911

May 9, 2018.  Normal day.  I got up early.  I had to be at the office for an 8 am meeting, so I caught the 7:12 bus downtown.  Jim was still sleeping when I left. Around 10:45, I checked my personal email and saw we had an invite for an event the following weekend.  I sent Jim a text message:

At 1:10, I let him know I had sent him my free/busy schedule.  He didn’t respond, but he often didn’t answer right away.  At 2:45 , I told him that my evening meeting had been cancelled, so he’d know we didn’t have any conflicts on my time in the evening. Then at 4:51: “on bus” and finally at 5:24: “Marburg”, a street near our home.  This last was to let him know I would be home in about 2-3 minutes.  He usually started looking for my text message periodically after 5 and would open the front door for me.  No response, but it was not that unusual for him not to have his phone with him.

As I approached our house, I saw the lawnmower in the front yard.  The grass was partly cut.  I was annoyed with him.  Why didn’t he start mowing earlier so we could spend the whole evening together?  The front door was open, with just the glass door closed.  Our windows were open.  I could see him sitting on the screened porch, taking a break from mowing.  I called to him and he didn’t answer.  Sleeping?  I couldn’t see his head.

I whispered to myself:  “Oh no.”

He was leaning to one side, his eyes partly open, his mouth open a little, his hand hanging down, fingers curled. I looked to see if I could see his chest rising.  I called him again.  I touched him.  Cold.  I reminded myself to breathe.

911.

I gave the operator the wrong street address.  I said, “my husband is dead.”  I said he had been dead a while and I hadn’t tried to resuscitate.  She asked if I wanted to stay on the line with her.  I said no.  I hung up.  I immediate sent a message to my neighbor and friend, Mary, who is a nurse.

I have always been one of those people who stays very calm during a major crisis.  Small problems cut me off at the knees, but major ones and I get very still.  I corrected my typo. Because Mary would not understand what I was telling her?  Was she going to think I called 912 and find that odd?  I didn’t cry.  I didn’t scream.  I asked my neighbor to put my lawn mower away.  I said, “Jim is dead.  Please put away my lawn mower for me.”

Mary came at a run from two houses away.  She looked at him.  She felt for a pulse.  We went into the living room.  The police came.  They asked questions.  They looked at his medications.  They wrote things down.  They asked more questions.  They said there was no evidence of foul play.  They asked more questions.  They explained again.

“Does your husband have a drinking problem?” an officer asked me.

“No, but he likes beer.  I think he was taking a break,” I said.

“I noticed there is an empty wine bottle and some beer cans on the porch.”

“No, probably beer.  The wine bottle is old.”

“Would he have been drinking wine by himself in the afternoon?”

“He doesn’t have a drinking problem, he has a cleaning problem,” I said.

I worried that I was being too flippant and the police were going to think I had killed my husband.

I cried a few tears, but managed to get them quickly back under control.  I saw neighbors outside talking to the police.  Why is my life a freak show?  My husband is dead.  Why is it anyone’s business what is happening here?

I sent my manager an email from my phone to tell him what happened.  I cancelled an upcoming doctor appointment via text message.  I felt calm and lucid.  I was managing.  I thought I was managing.

The staff from the funeral home arrived.  Did I want a few minutes to say goodbye?  No.  Just no.  As it is, now, five days later, I can just barely remember the way he looked sitting there, dead, the beautiful blue of his eyes just visible in his partly open lids.  I would have loved to see his eyes one more time.  I would have loved to touch him one more time, to hold his hand, to kiss him just once more, but I could not carry that memory of him with me.  Jim is not a dead man and I refuse to remember him that way.

I went upstairs to my room while his body was being removed from the house. Mary came up with me. I made a list of people to call. I adjusted the list of people to call.  I sent FB messages to people whose numbers I couldn’t find so I could call them later.  Once everyone but Mary had left, I started calling.

My mother.  My sister-in-law.  My sister and my nephew.  Our friends.  Mary stood in my kitchen washing dishes while I made call after call.  I left a voice mail when I didn’t know what else to do.  People called me back.  It seemed like I called for hours.  It was closer to one.  I apologized to people for the bad news I was giving them.  I got tired of repeating the story and was annoyed to have to retell it:  mowing lawn, took a break, died, don’t know why, dead when I got home, did not try to resuscitate, yes someone is with me.  I listened to cries, to screams, to cursing.  I cried as I gave the news.  I spoke.  I couldn’t speak.  When I could speak, I apologized again.

I finally convinced Mary to go home.  No, I didn’t need her to stay over.  No, I didn’t want to stay with her.  I appreciated the offer, really I did.  I reassured her.  I promised to text in the morning first thing.  I just wanted to sleep, in my own bed, in my own house.  I went to bed.  I answered two more phone calls.

Then, there in the quiet, with the lights off, I turned on my stomach and I howled.  Deep.  Guttural.  Anguish.  Despair.  Over and over again into my pillow, I howled.  Into the void. I howled, knowing that howling was pointless, knowing that howling would not change the situation, knowing that no one would hear my howls, knowing that howling provided no comfort.  I howled with my whole body, like a wolf, crouched on all fours, unable to and unwilling to stop.