by M. Leighton
It was different.
It was right.
She was right. So right.
Whatever people want to call it as they scoff—insta-love, love at first sight, kismet, fate—I believe in it. I knew early on that I was hooked. We were perfect together. From that very first meeting, we were perfect.
And now, all these years later, as I sit by her deathbed, praying she’ll regain consciousness yet knowing she won’t, I know I’ll never find another like her. I don’t even want to try. I’d rather be alone for the rest of my days and live on the memory of her than ever try to replace her. It simply can’t be done.
I take my wife’s cold hand, rubbing the pale, pale skin with my fingertips, holding it tight as she jerks and twitches, and I whisper, “Are you remembering us, baby?”
The hospice nurse told me that hearing is the last thing to go, so I talk to my unresponsive wife often. For three days, I’ve hardly moved from the bedside. When Grace isn’t sleeping, I hold her and feed her at Lena’s side. Sometimes we even get in bed with her and play until Grace falls back to sleep.
I do everything by my wife’s side, with our daughter present as much as possible. I can’t bear the thought of her dying alone. I want her to feel the presence of the two people who love her most. If she can still feel at all.
The absolute absence of anyone from my family makes me wish things had been different with my parents before they died, and that I had siblings. I could’ve used not only their emotional support, but their physical assistance as well. Since my life revolves around Lena and our bedroom, it’s hard to keep up with much of anything else. Nissa comes over every day to help out. But even more help than my wife’s best friend is Lena’s mother, Patricia. I don’t know how I’d manage without her. She offered to stay. Until her daughter passes.
And I let her.
It’s what Lena would want.
The night that we caught lightning bugs had been the last time Lena’s eyes were open. It had been her “golden day.”
The final words spoken between my wife and I had been declarations of our love as Lena held Grace and the two drifted off to sleep in front of a jar of fireflies. Or lightning bugs, as my beautiful wife called them.
I’d known it was coming, but still I’d been unprepared. When nearly an hour had passed that night, I tried to wake her so that she could go out and tell her mother goodnight, but she wouldn’t rouse. I hadn’t been too alarmed because her sleep has been extremely deep since her illness took a turn for the worse. That’s why I thought little of it.
It was Mrs. Holmes who first realized what was happening. She knew it when she went in to kiss her only remaining child’s cheek before she left.
I watched her bend and press her lips to Lena’s forehead and then her temple and, finally, her cheek. Then she stepped back, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes, and pronounced, “She’s gone, Nate. She’s… gone.”
I’d wanted to argue, to tell my mother-in-law that she was wrong. Wrong! That Lena is hard to wake these days.
But I didn’t.
I didn’t want to upset her. I knew Lena wouldn’t want that. So I held my tongue and waited. I knew time would tell.
And it did.
The next morning, Lena didn’t wake. The next afternoon, she didn’t wake. The next night, she didn’t wake.
The day after that, hospice came. That was the moment when I knew without a doubt that Lena’s mother was right. This is the end. My Lena isn’t coming back.
It was the sweet nurse, Donna, who explained that Lena had ordered their services before when she was… “Well…before,” she’d said with a kind yet sad smile. Nothing else needed to be explained.
Donna has been a wealth of information and help to me and everyone else who loves my wife. She knew all sorts of tricks to keep Lena comfortable, like putting in a catheter and giving her oxygen. Although it seems counterintuitive to me to do these things for someone who isn’t responsive, Donna explained the different physiological processes that are taking place and why they need to be addressed.
“We want to keep her as comfortable as possible. She didn’t want to be in pain. I know you don’t want her to be in pain. And this way, when her body is ready to let go, it can. She’s at rest. At peace.”
I had to leave the room after that conversation. It was all becoming too real.
Time is up.
My wife, my soulmate, the person I’ve loved above all others, is dying. Her body is holding on by a thread, and still, I can’t bear the thought of letting it go. Letting her go.
But that choice is soon taken out of my hands.
On the eleventh day of Grace’s life, Helena Holmes Grant, mother, wife, sister, daughter, friend, and nurse passes away.
Her pain is over, her struggle at an end. Now only I need something for the pain. But I know, as surely as I blink and breathe, that there will be no way to ease it, no drugs that will help me.
There is nothing I can do to stop the pain.
Not for the rest of my days.
Twenty-seven
Always
Nate
The days both creep and speed by, alternating between things happening so fast I feel out of control, and moments passing so slowly time felt never-ending. The hardest parts, I quickly learn, are the ones that crawl by at an excruciating pace.
The second Lena stopped breathing, her body going eerily still, had felt like hours. I sat staring at her, willing her to breathe, to open her eyes.
Only she never did.
I sat there wondering what to do, wondering how to go on, how to move forward. How to live without the other part of myself.
I held her hand for long moments after she died. I stared at her face, memorized her every feature. I cataloged every tiny detail from the peaceful expression to the flawless skin. I wept silent tears of grief and gratitude, glad that she’d gotten to go exactly as she’d wanted—her way. With a blaze of glory, a glory called Grace.
