8/9/13
Almost three weeks ago I lost my fiancé very suddenly to a
pulmonary embolism. He was 30 years old. I write that this is a widow’s blog
because for all intents and purposes Jon and I were married. We lived together
for almost all of our three years together. We shared finances. We didn’t make
a single decision, no matter how big or small, without consulting one another.
He was an equal partner in raising my three daughters from a previous marriage.
Throughout the past couple of weeks I have struggled to find meaning in the
meaningless. I’ve struggled to manage day to day without feeling like my whole
world had just collapsed – which it very much did. I’ve read countless books on
dealing with loss and I’ve consulted with others who have endured similar
tragedy and I’ve come to one conclusion for myself: I need to help others who
find themselves in this same lonely and terrifying place.
At first I thought I’d write a book – I’m a writer. I still
want to do that. I found in all the books that I’ve read that nothing really
seemed to capture what it is to lose someone so young. I’m a 30-year-old widow.
Most books include survivor stories of widows who lost elderly spouses to
illness or simply old age. Nothing seems to exist about what happened to me.
And I know I can’t be alone. To share my story and possibly give comfort, or
even just commorodorie, to another – to share my story and my own coping
mechanisms and ideas seems the best therapy. Writing a book would take years. I
couldn’t even begin to complete the book until my path also completed. And it’s
a path that never ends. So, sharing my feelings as they happens seems the more
appropriate response.
I want to first start by sharing my story.
Jon and I met while we were both at a crossroads in our
lives. I had just gotten out of an emotionally abusive relationship and he out
of one that was entirely unhealthy. We had met previously, but were both in
those relationships. We instantly fell in love. He often joked that he came
over one night and never left. It’s the truth. He spent that first night at my
house and in the three years we shared, only spent the nights he was
hospitalized for a congenital heart problem apart. On the night of July 21,
2013 we had just returned from a camping trip on an island with several
friends. When we returned with our kayaks full of camping gear we went straight
to my father’s house to unload. We kept the kayaks there. We went out for
brunch with our friends. We floated in my dad’s pool. Our friends left,
exhausted from the weekend excursion and Jon took me home. We both showered and
then spent an intimate bit of time together before he left me to nap while he
retrieved the rest of our camping gear and our dog from my dad’s house. When he
returned, he woke me. I remember him being more passionate than usual and I
soaked it in with open arms. We watched Archer, one of our favorite shows and
finished an entire season. We then watched an episode of Dexter and ate crappy
Stouffers Lasagne. Then we went to bed, both exhausted. Before we fell asleep
it seemed like he did everthing with just a little more tenderness. I took not
of it as we lie in our bed. He told me he loved me. And not just in a passing,
it’s what we do sort of way. He emphasized it. And he repeated it. It was
almost like he knew what was happening. I remember having a terrible thought,
that something was going to happen and almost the exact scenario of what was
coming only hours later played out in my head. I shook it from my thoughts as I
drift off to sleep. I’m not one to believe in things like premonitions, but in
hindsight it is eerily relevant.
That was around 11:30 on the 21st of July. At
just before 2am on the 22nd I was awakened by the sound of Jon
making a weird noise. At first I thought he was having a nightmare as it
sounded like a frightened moan. As I came to, I nudged him to wake up and then
I realized that the noise he was making wasn’t from a dream, it was a pained
wheezing. I rubbed his chest and begged him to wake up. He did. I sprung up out
of bed and practically darted toward the door. He stumbled as he got out of bed
and made it only to the doorway of our bedroom. He bounced back and forth in
the doorway as I grabbed my phone from the bedside to catch him. I almost broke
my arm catching him as he fell. Still conscious, I asked him if I needed to
call 911. He couldn’t speak, but made a pained plea, saying, uh-huh. Then he
collapsed onto his back. He wasn’t breathing, I couldn’t feel a pulse. I dialed
911 frantically. I told the 911 operator he had collapsed and wasn’t conscious.
