Yes, I gave my daughter drugs and offered them more than Ambien in the days ahead. Don't judge me until you've been there. They weren't illegal drugs, but it's not the normal course of action, to be sure.
It had been the worst day of my life. I had held prayer vigil at the bedside of dying parishioners and family members. But I had never actually watched a person die before--let alone my own husband.
I didn't understand my own reactions to the death. It was cold, matter-of-fact. I didn't wail. I barely wanted to touch his body after trying to wake him up and finding only dead weight. His body was like that of a dummy used for CPR practice, lifeless. I knew he wasn't there in that body, so I found myself strangely uninterested in the body I so loved, the body I applauded each morning as he pulled back the curtain after his shower. The head I shaved and butterly bandaged when he cut his head open on the shower faucet, the back I massaged, the shoulder I snuggled on, the stomach I patted with affection, the butt I loved to squeeze, the groin I cared for after his first heart attack, the fabulous joy stick, the knee I iced after surgery, the feet I soaked and massaged. The body I loved to kiss all over I could not bring hardly myself to touch at all.
In fact, the body appalled me. It was the object of betryal, both his and mine. I wanted it disposed of because he wasn't there. Bill was gone. I was looking for his presence around me, for I can sometimes feel such presences in places, but he was gone. And I wanted that thing out of my sight. It was the source of too much pain.
I was perplexed by myself at the end of the day. I tossed in the comfy Hampton Inn bed where I laid pillows lengthwise beside me to simulate a husband who less than 24 hours before lay beside me. I watched my beautiful daughters fall into the rhythm of sleep by the flicker of the TV.
What was I going to do?
How was I possibly going to be able to afford the schools they're in? Until three months ago, Bill and I had lived apart for two years while Ariana finished high school after I took the dream job 400 miles away. After she graduated, he'd moved to be with me, though it meant he was unemployed. But he'd found a dream job and was so excited about starting it the next Monday, All Saints Day. Most of his salary, though, was going to pay for their education.
What would I do now?
I finally fell asleep somewhere in the middle of the Revolutionary War.
It had been the worst day of my life. I had held prayer vigil at the bedside of dying parishioners and family members. But I had never actually watched a person die before--let alone my own husband.
I didn't understand my own reactions to the death. It was cold, matter-of-fact. I didn't wail. I barely wanted to touch his body after trying to wake him up and finding only dead weight. His body was like that of a dummy used for CPR practice, lifeless. I knew he wasn't there in that body, so I found myself strangely uninterested in the body I so loved, the body I applauded each morning as he pulled back the curtain after his shower. The head I shaved and butterly bandaged when he cut his head open on the shower faucet, the back I massaged, the shoulder I snuggled on, the stomach I patted with affection, the butt I loved to squeeze, the groin I cared for after his first heart attack, the fabulous joy stick, the knee I iced after surgery, the feet I soaked and massaged. The body I loved to kiss all over I could not bring hardly myself to touch at all.
In fact, the body appalled me. It was the object of betryal, both his and mine. I wanted it disposed of because he wasn't there. Bill was gone. I was looking for his presence around me, for I can sometimes feel such presences in places, but he was gone. And I wanted that thing out of my sight. It was the source of too much pain.
I was perplexed by myself at the end of the day. I tossed in the comfy Hampton Inn bed where I laid pillows lengthwise beside me to simulate a husband who less than 24 hours before lay beside me. I watched my beautiful daughters fall into the rhythm of sleep by the flicker of the TV.
What was I going to do?
How was I possibly going to be able to afford the schools they're in? Until three months ago, Bill and I had lived apart for two years while Ariana finished high school after I took the dream job 400 miles away. After she graduated, he'd moved to be with me, though it meant he was unemployed. But he'd found a dream job and was so excited about starting it the next Monday, All Saints Day. Most of his salary, though, was going to pay for their education.
What would I do now?
I finally fell asleep somewhere in the middle of the Revolutionary War.
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