Death
I'm sitting in an apartment and there's nobody home. I'm alone. Scared. Can't breath sometimes. Everybody is dead: the dog, the bird, my husband. I am alone. I walk to the window, look out. Everything seems normal. Cars where they should be. People walking together, but I'm alone 'cause everything is dead in my tiny apartment.
I had that vision one year before my husband died. Today, I'm hanging on to my sanity. Death is of the devil and it's his perfect weapon. I've seen God fearing people turn their backs on God after losing a loved one. I've seen them curse God, question God, beg God. Yet every life will end in physical death.
Today I was thinking of DH physical death. This triggered by a television program that had a prank where this kid pretends he's been hit in the head. There he is lying in a pool of blood, his head is surrounded by it, red ketchup, he says, but by then I'm back in March of 2010. It's the last day of DH life as I know it. I'd seen the episode before, but this was months before DH was found the same way. Now, I'm watching it, and remembering like some horrifying flash back. Suddenly I'm back at the hospital and the bathroom door is opeining and there you are, lying in a pool of blood. Tons and tons of it. The hospital staff is running, calling codes, screaming, and they're all around me, making sure I don't get in the way. But I don't because I've had medical training. I know the best chance for your survival is for me not to get in the way. So I scream out to you that you're going to be okay. And I remember my nursing school training that head wounds look worse than they are, so I hang on, looking perfectly sane, looking perfectly calm. You'd thought me cold just to see me, but inside, I'm running to you, trying to put the blood back in your head.
It's too late. And I know it.
Later, I'm sitting in the waiting room when a priest arrives. He's older, grey, with a perfect Irish accent and I know you're gone before he speaks a word. I know because I've got medical training. They send the priest when they think it's bad. I saw the minister when mom died too, so I know. So I pretend not to know and I'm hoping I'm wrong.
We sit there. Me and this priest. I'm not Catholic, but I feel as if I am. It's funny. We both were raised Catholic and converted, but on this day, this hour, I take comfort in the kindly priest. I call your daughter and give her the bad news. You're still alive, but I know you're not.
One hour later, the doctor calls me in and tells me about the ruptured aneurysm. The doc has learned to stay calm, to make things sound like they're going to be okay. I've had medical training so I know that and play alone. But how long could I keep it up? The answer two weeks. It took two weeks before they finally came back and told me you were gone. In all that time, I stayed by your side, and I prepared your daughter slowly for what was to come. And I never told anyone about the vision I'd had--a whisper in my ear from God.
What was to come? DH used to joke that I was psychic. Believe me I've had my share of knowing stuff that was impossible to know. I'm not psychic, but there is no word to describe how I knew.
When I was twenty-three, I had this dream that I would marry three times, but the third marriage would be to the same man--my second husband. The first marriage would end in divorce. And the second--widowhood.
I had that vision one year before my husband died. Today, I'm hanging on to my sanity. Death is of the devil and it's his perfect weapon. I've seen God fearing people turn their backs on God after losing a loved one. I've seen them curse God, question God, beg God. Yet every life will end in physical death.
Today I was thinking of DH physical death. This triggered by a television program that had a prank where this kid pretends he's been hit in the head. There he is lying in a pool of blood, his head is surrounded by it, red ketchup, he says, but by then I'm back in March of 2010. It's the last day of DH life as I know it. I'd seen the episode before, but this was months before DH was found the same way. Now, I'm watching it, and remembering like some horrifying flash back. Suddenly I'm back at the hospital and the bathroom door is opeining and there you are, lying in a pool of blood. Tons and tons of it. The hospital staff is running, calling codes, screaming, and they're all around me, making sure I don't get in the way. But I don't because I've had medical training. I know the best chance for your survival is for me not to get in the way. So I scream out to you that you're going to be okay. And I remember my nursing school training that head wounds look worse than they are, so I hang on, looking perfectly sane, looking perfectly calm. You'd thought me cold just to see me, but inside, I'm running to you, trying to put the blood back in your head.
It's too late. And I know it.
Later, I'm sitting in the waiting room when a priest arrives. He's older, grey, with a perfect Irish accent and I know you're gone before he speaks a word. I know because I've got medical training. They send the priest when they think it's bad. I saw the minister when mom died too, so I know. So I pretend not to know and I'm hoping I'm wrong.
We sit there. Me and this priest. I'm not Catholic, but I feel as if I am. It's funny. We both were raised Catholic and converted, but on this day, this hour, I take comfort in the kindly priest. I call your daughter and give her the bad news. You're still alive, but I know you're not.
One hour later, the doctor calls me in and tells me about the ruptured aneurysm. The doc has learned to stay calm, to make things sound like they're going to be okay. I've had medical training so I know that and play alone. But how long could I keep it up? The answer two weeks. It took two weeks before they finally came back and told me you were gone. In all that time, I stayed by your side, and I prepared your daughter slowly for what was to come. And I never told anyone about the vision I'd had--a whisper in my ear from God.
What was to come? DH used to joke that I was psychic. Believe me I've had my share of knowing stuff that was impossible to know. I'm not psychic, but there is no word to describe how I knew.
When I was twenty-three, I had this dream that I would marry three times, but the third marriage would be to the same man--my second husband. The first marriage would end in divorce. And the second--widowhood.
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