Where I’m At

I still have maudlin moments, moments when I let memory walk me back into that sterile hospital room where I indulge my grief and relive the hours just before he passed away. I place myself in the middle of the nightmare – the dark center where the air is thick with fear.  Back to when his hand was still warm and his face was flushed with the effort of dying.  I can still see it.  I can still smell it. I just don’t know why I am compelled to revisit it. 

Hope was gone, it left a gaping hole and an invitation for fear to waltz in. The kids and I cried. We talked and remembered. We laughed. We hung on for dear life even as his life slipped away. I had to make a conscious effort to breathe. I remember calling ghosts into the room, the spirits of beloved people already in the realm beyond – I have no clue if they came.  The minutes were agony, the hours slipped away.

I remember telling him that the currency in heaven was love and that his pockets were full of it.  I remember praying his pain away even as I willed him to stay. I wished and feared and cried.  And I waited for something I didn’t want. 

And then he passed. Fear left the room and relief wafted in.  Relief.  I released the breath I was holding and felt my shoulders relax – the worst thing had happened, I didn’t need to fear it anymore. I was relieved.  And then guilt arrived.  How could relief be the first emotion? How could I possibly be relieved?

I’m told it’s not uncommon to be relieved when death finally arrives, that it’s natural to be thankful the suffering is over, but it’s an odd sensation.  In hindsight I realize the suffering wasn’t actually gone, it morphed and attached itself to my children and to me only to grow and evolve into something so familiar we carry it with us still.

I wasn’t relieved his life was over, I was heartbroken.  I wasn’t relieved we had survived, I was devastated. He didn’t hurt anymore but he didn’t breathe. He was free of his earthly being but I had no idea where he was. The essence of him left on the wings of his final breath –  he was gone.

I kept breathing, I had survived the unimaginable. I am still breathing, still surviving. Although the pain of his passing has become familiar it is not comfortable, I’m still trying to come to terms with it. I still feel the need to revisit the moment. I’m not sure this is part of the process but it’s where I’m at today.

I’ve committed to documenting my journey; all the progress, all the setbacks; and to telling the truth. This is part of that truth.  I wallow.  I pick the scab off the wound in my heart.  I indulge maudlin thoughts in the quiet of an evening and I grieve. This is where I’m at.