In that odd moment when I was able to look beyond my sorrow, I could see the courage and the splendor of what Lena had done and how she’d done it. She paid the ultimate price. She suffered and bled and cried. And she gave her life for another’s.
My wife was amazing in life, and she’d been amazing in death.
I stroked her soft hair, caressed her cool cheek, kissed her stiff lips, and whispered into an ear that could no longer hear. “You made death beautiful, baby. Just like you.”
When Patricia found me sitting with my dead wife, she called the hospice nurse, and within an hour the house was full of people. They were quiet and respectful, efficient and thoughtful, and they worked like a well-oiled machine. I couldn’t imagine how many times they’d done this to get so good at it and, at that moment, I didn’t really care. I only cared about this time and this body.
Lena’s.
My wife’s.
I watched with glassy eyes and a numb heart as they cleaned her up, removing the catheter and washing her body with caring hands. I picked out clothes for them to dress her in to transport her to the funeral home, and when they lifted her lifeless form onto the stretcher, I bent to give her one final kiss goodbye.
“I love you. Always.”
They asked me to leave the room as they rolled my wife out of the home we shared. I did as they asked. I didn’t get to see them take my Lena away.
Out of my home and out of my life.
Forever.
********
I’m grateful for Nissa and Patricia’s help when it comes time to make arrangements, but I’m more grateful for the little bundle I can hold in my arms. Having Grace with me, holding her, is like holding a piece of Lena. I hadn’t realized, truly realized, exactly what kind of gift Lena had been giving me when she decided to trade her life for Grace’s.
But she’d known.
Lena had known.
She’d known that she would be giving me joy and purpose, a reason.
And that’s why she did it.
So, together, Grace sucking sweetly on her pacifier, we make Lena’s final arrangements. We choose a beautiful white oak casket with a white silk interior. I can hardly look at it for fear that I’ll breakdown as I picture my beautiful wife lying dead within it. But I make it through the morning, even if a bit robotically.
I speak with the funeral director and pick out items and words and songs that will best honor Lena, each one stealing another piece of my soul. I keep my mind and my eyes on my daughter as much and as often as I can, though. She keeps me tethered to the world rather than allowing me to slip peacefully into the dark oblivion that hovers constantly at the edges of my consciousness.
If it weren’t for my child, I have no doubt that I would’ve just shut down. Sold everything and moved to an isolated cabin in the mountains where I have to do nothing more than mourn the loss of Lena for the rest of my days.
But I can’t do that.
I have a tiny, helpless life to nurture and care for. Lena saw to that. She gave me a lifeline.
She knew.
She knew.
********
Days and nights pass in a blur of sleeplessness and despondency. The only person I want to see or speak to is Grace. The others I just tolerate as I have to and walk away from when I can.
If the days surrounding Lena’s death were a midnight sky, events that happen during that time are merely flashes of lightning in the dark.
Selection of the casket.
Flash.
Writing her obituary.
Flash.
Seeing my kitchen overflowing with food, yet not remembering a single visitor.
Flash.
Dressing my daughter in a tiny yellow dress.
Flash.
Carrying Grace into the funeral home.
Flash.
Seeing my wife lying at rest against the fluffy white silk lining of her coffin.
Flash.
“Amazing Grace” sang by a stranger.
Flash.
A pastor’s words over an empty grave.
Flash.
Freshly turned earth seen through the tinted glass of the limo as we pull away.
Flash.
The desolate feeling of coming home to an empty house.
Flash.
No Lena.
Flash.
No Lena ever.
Flash.
Now, as I change Grace’s clothes and then my own, memories of the funeral flit through my mind, things people said, folks I saw and have no real recollection of. Just a vague, foggy memory.
She looks beautiful, Nate.
You did such a good job, Nate.
Everything is just as she would’ve wanted it, Nate.
The flowers are exquisite, Nate.
She’ll be missed, Nate.
I’m so sorry, Nate.
I’m so, so sorry, Nate.
Hollow words echo through my mind, disappearing into the distance like thunder from a fading storm. The only real, concrete thought that demands permanent space in my brain is the simple question: What now?
What now?
What now?
The last thing I remember from the day of Lena’s funeral is lying on our bed, our daughter asleep at my side, and listening to Bon Jovi sing “Always”.
********
Days drag by, each one passing in an almost identical fashion to the one before. I know I’m hanging on by a thread, a thread of dust and bone.
I’m self-aware enough to realize that I’m not doing well. From the outside, I probably look like any other man trying to cope with being a single dad, but from the inside…I’m practically dead. The one thing, the only thing, that keeps me hanging on is Grace.
My daughter.
My wife’s gift.
I can’t bring myself to change anything about the house. Several people who managed to catch me out and stop me for a minute to talk have given me their best shot at advice. Most of it’s total shit.
Clean out her things as soon as you can. It’ll help.
Keep just enough around to remind you, but not enough to drown you.