I said, “I think he had a stroke or something.” I don’t know why I said that,
it didn’t make any sense. Jon had a history of heart problems and just months
before had been hospitalized for pulmonary emboli. The man on the phone had me
do a stroke test and I don’t even remember all that entailed. But finally he
told me to start doing chest compressions. He explained what to do which I
vaguely remembered from a CPR course I had taken. One, two, three, four he
counted with me over and over as I did compressions. The man assured me help
was on the way. He urged me to count out loud. This went on for seven grueling
minutes. During that time I heard a trickling. I reached down with one hand as
I continued compressions with the other, fearful I might break a rib. Jon was
urinating. I knew what that meant. Once the paramedics arrived, I reeled
through the list of Jon’s medical history – apical cardio myopathy, an inverse
T-wave, chronic hypertension, a recent hospitilazation for pulmonary emboli; he’s
taking Metoprolol and Lostartin, he stopped taking Warfarin two weeks ago. To
this day I am amazing I was able to recount it all so perfectly.
Once the paramedics took over, I put on clothes – both Jon
and I had been completely naked. It pains me to admit that even though I knew
he was dying on the floor of our laundry room I was embarrassed that we were
both naked when all these men stormed into our home. I grabbed my phone again
and immediately called Jon’s parents. The first call went to voicemail. I tried
his mother. Voicemail again. His dad.
Voicemail. It took four calls before they answered. I told them what had
happened. The panic in my voice must have been palatable. His mom asked if I
had given all of Jon’s medical history. I told her I had but said it again to
put her at ease. I asked them how soon they could get here – we are in Florida,
they live in Maryland. We got off the phone with the promise of an update and
then I called our best friends. I asked them to come right away and explained
through choked tears what was happening. After what seemed like an eternity,
they were at my house and I was climbing into an ambulance with my beloved
being told that it didn’t look good – we’re breathing for him and pumping his
heart for him they told me. I called Jon’s parents again from the ambulance and
relayed what I had just been told. His parents said they were packing their
bags and headed to the airport and to call them as soon as I had an update.
Once we got to the hospital – not under lights and sirens
which at the time seemed like a good thing, but now I realize they probably all
knew he was gone – they unloaded him from the ambulance and wheeled him quickly
into the ER. A nurse rolled a chair over for me to sit in in front of the door
where they took him. Asystole. Asystole.
Asystole. I kept hearing them say. One need only watch one hospital drama to
know what that means. His heart was not beating. I sat there numb. I didn’t
feel anything. Not fear. Not panic. Not sadness. Just nothing. At one point,
one of the paramedics came out to talk to me. He told me that one of the best
doctors in the county was working on my Jon and they were “doing the best they
can.” It’s phrase I’ve come to learn means, “he’s dead.” A few minutes later
the doctor came out. The fact that the doctor was not still in the room should
have told me everything I needed to know. He told me that Jon’s heart was not
responding, but that they would keep trying. He invited me to come in the room.
I said no. I said no. I thought I’d get in the way. I thought I’d sob
uncontrollable and be inclined to interfere. I thought it better to stay in the
hall. Jon’s best shot was for me to not be there getting in the way. It’s a
decision I have not, as of yet, regretted.
A little while later the doctor came out again. The hall was silent for
the first time in a half hour. He asked me about Jon’s medical history. How had
he felt before bed? Was he complaining of anything? What could have triggered
this? I answered all of his questions with careful precision, like it would
somehow bring him back. Finally he said, “it’s been an hour. We’ve tried
everything. I’m very sorry, but he’s passed.” I didn’t sob. I didn’t yell, “no”
over and over as Hollywood would have you believe this sort of thing happens. I
just simply shook my head and then my hands and then my whole body. I stood and
told them I had friends in the waiting room and that I’d like to be with them.
