Grief: The Beginning
I’d initially decided that I didn’t have time to kiss Brian goodbye before I left for my 5am shift at work. I stepped out the door, hesitated, then turned around and walked down the hall.
Past the pink bathroom,
The green room,
The blue room,
The purple room,
The yellow bathroom, and into the den.
Brian came home late and was asleep on the couch. We’re not married, and being the man of faith his father is, he didn’t want us sleeping in the same room.
I leaned down and whispered in his ear something like, “I’m gone, babe. I love you. I’ll see you later,” and then kissed his face.
I started to stand up and then realized his face was cold. I asked, “Hey, why is your face cold?” I turned on the light and noticed his tongue and lips were blue. I sat down next to him on the edge of the couch as panic set in.
“Brian… Brian… hey!”
As I pushed my fingers into his chest to shake him awake, I wondered what happened to him the night before. He’d driven into the city for a couple of meetings. “Did someone slip something in your drink?”. I pulled the cover off of his legs looking for signs of life, they were still warm but his feet were cold.
“Brian!” He doesn’t respond. “Brian, wake up.” Nothing—just the sound of my own voice echoing in my ears. My phone is busted; I can’t get it to work. As I picked up his gold Samsung Galaxy S20, I prayed. “God, please spare my children from this grief.” Then, I called 911.
The operator answers. “He won’t wake up,” I say. They ask me if he is breathing. “I do not know,” I say.
The dispatcher tells me that I have to move his body off the couch and onto the floor so that I can perform CPR. “I can’t. He’s too heavy,” I say. With a firm voice, she says, “You have to try.”
Brian was at least 60 pounds heavier and stood 8 inches or more taller than me. I struggled in my body to move him onto the floor. Using both arms, I swung his legs around until they dangled from the couch. I don’t remember how I moved the rest of his body onto the floor, only that I wanted to be sure not to be careless.
As I’m doing chest compressions, I realize there’s liquid trickling out of his nose. I ask, “What is this liquid running out of his nose?” She only says, “Keep going until the paramedics arrive.” I continue. His dad comes home from work and I call him to the back for help. He makes his own trek down the hall:
Past the pink bathroom,
The green room,
The blue room,
The purple room,
The yellow bathroom, and into the den.
Brian won’t wake up, I say. He begins praying. Moments later, the paramedics arrive, tracing our steps in their big black boots down the hall:
Past the pink bathroom,
The green room,
The blue room,
The purple room,
The yellow bathroom, and into the den, where Brian is still not responding, lifeless on the floor. I implore them, as they go back and forth, to please not wake my children, who are asleep in the blue room.
They pull out a machine. I vaguely remember a red bag and the sound of plastic tearing. They place electrodes on his chest and push a button. I watch as the paper rolls out with a flatline. I stood in the doorway, staring.
They look at me. “Sorry,” they say, “he’s gone.” Suddenly, I can taste metal in my mouth, and my hands are cramped.
The undoing had begun.