Talk to her if you want to. It’ll help you heal.
If you do nothing else, at least move her clothes out of the closet.
I let it all flow in one ear and out the other. I know they’re all trying to be helpful, anxious to see me put myself back together. And most of their suggestions are designed to help a grieving person move on.
That’s where the disconnect happens, though.
I have no desire to move on.
Ever.
I’m not being unrealistic or masochistic; I’m being honest. With myself, with anyone who might’ve bothered to ask. I lost the only woman for me, a significant piece of my soul. My version of moving on will be to raise our daughter to the best of my ability, equip her to weather the trials of life and chase her own happiness. And then, eventually, I’ll have to let her go. Let her grow up and find her own way. That is my version of moving on. That is what I want out of life—to do right by my daughter, to do right by my wife.
I’ll include Lena as much as I possibly can in the rearing of our child. That’s the only way I can keep her alive. And I have to keep her alive somehow.
Letting her go…
Saying goodbye…
Forever…
…it’s unthinkable. So I don’t think of it. I can’t. I don’t give a shit how unhealthy the “experts” say it is. I can’t do it. I just…can’t. It’s the one thing I’m not strong enough to do.
********
Days turn into weeks.
Weeks turn into months.
The most I can manage is taking care of my daughter and doing a few hours of work from home for the bank. I’m grateful they’ve been so accommodating.
Back in the early days of my career, I did some portfolio assessment and financial planning. Luckily, the bank I left when Lena got sick has been kind enough to give me a few new clients who need wealth management services. It isn’t particularly taxing work. I can do everything I need to do from home. It’s the perfect arrangement. At least until they hire another full-time person. That wasn’t stated, but it was understood.
I’m okay with the situation. It gives me something to do when Grace is asleep, keeps some money coming in to supplement the investments I’ve been living off, and it’s allowed me to keep one foot in the working world. I know I can’t hide out forever. I’ll eventually have to return to life and living. I’m just not in any hurry to do so.
That arrangement is why, on a Tuesday morning, nine months and four days after Lena died, I’m able to see my baby girl take her first steps.
I’m working on my laptop in the living room, quietly tapping away while Grace sleeps on a blanket a few feet away. She’s surrounded by a mountain of toys she’d been busy playing with. I have to lean up and straighten my back just to see her. It’s the squeak of a stuffed bear’s belly that draws my eye, just in time to see Grace crawling out of her makeshift pen.
I smile at her, setting the computer to the side as I prepare to crawl toward her. She stops at the coffee table to pull herself up, which she’s been doing for a couple of months now. But then, much to my surprise and elation, Grace lets go and takes an unsteady step toward me.
Her expression assures me that she’s as shocked as I am, but she manages to take three more wobbly steps toward me before she just sort of crumples down onto her diapered butt like a train running out of steam.
“Gracie! You did it! You walked!” I exclaim.
Hurriedly, I snatch my phone from the sofa before I rush over to pick her up and take her back to the coffee table. I position her where she looks comfortable, and Grace stands there obediently, smiling around the fist she’s chewing on in an effort to ease the ache of the teeth that are coming in.
After making sure she’s stable, I slowly back away and get down on the floor, aiming my phone right at my daughter before clicking the record button. “Come to Daddy, Grace. C
ome on, baby. You can do it.”
She watches me, still holding onto the edge of the coffee table, the tips of her fat little fingers blanching with her efforts. At first, she completely ignores my request. She reaches for the edge of a magazine and tries to pull it off the table, much more interested in it than me at the moment.
When she realizes it’s too far out of her reach, she turns her attention to a red block letter, in the shape of an A, from her enormous stack of toys. She eyes it, and I wonder if she’s debating whether it’s worth the effort to crawl all the way back over there to get it.
Eventually, she makes up her mind that it’s not and looks back to me for a little more encouragement. “Come on, Grace. Come to Daddy.”
I shut off the video and restart it at least six times. I’m nearing resignation when Grace finally decides that now is the right time. Then, just like that, she lets go of the table, flexes her tiny fingers, and wobbles toward me.
On her feet.
I capture the whole thing on my phone, and for the first time in nine long months, I laugh. I feel the subtle stirrings of real pleasure. I love my daughter more than anything, especially now that Lena is gone, but my grief has been so deep, it’s affected my ability to enjoy the little things. I care for Grace diligently, I love her profoundly, but on the inside, I’m broken and no other love can fix that.
Her first steps, however, mark a turning point.
The first step toward healing.
The first of a few.
From that day on, Grace and I interact on a whole different level. She’s walking surely and chattering constantly before I know it, bringing true joy back into my life. She does it as effortlessly as her mother did.
Before I know it, spring has arrived.
********
Spring brings with it a renewal, as it’s wont to do, but for me, it’s a renewal of pain. The warming of the weather, the blossoming of the flowers, the leafing-out of the trees—it all forces ghosts out of hiding, and I become haunted by images of my dying wife.