He showed me the way and when I emerged through those doors I just looked at my
best friend, and Jon’s – they are a couple – and I shook my head. They both
looked at me curiously, pleading with their eyes that they had no idea what I
meant. Then what came out of my mouth was a pained and probably inaudible “he’s
gone.” I fell to the floor shaking wildly. My friend wrapping her arms around
me and trying to calm me. I don’t know what Jon’s friend was doing. Finally
after a period of time I have no idea how to explain – it could have been
seconds, minutes or even hours, I just don’t know – I stood and said, “ I have
to call Jon’s parents.” I dialed their number with unsure hands. They answered
from the airport, presumably both with their ears to the phone. I uttered the
same words, in the same way, “he’s gone.” What I heard next will haunt me for
the rest of my life. Jon’s mother wailed. His father just kept saying, “no.” I
dropped the phone into my lap and Jon’s friend retrieved it. He spoke to them
for a few seconds or a few minutes or a few millennia as I pulled myself
together and then he gave the phone back to me. There was a sudden calm in his
dad’s voice telling me that their flight would not be in until 10 in the
morning. It was only 3.
The hospital staff had told me during all of the commotion
that the nurses were going to clean Jon up and then I could go in and see him.
This statement didn’t settle until after I spoke with Jon’s parents. Then I
found myself asking, “do I even want to see him in such a way?” Only hours ago
Jon had been paddling along in a kayak, happy as ever. Now he was laying cold
and dead on a hospital gurney. Is that how I wanted to remember him. The
registrar told me they weren’t ready, so I had time to think. By the time they
came to get me I had decided that I needed to see him. I asked Jon’s friend to
go with me. He was Jon’s lifelong friend and the only person in the world who
meant as much to him as me and our girls. And I couldn’t do it alone. I grasped
his arm as we walked down the hall to the room where Jon was. They took us in
and Jon had been dressed in a hospital gown – I think. Maybe he was just
covered in a blanket. I don’t remember. He still had a tube coming out of his
mouth from the respirator. There was dried blood around his nostrils. Someone
had neatly folded his arms across his belly. I sobbed. For the first time that
night, I sobbed. I leaned into Jon’s friend not knowing what to do. Do I touch
him? Do I kiss him. I contemplated for a moment before leaning over his body and
clasping his hands through the rigid hospital blanket. He was already getting
cold. His face had already lost most of its color, but he looked peaceful. A
circular scab where he had cut himself shaving a couple days prior was still on
his cheak – the stubble of the weekend still apparent. I leaned over and kissed
his hands and wailed, “Oh, baby.” Not in the erotic way it had been previously
uttered, but in a pained, questioning sort of way. I just kept saying, “I love
you” over and over. And then I looked at his friend, who had tears welling in
his eyes, and I said I need to leave. And we left.
I was told there was more information needed – insurance info,
funeral home choice, etc. So we stayed for a while longer. Finally I told them
the name of a nearby funeral home and that I didn’t have any of Jon’s insurance
information because he had just started a new job. He had health insurance, but
we hadn’t received the card yet. I had quit smoking about seven months or so
ago and, sitting outside the ER, looked at my friends and said I wanted a
cigarette. I didn’t have one. I was wearing a conglomeration of weird articles
of clothing. A pair of my gray work pants. A button up shirt of Jon’s and Jon’s
house shoes. They were the first things I could find without having to step
over Jon’s body to get to my bedroom. Our friends had brought clothes and shoes
for both Jon and I in a bag after I left in the ambulance. I changed out of Jon’s
house shoes and into my flip flops and then they took me home. As we drove, the
whole world seemed a blur. We got to our house and I opted to lie down in my
daughter’s bed. She had a trundle for sleepovers which I pulled out for our
friends and we all just lay there in silence until my dad showed up. Then we
decided to clean. I needed something to do and in a matter of hours my home
would be filled with do gooders coming to try to help. My friends cleaned while
I wondered aimlessly in circles. Several times I attempted to “get some sleep”
but always emerged thinking I needed to do something.
