and didn’t have a better offer. I really just wanted to hang out with him. I got to see him a ton. I will never, ever forget these moments. This was a man who never wanted to sit down. Our time together meant local adventures because he couldn’t stand being stuck in a chair, bored out of his mind, and I couldn’t stand that either. We walked together, visited coffee shops, wandered slowly through the woods while I took photos of moss, bark, and ferns. We went to Seattle, the troll, and the fish hatchery, the highlands, the watershed. We drove to the pass. To the middle fork. We went to parks all over the upper and lower valley. We sat at picnic tables, cried, and talked about the saddest things. We laughed about the silliest things. We drove through Hux all the time, and tried to find random coffee shops wherever we were. I drove him to and from work often- seeing the sunrise on my drive because David liked to be up and out before dawn. Mom took him to his avastin infusions every two weeks where David would tell her not to mother him. I would tell him to be nice because that’s what mother’s do- they mother. Driving David was a gift to the driver much more than it was a gift to David. Thank you to all who drove him. He did things no one else would attempt with half their body not working. I still don’t know how. He worked until the end, sharp as a whip, typing one-handed, finishing up his last tax season, and using whatever tools he could to stay independent. He took himself to physical therapy, and walked as much as he could. He did start improving for a short time in this last year, but it was just too short. That was a tough hit. But what I’ll always remember most was his kindness. His calmness. In those last weeks, if you asked him if he needed anything and he didn’t, he’d politely say, “I’m OK at the moment.” One of the most insane—and most David—moments of those last few weeks happened on Cade’s senior soccer night. David loved watching his boys do their thing. He had just moved into Gayle’s house—his mother-in-laws, which is on Lake Sammamish—because he needed to be on one level, no more stairs. Jessica, Gayle, and I were getting him to the game. The lift (an outdoor elevator) from the main house level to the driveway above wasn’t working. Panic set in. There was no way he could miss that game. David was in his wheelchair. Jess looked at him and said, “David, we have to climb.” He just said, “OK.” Outside next to the lift was a tall set of wooden stairs – taller than normal indoor stairs, with a wide, thick railing— which did not offer much for him to grab onto. With a support belt and sheer will, Jessica and I each took a side, lifting him stair by stair. I used my foot to help move his left leg up to each step. Each step was torturous. He bled out every last ounce of energy to get to the top. When we made it, we were so exhausted we couldn’t even get him into the wheelchair. It sounds unbelievable, but it’s true. David was a three-person lift—unless you’re a big guy like Brian who knows how to do the bear hug lift. So I knelt down on the ground while we got him down, leaned back, and just held him while we laughed and freaked out. We called 911 to help us get him upright and in the car. We told those EMTs there was no time to waste – it was senior night. Brian and my family were waiting at the field to help get him in—and we made it. David actually made it to two more games after that: one at Redmond High and a playoff home game. I loved to go to the games and sit by him. Unfortunately the way most handicap areas in stadiums are set up meant we didn’t have the best view, but- most importantly, we were together. Out of all the climbs in David’s life, that had to be his hardest. His last major climb. And he did it with relentlessness, grace and humility. Think about this moment when you are facing an obstacle in your life. To Colby and Cade: Your dad loved you so much. You know everything you need to know. He taught you everything you need to know. He was such a good dad. He would’ve moved mountains to stay with you. But he is here. He’s with you. In every grouse or strange animal sighting. In every sunrise and sunset. In every big bird. On every climb. In one of our sad talks, I told (well, demanded) that David better come back to me through big birds. I love birds, especially big birds (eagles, herons, osprey), and he knew that. He knew I believed that is how our Dad would show up for me. Once, he sent me a photo of a black bird up on a snowy peak and said, “This bird isn’t supposed to be this high.” We both knew it was our Dad. About an hour after David died, a blue heron flew a loop in front of Gayle’s house. It started to fly away, then turned back around. I ran out on the deck to talk to him. It landed on the dock to the left. Then, while I was still out there, it flew across to the dock on the right. That’s why I have a metal blue heron here in my yard—from dear high school friends. David is alive in these ways and this is how he will continue to show up. He is here. Please don’t miss your chance to see that. I was probably more connected to David than he was to me, through that invisible, empathetic bond. I felt nervous and excited for every big moment in his life. His suffering lives in me like a heavy blanket I still carry. And I look forward to the day my mind and body finally align in the knowledge that he’s no longer enduring this world’s pain and that blanket could lighten up a little, but I am not there. No anticipatory grief, no sort of preparation can ever prepare you for a loss like this. Of all the people. Regardless if we knew or not. What we need to hear is simply - what a loss to the earth. Remember – the earth without David, zero stars. Will we all live and eventually thrive, sure. But for now we have to reconstruct our way of life, because I honestly believed that we would have more time. I truly believed we had a shot. David thought he would have more time too, which is the hardest part to take. I didn’t think I would order him a new pair of glasses and finally get to pick them up two days before he died and he would never get to wear them. During my last conversation tucking him in on the last night he was really awake- I told him I was sorry I couldn’t help him or save him or take this from him. I told him I loved him a devastating amount. I told him all the time that I loved him a devastating amount. Sometimes he’d say I love you back, but most often—just like Han Solo—he’d smirk and say, “I know.” I called him my best buddy in the whole wide world. I would show up at his house and ask – where’s my best buddy in the whole wide world. He would smirk. What a gift to be able to make someone smile like that. Pooch, I love you a devastating amount. Say his name. Say his name to us. He is present – believe that and let him hear you. Talk about him when you think of him. Keep him alive. And may you always climb like David.