Your Love, It Changed Me
A story of death; rebirth.
It was what had become an ordinary day in this strange new life of ours. I was planning to stop by the store on my way home from work —
“Do you need anything?”
“Razors.”
“Okay. Disposable or heads?”
“Heads.”
So, replacement heads for a razor and various other grocery items were purchased and I went home to wait for his return. He was coming back after spending a week away at his new place of employment. We were going to move there eventually, but there were many ducks that needed to be aligned first.
After he finally fought his way through Friday afternoon traffic and walked through the door, I could tell something was wrong. Unfortunately, this was nothing new. For the last year or so, something was ALWAYS wrong. We were shoulder deep in the worst time of our lives. Tensions were palpable and each of us slept with one eye open waiting for the other foot, which had been hovering for quite awhile, to finally drop.
“I’ve been so nauseous all day. I’ve thrown up a few times, even had to stop on my drive back,” he says with a raspy voice, indicative of a daylong battle with stomach acid irritating his throat.
“Oh no. Are you okay now? Are you going to want to eat dinner?”
He ate a couple of pieces of bread, happy to be able to keep at least something down.
“I’m going to go take a bath. I’ll let you know.”
I go back to the couch, watching a show and doing some work on my laptop. Upstairs, I hear water start running. I settle in, knowing baths are sacred time for him. It could be a while before he re-emerges.
THUMP!
Something crashes to the ground right above me — the bathroom. I don’t think much of it, the bottles of bubble bath perched on the ledge are heavy, he probably just dropped one.
Too much time passes before I come to realize that something isn’t right. The water I hear is too quiet. That isn’t the bath water, it’s a sink. The thump was way too loud for just a bottle of soap. The most alarming of all, however, was that aside from the water running, everything was silent.
Oh no.
I meander upstairs to check on the situation. The door is locked. This isn’t too out of the ordinary, he sometimes locks the door to the bathroom.
The alarms bells ring louder.
I knock on the door.
No response.
I yell his name.
Silence.
I bang on the door. I beg for him to come open up.
“If you’re playing a game, this isn’t funny!”
Nothing.
Frantically, I look around for something to open the door. It is one of those handles with a circular hole that you have to use a special key to unlock.
We don’t have the key.
I try bobby pins. Can’t get it. I try a safety pin. No luck. I run down to the basement. Surely there has to be something here that I can use. I grab a few different size nails and screws and run back upstairs.
The lock pops.
Finally.
I open the door and look inside.
There he is, on the floor, not moving.
I go to him, thinking maybe he just passed out from being ill. I plan to shake him awake.
That’s when I notice that something was severely wrong.
His lips — they are blue.
I struggle to turn his body, to move him. I must try to save his life.
Not expecting to find myself in the middle of an emergency, I had left my phone downstairs. There is no time. I need to start CPR immediately.
The moment some color returns to his lips, I locate his phone and make the most desperate phone call I have ever placed.
Delicately balancing the phone between my shoulder and ear, I continue chest compressions while explaining the situation to the person on the other end. I have finally given enough information that I feel confident being quiet for long enough to attempt a rescue breath.
It doesn’t go in. I cannot get him air.
I try desperately to breathe my life into him — something I’ve been doing metaphorically for years now.
Still no luck.
The first responders need to get in. I am not leaving him, not even for a second. I relay through the phone the code for the garage and how to get to us. I continue my desperate attempts to save this man that I have devoted so much of myself to.
When the first responder gets to us, he takes over for me.
My role in this story is over. I have no job. I have no idea what to do.
Feeling helpless, I pace around the room, muttering to myself.
This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening.
I hear the paramedics. I understand what they are saying. I am beginning to feel the mood in the room change.
I see his feet sticking out of the bathroom doorway. They are so pale.
This isn’t right.
They shock him. A few times. Never more than a blip registers. The heroes in my home are losing hope. I cannot.
They decide to transport. I offer to help. I am not needed. Again, I am helpless.
I gather a few essentials that he may want when he wakes up in the hospital. I turn down the offer of a ride by a police officer. I begin the two minute drive to a place that will give me my husband back.
I make phone calls to family — his and mine. Anyone that can come is at least an hour away.
I am alone.
I wait. And wait. And wait.
Finally, I am taken back to a private family room. The nice man escorting me tells me that I’ll be the first to use it as this is a brand new establishment. I would later learn that there is a different name for this room.
A doctor comes in. She is accompanied by someone, probably more for her protection than my comfort. I hear the words that have been uttered a million times on television shows and in movies. I hear words that I never imagined would be directed toward me.
I’m sorry. We did everything we could.
My brain, it cannot process this. All emotional parts of me are immediately on lockdown. They call this shock, I guess. I try to hand the doctor his insurance card, surely they will need it. I start thinking of any and all practical things that I might be able to do. Anything, ANYTHING, to keep me from acknowledging this moment. Anything to put off accepting that it is real.
In comes the chaplain, offering comfort. I have nothing to say.
They try to make me eat. They try to make me drink. I can do nothing but sit. And breathe.
A knock on the door, my father. Nobody told him. This is my first of many heartbreaking moments of delivering the horrible news. I slowly shake my head, indicating that the man I was supposed to spend the rest of my life with is not alive.
I get a phone call from his dad. His dad is driving. I am conflicted. He shouldn’t hear it like this. But I can’t let him keep holding onto the hope. Somehow, that seems worse.
I’m so sorry. He didn’t make it. He…passed away.
Questions. So many questions. Everyone wants to know what happened. How? Why?
I can’t help. I can’t do anything. I walk the hallway in a daze.
They let us see him.
As much time as we need, they say.
Surreal. The room is so cold. The shell of who he was, covered up on the bed. There is nothing in this room for me.
A moment alone, I spend it yelling at him, questioning him. I get no answers. He is not here.
I look at the clock. I give myself a time limit. Without that, I may never leave.
“I’m sorry that I couldn’t save you,” I thought. And I mean it in every sense of the word.
Time’s up.
In my last minutes with his body, I believe that his soul arrives. Suddenly, the room feels…different.
In that moment, my heart knows. Wherever he is now, he is finally free.
His soul whispers to mine:
Don’t you realize? Your love is what kept me going for so long. You changed my life for the better. My Earth time may be up, but trust me, hun, you saved me.