At around 8 that morning – both my mother and father had
already arrived – a man from organ donation called. Jon was listed as an organ
donor and I was listed as his emergency contact. The man on the phone
apologized for calling so soon, but explained that there was only 24 hours to
harvest organs and other body parts for donation and he had several questions
that might be hard to answer. Sitting at my dining room table with our friends,
my father, my mother and her boyfriend I had to go detail by detail into Jon’s
medical history. I did. Without missing a beat. I knew everything. Every
ailment. Every medication. The dosage of those medications. The people around
me looked on in awe as I answered the questions. “How the hell can she do this
right now,” they mused to one another. My mom’s boyfriend looked at my mom and
even said, “wow, she’s smart.” I was later told I should revisit my education
and become a cardiologist. The organ donor then told me all the ways Jon would
help others. His eyes will give a new born the gift of sight. His bones will
give accident victims the gift of mobility. More than 200 people will be helped
because of my Jon. It gave me comfort.
At ten that morning I got a call from Jon’s parents – they wanted
to see Jon. They asked me to meet them at the hospital. I got there before them
and spoke to a nurse who explained that Jon was in a morgue and no one could
see him. I was worried that Jon’s parents wouldn’t be happy. I sat in the lobby
shaking violently. I was approached by a volunteer and asked to eat a piece of
candy – she didn’t want me passing out. Finally after what seemed like forever
Jon’s parents arrived with Jon’s Aunt and Uncle who are also his God parents. I
met them in the parking lot and we embraced in what was the single most
emotional hug I’ve ever experienced. They cried, but I wailed. I shook and I
could barely stand. They helped me inside. Jon’s mom, who must have been
wrecked with agony, immediately demanded that I be given something. She’s a
nurse. The ER nurse came in and explained that it wasn’t a good time to see Jon
and that they should wait until he was at the funeral home. He answered some
questions and we were on our way.
On the drive back to my house I was catatonic. I responded
only to say where to turn next. When we got home, my kids were there. They had
been at their father’s house in South Carolina for the summer and he drove them
through the night to be with me. I met them in a teary and emotional embrace. I
apologized to them. I told them it was going to be ok. But in my heart nothing
would ever be ok ever again. Then I laid down on the couch in what felt like a
coma for the next several hours.
Later that day we had to meet with the director of the
funeral home. His name is John. I did not like that that was his name so we
called him John with an H. This is where the advice starts.
I decided I should dress myself. I put on a maxi dress Jon
liked. But I covered it up with one of his button up dress shirts and tied it
in a knot. I carried with me Jon’s kilt. He hiked the Appalachian Trail in it
before we met and he wore it at home when we were just lounging around. He was
wearing it when he proposed and plan to wear it at our wedding. One of the
first things I told the funeral home director was that I wanted him to be
wearing it at the funeral. My biggest fear at that point was whether or not I’d
be able to have a say in the decisions about what happened to Jon from there.
Since we weren’t married, I was not the legal next of kin. I feared that his
parents would take the reins and that I would be an afterthought. Never have I
been more wrong. They wanted to fly him home to Maryland to be buried and to
have services there so that family could all be present. My immediate thought
was, “how will I visit him?” But immediately I was consulted on every decision –
will he be cremated? No. What casket would he like? Something simple and
beautifully crafted. What will the obituary say? My name and the girls’ first.
I wanted to put his wedding ring on his finger. OK.
My first set of advice to a newly widowed person is this –
funerals are expensive. Jon had just gotten a new job. It paid well. But he had
only been there a week before he passed so we didn’t have much money in the
bank. I could not have afforded a proper funeral had it not been for his
parents. Be prepared for that dollar amount to sting. It creeps into the
thousands without you even realizing. Even with Jon having fairly well off
parents, we still became award of cost and looked for ways to save a bit of
money. If you are planning to send the body “back home” expect that number to
climb even faster. But, the funeral home director is your friend. They take so
much off your plate. They are prepared to handle everything. Let them. It’s
what they do for a living and they are good at it. You are not. Take their
advice.
