We've all
been there, or at least most of us have.
We've all felt
the earth stand terribly, terribly still.
Our brains
do funny things when that happens. I knew John was gone the moment the
ambulance driver told me it wouldn't make a difference which hospital we used.
Family
gathered at the hospital. Thank you, Family, for not smacking me when I
announced - standing there by your dad, brother, uncle - that I was
donating all his clothes to the homeless shelter. You couldn't know that all
through the ambulance ride I kept thinking that John was a man who would
literally give the shirt off his back to someone in need, and the homeless
shelter had lots of someones in need.
My father,
who had flown to Ecuador the day before, caught the next flight back. Someone
made supper. My aunts called. The world hung suspended and time carved out a
little place for us to bleed.
That night,
I wrote a poem. I wondered how it was even possible that I could breathe when John
wasn't.
I could tell
you about the funeral. It's kind of a blur but I do remember afterward hugging
anyone who came within my orbit, telling them how much John loved them. It was
true, of course, but I'm pretty sure some people wondered where I hid the
flask. I could mention the teenager who
stopped by the casket to slide his lip ring into the buttonhole of John's
shirt. I could tell you about John's brother playing the harmonica and my
brother reading the eulogy. But the family, the friends, the special songs -- you've
been there, too.
After the
funeral, someone asked about my future plans. I have no idea what I said. Later,
at home, I sat on the edge of the bed, trying to wrap my mind around even two more
weeks. It left me nauseated. So I made a deal with myself. The world might be starting up again, but all
I had to do was breathe for one more day.
Days became
weeks. Weeks snuck into months. One afternoon found me sitting on the same edge
of the same bed, explaining to God for the umpteen-eleventh time just how badly
death stinks.
And you've
been there, too.
Then a
scenario began to play out in my head.
I die (freak
tornado, lightning strike, the cause of my demise isn't specific). John meets me at the gates of Heaven and we
hug.
"Whatcha been doing?" he asks, and I
say, "Missing you."
"No,
seriously. What have you been doing?"
"Being
sad." I say.
His look says, "Good thing I love you, 'cause you're crazy!"
"Breathing,"
I add, as if that's any better.
Now his look
says, "And you can't multi-task?"
It's hard to
win an argument with the imaginary specter of your dearly departed. Especially
when he's right.
So I made a new
deal with myself. All I had to do was
breathe for 10 more years - almost as long as eternity.
And life
happened. My kids graduated. Old friends resurfaced. My firstborn got married. I
took my kids and grandkids to see the land of my childhood. My youngest moved
home. I got to know my cousins and found out they're a pretty wonderful bunch
of people. You don't always know that when you grow up overseas, but God bless
Facebook, I know it now. My parents grew
older. My parents died. My granddaughters grew up. Travel, conferences, dinners with friends.
The rewoven
fabric of life has deeper hues.
Today, I'm
sitting on the same edge of the same bed.
It's been ten years. I'm still
breathing.
And you're
here, too.
Thank you.
