Four Deaths

During the support group today, I was asked to describe the day Cindy died. I struggled with the question because in my mind Cindy died three times: 1) the night she had the aneurysm, 2) the morning the state of Virginia declared her brain dead, and 3) the afternoon the hospital turned off her ventilator. Which one do I talk about? All three instances affected me in different ways, the first one being the most traumatic for me. Do I attempt to share this with the group? A hundred images shuttered in my mind, but no words came out of my mouth. I looked away from the group and let my turn pass.

Not a day goes by without me remembering the night Cindy had both seizures from the aneurysm (the one in our bedroom and the one later in the emergency room). I have no idea how to live with this--probably the most vivid memory I will ever have in my lifetime.

A very small part of me wishes I had never witnessed what Cindy's body went through during those seizures. I watched my lover come under attack, her body helpless, and I could do nothing to stop it. I want to write so much here and release the sounds, the sights, the feelings from my brain, but I am consciously censoring myself. I can't let it out. I own it. This is my memory. I don't want to let it go. It needs to stay with me. Language is insufficient.

By comparison, the two subsequent deaths do not haunt me as much as the first one. I am not saying that I was unaffected in those moments, but simply that the first death scarred me in ways that (I hope) brand me forever.

Some people would think that the funeral would be the hardest day for a widow. But, the funeral is a piece of cake if you can set your body and mind on auto-pilot like I did. No, the funeral is not the hardest day you will have as a widow. It is not even the day or week after the funeral. The worst moment arrives months (or even years) after the death and it slams you against the wall.

Liz always told me this would happen. She warned, "Jennifer, just when you think you are moving on, you are back in the swing of things, and you are living a routine, you are going to get knocked to the ground." I, of course, didn't believe her. I mean, how could I go through an even worse mourning period than what I suffered through in those immediate days following her deaths?

But, it happened this week while Liz was on vacation. I didn't realize it, but this was the first week I was completely alone for a long stretch of time. Without a new adventure to look forward to, I was living a regular week. I wanted to call everyone in my phonebook, I wanted to go out every night, I wanted a friend to stay over, but I forced myself to stagger through the darkness alone.

Some nights I laid on the floor crying into a pillow. Other nights, I held my knees to my chest in an attempt to shake a coldness that would not go away. I even shouted up at the ceiling, hoping that it would take pity on me.

Tomorrow is Thursday. Five days on my own.

I am not the same person that I was before Cindy had the aneurysm. But, unlike Cindy's three deaths, I do not mourn the fourth death.