Since we were having funeral services in Jon’s parents’
hometown, I was left to scramble something together in our home with the people
we knew and loved. I quickly decided that a beach memorial was in order. I
decided I wanted a service at a beach where you could see the island where Jon
spent his last weekend. I didn’t let others help. I should have. Don’t be a
martyr. Let your friends and family help you. It doesn’t mean you love them
less. It means you are wise. I was not wise. I asked friends and family to
print and frame certain pictures. I asked people to buy candle luminaries that
float off into the sunset as a tribute. But that’s all I asked. I should have
asked someone to be a master of ceremonies per say because that ended up being
me. I kept it together to do it, but I ended up feeling like I must have looked
like I didn’t care. I let friends and
family organize an impromptu reception at our home. They bought beer and wine
and brought food. I’m still enjoying leftover booze. But I should have let
others start and end the ceremony. I didn’t and I took it on myself, a feat
which I managed but wish I hadn’t.
In the end, about 100 people showed up – some of them had
never even met Jon but had heard stories of his awesomeness. I am a radio host
so many people felt compelled to attend just because they felt like they knew
us. People spoke who had only met Jon once or twice. It was truly touching. Later
that night, after everyone else had left, including Jon’s parents, our best
friends were all that was left. We had a box of wine called “chillable red.”
That was the wine that Jon would drink on camping trips. No one else would dare
drink that wine. We poured a rather large glass, started a fire (Jon like fire)
and we each took turns saying something about him. Then we each poured a bit of
the wine into the fire. This was a personal tribute we shared between our
closest friends and I highly recommend coming up with something personal for
you. It made all of us feel closer to Jon and the stories we shared during it
brought smiles to our grieving faces.
On Wednesday, two days after Jon passed, his family and I
were able to go to the funeral home to see his body. I was terrified. Just two
weeks prior to Jon’s death we had traveled to Maryland for Jon’s grandfather’s
funeral. During the viewing, his grandfather looked nothing like himself and
Jon and I had had a conversation about whether or not it was a good thing to
see someone is such a state. I was of the mindset that it’s better to remember
your loved one alive and well than dead in a box. I wasn’t particularly keen on
seeing my Jon dead in a box. I was afraid it would look like someone else. But
I was desperate to put that ring on his finger. It was my only chance. So I
went. When we walked into the room where he was and I approached the casket, it
was him. It looked like him. He even had the slightest smirk on his face. Jon
was known for his smile. Surprising myself, I slid the wedding band over his
stiff fingers and I cried. I said, “you can’t say I do now, but I can. I do
baby.” And I held his hand, now wearing the wedding band he so looked forward
to showing off and I kissed his head. And I’m so glad I did. It was the wedding
we were robbed of. And his mother and father were able to see him and finally
feel that losing their son was very much real and not, actually a dream.
Spilling your guts to random strangers
Later on that day we were set to leave Florida for Maryland.
While in the airport with Jon’s parents and our three girls, I decided that I
should grab some drinks and snacks for the trip so I ventured to one of the
shops in the airport. I had no intention of speaking to random strangers about the
pain I was feeling. But there was a woman in the store. She was trying to
decide which drink to get and she looked at me and pointed to two different
drinks and asked which one she should get. One of the drinks she pointed to was
a Pomegranite tea – Jon’s favorite. I immediately told her the Pomegranite tea
and without even thinking said, “that was my husband’s favorite, he just passed
away two days ago.” I was almost embarrassed at the revalation to a complete
stranger, but her response was priceless. She looked at me with a sense of
understanding and compassion and said, I lost my husband a few months ago. We
shared a very brief commorodity and then parted ways. A few moments later she
came up behind me at the check out holding the pomegranate tea and said, “I
hope it gets better for you, I’m sorry for your loss.” It was so profound and
comforting I cried all the way back to our terminal. They say telling your
story is a crucial part of recovery and I say, your body knows who to tell,
listen to it.
