Memoirs | scillagrace

As usual, he called me at the office that afternoon while he was working from home. “Hi. How are you doing?” I probably mentioned something about my ordinary frustrations on the job or something about our daughters. Then it was down to business. “What are you doing tonight?” It was Friday night. Our youngest had a rehearsal at a church only a few blocks from our house, starting about a half an hour after I got off work. “Do you want to go out to dinner?” “SURE!” It was cold, the roads were icy. We didn’t want to go far, so we dropped her off and went to a bar & grill that had just opened behind the strip mall in our little town. It was full of activity: TVs were on, people bustled about, artwork from the public schools was displayed on the wall. There was lots to look at and hear. The menu was new to us. Teriyaki green beans sounded good. So did fried artichokes. I ordered a beer; I think he did, too. We had sandwiches as well. Then he got a call on his cell phone. Our daughter was not feeling well and was leaving rehearsal early. We said we’d meet her at home. We all talked in the living room for a little while, as he sat on the couch gathering his strength for the climb upstairs. He seemed pretty tired. He’d come home from the hospital just 10 days earlier with 2 cardiac stents implanted. In the bedroom, he turned on the flat screen TV, took his medications (all 23 of them) and hooked up his dialysis machine and his sleep apnea mask. In our big, squishy bed, we watched an episode of “NUMB3RS”, and then the movie “Regarding Henry” came on. I’d seen it before: Harrison Ford and Annette Bening in a good story about marriage, change and intimacy. It complimented the mood perfectly. We were feeling secure, companionable, close. I fell asleep beside him, holding his hand. I awoke at 6:30 AM. His body was still and cold.

That day was exactly four years ago. What did he dream about that night? Did he feel any pain? Did he try to get up? Did he try to call out or wake me? Did he see a brightness as his neurons flashed for the last time? Was it peaceful? I can only imagine.

I can imagine him firing up feelings of love and bathing in them, floating on a surge of endorphins while images of his babies rushed by. I can imagine him strolling an endless golf course of rolling green fairways, tree-lined and bright. I can imagine him soaring with the tenor section in an angel choir, his energy trembling and resonating with clouds and stars. I can imagine him satisfied and proud and smart and good and kind. I can imagine him wrapped in the embrace of the Universe…forever.

I can imagine him, but can I know him any better, any more? I still feel open to him, and as I continue to try to expand my awareness, I wonder about that. I know that I don’t know what I might be able to know. What is memory? What is sleep? What is consciousness? What is death? Are they ‘real’? I don’t know. What is ‘real’? What I know is that I don’t know. What I feel is that he mattered and still matters. I feel that he is.

I’m feeling rather gray and gloomy today, like the motionless monochrome sky. I went out with wet hair, first to breakfast with Steve’s mom, then to do laundry at the laundromat, then to the grocery store. I feel thoroughly chilled. I think my hair is still wet. Yet, there’s no snow on the ground, so I can’t really blame the weather. It’s still far from wintry…not like it was, say, four years ago…

Four years ago, there was a snow storm. Four years ago, the Super Bowl was on. Four years ago, my husband was in the hospital.

I could give you the whole background history on his medical odyssey, but it would come out dry and clinical. What I’m feeling now is more surreal. Let’s just say that he was in the cardiac wing, waiting to be stabilized enough for surgery. Waiting. Like waiting for Godot. There was no sense of time after a few days. Doctors would come and go and offer conjectures and imagine scenarios. I got the feeling that I should simply camp out with him and see what happened. So I did.

My husband was a sports fan, and the Super Bowl game was a big party occasion on our calendar most years. During the regular football season, we’d watch games together on Sunday afternoons and nap through a good chunk of them. I can enjoy the game and root for the underdog or a sentimental favorite, and usually Jim would fill me in on some of the finer points of strategy or history. I guess you could say we were companionable about it. Jim watched a lot of TV in his later years, and in the hospital, there’s not much else to do. “Camped out in the cardiac wing” meant that during visiting hours, you could find me squeezed in next to him on the bed, cranked up in sitting position, watching whatever was on the box suspended from the ceiling. But I thought the Big Game should be more festive. So I asked the nurses if we could watch it from the visitor’s lounge on the floor, on the big screen, and invite a friend or two. They gave their permission.

It wasn’t a party. It was just me, Jim and one of our church friends who stopped by for a while. I brought a couple of coolers with snacks and drinks. I got in trouble for bringing beer. Not that Jim was drinking it, but I guess it was against some rule, because a nurse came by and told me I couldn’t have it there. Jim was comfortably situated in one of the lounge chairs with his IV pole and beepy-thing beside him. We were in clear view of the nurses’ station the whole time. A few other hospital visitors peeked in periodically, but mostly, we were alone. Our friend Dave told us that there was a huge snowstorm outside. Toward the end of the game, we actually lost power for a while. When it was over, it was past visiting hours, and I was concerned about digging my car out of the parking lot and driving home, so I packed up my coolers and kissed Jim good-bye pretty quickly. Three days later, he had his surgery. Ten days after that, he was dead.

I found out today that the two teams that are in the Super Bowl this year are the same two teams that played four years ago today. They will play on Sunday. And I won’t be watching. I haven’t watched a football game in a long time. We don’t even have a TV.

Life changes. Waiting only lasts a while. Those days, suspended in gray like a snowflake, drift down slowly, but eventually, they evaporate, and something else takes their place.

I’m okay with that…I think… Yeah. I’m okay.