“Have you ever loved someone who meant more to you than your own soul?” (Slightly rewritten from Judy Devereaux’s Wild Orchids.)
I did.
And then he died.
May 24, 2002:
It’s dark as I write this. I should sleep, but the bed is too big and he’s not there to keep me warm. It’s almost summer, yet, I feel chill. I want to cuddle next to his warm body…feel his breath upon my skin.
Don’t think. Don’t feel. Breathe. How do I do this? How do I get through all the tomorrows to come?
Thoughts from earlier in the day: I hate hospitals. ER docs are stupid. Do they think we don’t watch TV…that we don’t know the “ER Speech”. “I’m sorry…your husband didn’t make it. We used…” .
Stop. I know that speech, I don’t need to hear your well practiced words. He was gone by the time the EMT’s showed up….before he got here. You guys were all just going through the motions. Dog and pony show.
Did I say it out loud? He certainly looked stunned, turned on his heel and left fast enough leaving behind the equally stunned and useless chaplain. At least the chaplain had them remove the tubes and clean him up before I went in to see him.
But, he wasn’t there. Not there in those once electric blue eyes that were not quite closed. Not there in the strong, lithe body already cooling to the touch. Not there in the salt and pepper hair I stood and stroked lying that I would be OK. How do you be OK when the light has gone from your life?
Back home: The yard and house are filled with people. Are we having a party and I forgot? Who put on the coffee? My brother-in-law? No…he drove me home. How did they get in? Did I forget to lock the door? I don’t remember. No matter, Jim will be here shortly to sort everyone out.
Oh.
No, he won’t.
I can’t do this. I want them all to go home. But, how can I tell them to go home? They are as stunned as I am. They need to be here.
Why are there so many phone guys? Who did I call? My mother…she picked up the grand. My brother’s in law…they came to the hospital as soon as they could…but, still too late. My daughter’s fiancé. He left work and came, too. Oh. Yes, that’s it. He works with Dean’s son. Allen called his dad and the BellSouth jungle drums did the rest.
Why can’t I cry? I should be hysterical. They should be comforting me.
Yet, here they are…tears in their eyes. “I’m so sorry.” “I can’t believe he’s gone.” “But, I just talked to him this morning.”
“Will you be OK?” How do I know? I am in shock. I am numb. This isn’t real. I just hugged him 2 hours ago. He’ll come home soon and it will all be one of his practical jokes.
Tears from men who don’t cry. Anguish on faces usually too tough to let others see. Yet…today…Jim’s dead…they crumble like children seeking refuge in mom’s hug after falling from a tree.
I comfort the comforters.
Today:
Jim's death was so swift I had no time to think beyond figuring out how I was going to breathe let alone consider life without him. The days, months, years that have followed are both blurred and clear as crystal. I look back into my journals and wonder how I’ve made this journey from the ashes of darkness back into the sunlight.
Yet, I have……All done one baby step, one shallow breath, one single moment at a time.
How do I write tears in response to your tears? How do I write the nodding of my head in acknowledgement and understanding? Comforting the comforters, I remember all too well.
ReplyDeleteKeep writing, my friend.
Keep writing, Josie. I need to read this too.
ReplyDeleteI relate to all you say, even though Rick's passing wasn't sudden. And yet it was, we hoped he would go on...insanely, why should we hope he would go on, in that condition? But we did. We'd take him at any price, he wanted life at almost any price...til he finally said, 'no more, enough now'
I remember being shocked that I was now "widow", only realizing what that meant by the way everyone came at me, in the house, at the service. I needed them and yet I wanted them all to be gone.
I remember sitting by the bed within moments of his death, with my cell phone and daytimer, going down the list calling everyone that needed to know or calling people to ask them to make calls. I was deceptively calm, making calls, talking to the social worker about cremation. How did I do that? I held it together until I could leave everyone and drive back up the mountain and be here in our home alone. I insisted on being here alone that night, against about 40 people's wishes. And then I found his last letter to me, waiting here.
How did we survive these things? I still can't figure out how we have survived.
Keep writing, please, Josie. To say I wait with baited breath is silly but true...not only is it cathartic for you and us to have these words written down, it is also that you write so beautifully, I want to know how YOU survived.
You may find you have a book here.
Love,
SpiritBear
Gads...you two weren't supposed to make me cry, too. What a gift all y'all are in this life none of us chose.
ReplyDeleteTruth be told that from my blurred vision of 3 years out I have to look into my past writings both journaled and WN to see how I DID make this journey mostly upright.
Please notice I said MOSTLY...I recall a few nights literally writhing on the floor or curled in a ball on the couch...talk about your Drama Queens. (wink) I'm thinkin' I was too stubborn to do anything else. And, I was so damned determined that HIS death would not be the death of ME.
There are so many times I feel like the bull in the china shop crashing around and knocking things over. Some days I break stuff. Some days I'm lucky and it bounces.
Even so, I realize as I put all this down again it still has the power to sting. Yet, if it has healing power for me, perhaps, it will for someone else as well if, at some point, I make my blog known to those on WN who might care to read it. OR should I take that other leap and turn it into a real book.
Ah, Josie ... you are still doing it, you know. Comforting the comforters, shining light into dark places and living forward in a way that pays the highest repect to Love. I'm glad you have found an Outlaw Outlet ... Your writing was one of the things that hooked me on WN to begin with, and our friendship is one of the gifts I cherish finding on this twisted path of grief.
ReplyDeleteCriminey, Jnotes, when I saw that first sentence I thought you were going to tell me I was still making you cry. I've not forgotten the many times you've told me that as I posted something that either touched your heart or where you were in your mind at that given moment.
ReplyDeleteAnd, I receive as much comfort from you that you say I give.
Outlaw, such a vivid passage filled to the brim with such exquisitely sad truths.
ReplyDeleteJosie,
ReplyDeleteI wish I could write as you do, you say so much of how I feel but cannot say or write. Thank you for putting your words out for us to see. I cry as I haven't allowed myself to do much but in reading in WN know I need to. Putting in as Anonymous since I do not blogger or other. Thank you, Terri-AK