Back in Maryland
The reunion among Jon’s family without Jon was quite the
emotional feat. There were hugs and tears aplenty. None of them had ever seen
me without Jon. I served as a reminder of what they had lost. But to me, seeing
them was a reminder of not only what I had lost, but what I was about to. These
people are my family. But would they be after the dust settles. My new fear
became, how to I remain a part of this family when I had never officially
become a part of it? One of Jon’s relatives told me, when I opened up about
that fear, that I needed them now, but I might not always. And at the time I
didn’t like that response. I still don’t really. I love Jon’s family and I want
to be a part of them forever. But, there will come a time when I move on and
then what? Do I expect them to still consider me daughter, or sister or niece
or cousin when the day comes that I marry another. I’m 30. It’s going to
happen. Maybe not anytime soon, but someday. And if we had been married, would
it be any different? They’d all still look at me and assume that someday I’d
move on and have a new life. It’s what you do. It’s what I know Jon would want.
He doesn’t want me waiting alone for the rest of my life. Being with them makes
me feel a part of him and I don’t want to lose that. My kids see his parents as
grandparents. I don’t want them to lose that. But is it inevitable? I suppose
to some extent it is, but for now, I’m unwilling to see it that way.
Viewing
If you do a viewing, understand right away that it is going
to suck. The second you see your loved one in a casket, the emotions are going
to flow. But that’s not the worst part. You’ll pay your respects. Maybe you’ll just
look and say a prayer. Maybe you’ll touch their hands. Maybe you’ll kiss their
heads. I did all of the above. But then you are going to be subjected to an
onslaught of hugs and well wishes and with each new hug you are going to cry.
And then just when you think you are enjoying this massive amount of people
around you telling heartwarming stories that actually make you smile, you are
going to look at the slideshow playing of pictures and you are going to crumble
to pieces again. But none of that is the worst part. Throughout the night you
will find yourself increasingly more attached to that body in the casket – at least
if you are anything like me. I told him stories. I told him about the typos in
flower cards and even the prayer cards we had printed – “open you yes” instead
of “open your eyes.” Maybe you’re going to love being able to kiss him and see
him. At the end of the night when you have to leave, if you are anything like
me, it’s going to hit you like a ton of bricks. You’re going to approach that
casket and kiss his head and clasp his hands in yours and maybe share a private
joke or two and then you’re going to know that it’s time to leave and tomorrow,
he’s really going to be gone. Someone is going to close that casket and put him
in the ground and you will never see him again and suddenly this feeling of
dread consumes you. You think it can’t get worse than this, but it can. Prepare
yourself.
Funeral
The funeral isn’t so bad. People tell awesome stories about
your loved on. In the case of my Jon they were mostly stories about the
Appalachian Trail and other monumentous advertures. You smile at these memories
and thing it’s not so bad. You laugh at the anecdotes. You cry at the sad
moments. You hold hands with those closes to you for comfort. But at the end of
the funeral, it’s the end. And you have nothing left to cling to. At the end of
Jon’s funeral I made sure to meet with the director to get Jon’s kilt and
wedding ring back. Then I left the room. I waited outside behind the hearse and
when they carried the casket out I wailed louder than I had since he died. I
could barely stand. My twelve year old daughter practically carried me to the
car. We then followed the hearse for an hour to the cemetery and I was in a
trance every second.
Internment
Just when you thought it couldn’t get any more emotional, it
does. So here’s how the internment works. You’re handed a rose. As is everyone
else. Then you sit, or stand near the casket while a priest or whoever conducts
a service. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” Prepare to crumble. I had to be the
first one to put my rose on Jon’s casket. I did it. And I kissed the casket and
I said I love you. But then I sobbed uncontrollably.
Thank you for sharing these moments. I love you!
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