It all started when I noticed the scar fading from my hand. It started with the scar and it ended with me not remembering if the ER waiting room had seats or benches.
Tonight, I met Nancy at the house to help me pack up some books. I allocated one hour for Nancy to watch me complete this task and to exert physical force, if necessary, if I became mired down in memories and sentiment. I was halfway done with the books in the guest room when I came across some folded sheets of loose paper hidden behind a group of Lonely Planet books. The paper was divided into 2 columns: "JM Guests" and "CMR Guests." Both columns were in my handwriting and I remembered exactly why I made this list. During the period between 2004 and 2005, Cindy and I must have attended a thousand weddings together. And everyone kept asking us when we would be having our ceremony. Whenever we were asked this, Cindy would look at me, to which I would nobly reply, "When it's legal in our state." But, the real reason we never had a ceremony was because we both knew that the guest list was going to be enormous. I wrote this list on the plane ride back from Seattle (after our friends Katie and Laura's commitment ceremony). I am sure I was trying to prove to Cindy that the cost for the ceremony would be astronomical. There were easily 200 people on the list (we had about 250 at Cindy's funeral). I didn't show the list to Nancy, but I did pack it up with my stuff.
After the guestroom, we moved onto the study. Most of the books there were Cindy's, so I left them on the shelf. But there was one book on the bottom shelf that derailed my progress. That book was the The Complete Lesbian and Gay Parenting Guide.
I apologize for the next reference, and I wouldn't normally do this, but it'll help explain why this cut across me like it did. For the past 2 years I have been writing a novella about a man who survives a shooting on mass transit. He has a lot of denial issues after the shooting and, as a result, his marriage suffers. There is one scene in which his wife is in a public library and she's returning an overdue copy of Beverly Engel's The Parenthood Decision. And by this point in the story you know that the wife and her husband never wound up having children. I didn't have a lot of dialogue in this particular scene and now I know that there really doesn't need to be.
After the hour was up, I decided that I'd had enough and thanked Nancy for her help. We both left the house together. But, instead of heading out to where I needed to go, I sat in the car for a few minutes and thought about the night I took Cindy to the ER. The events of that night are still vivid in my brain, or at least so I thought. For some reason, I couldn't recall the seating in the ER. Were they chairs? Were they benches? What color were they? I couldn't remember. Why couldn't I remember? Why couldn't I picture it in my head? When was the last time I cried about Cindy's death? Had it been more than 2 days? Was it 3 days ago? I had to drive over to the ER tonight.
I've driven to the ER now three times since Cindy's death to force myself to relive that night, replay those scenes in my head, and to unleash my own suppressed emotions. I also record how long it takes me to get there (I rode in the ambulance with Cindy and I think that ride took 6 minutes, but when I drive it takes 10-11 minutes). I don't tell anyone I am going there, it's too embarrassing. But it is really not unlike returning to the place you received your first kiss or revisiting the tree that your friend's car crashed into years ago. I walked up to the ER and the security officer asked me who I was there to see. I lied and told him that I needed to use the pay phone.
I can now report that there are actually two types of seats in the ER waiting room: benches along the windows AND individual seats in the middle of the room. The bottoms of the seats are mint green leather and the backs of the seats have a printed fabric on them. The arm rests are metal. Once I registered this into my brain, I took leave of the hospital and returned to my car.
1 comment:
i think i remember every detail of that night. the vision that stands out most for me is the look on your face...your voice was even different than i'd ever heard it. i just hope one day i'll forgive myself for telling you that everything would be ok and she'd pull through. i sincerely thought that. they say it comes in threes and the third person i knew was buried the day before cindy got sick. that night i kept pinching my arm, trying to wake up from the dream, and nothing would happen. this posting is so painful for me but, you do what you need to and let yourself feel. i'll ride with you anytime.
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