A Widow's Awakening

by Maryanne Pope

  I reach over and take Sam’s hand. No tension remains. “I’ll stick around for seven months,” I tell him, “but after that I’m not making any promises.”

  Just after midnight, an operating room becomes available. I watch as a group of nurses and technicians prepare Sam’s body for the transfer. One person temporarily detaches him from the respirator while another manually forces air into his lungs through a device that looks like a plunger. I want to scream. He’s leaving me and there’s not a goddamn thing I can do about it.

  They wheel Sam out of his room and down the hall. I follow behind, right into the OR. When I turn around and see that several family members have followed us in, I scream at them instead: “Get out! Leave us alone!”

  The medical personnel stare at me. But my crew of supporters high-tail it out of the operating room. I walk up to Sam, lean over and kiss him on the lips. “I love you.”

  Then I take a deep breath, give him one last wave, turn around and walk out into the hallway full of family and friends. I start to thank people for staying but Dale puts his arm around me. “I think that’s enough for today. Let’s get you home.”

  In silence we walk through the hospital corridors and out into the night.

  WHEN DALE pulls up beside our little blue house on the corner, my stomach is in knots. How am I going to face, without Sam, all that represents our life together?

  I walk in the back door and am enthusiastically greeted by Sasha. I kneel on the kitchen floor and hug her tightly; our family of three reduced to two.

  During the day, it had been decided that Ed, Harry and his wife, Katrina, will stay with me—the crisis-workers assigned to my case. Katrina makes tea with a shot of Tia Maria then passes around a plate of Sam’s chocolate-covered granola bars. I sit in front of the fireplace, glaring at the stairs.

  “How am I gonna sleep in our bed?” I ask.

  “Just do the best you can,” says Katrina.

  But walking into our bedroom is like seeing Sam in the ICU after first being told of his brain death. Our bed, my vanity, and the pictures on the wall all look the same and of course, are the same. But everything else has changed. Sam will never sleep beside me again, or empty the change from his pockets onto the counter, or pray to the picture of the Saint tucked in the corner of the mirror before climbing into bed.

  I take a deep breath and open the closet doors but stumble backward at the sight of his clothes. I hold up to my face his gray dress shirt, worn to the wedding in Disneyland last week, and breathe in his scent as if it can sustain me. I pull out the flowered Hawaiian shirt he liked to barbeque in and his blue plaid boxer shorts then shut the doors again.

  Sasha lies on the bed, watching me closely as I brush my teeth with Sam’s electric toothbrush. I then put on his shirt and shorts, take his wedding ring from my vanity and place it on his chain around my neck. He never wore his wedding ring to work because he didn’t want the “shit rats” to know he was married.

  I climb into his side of the bed and put my head on his pillow, clutching his ring tightly. Then, like a wolf in her den or a Canada Goose in her nest, I begin mourning the death of my mate. And just to be on the safe side, I throw in a prayer to the God Sam believed in.

  When I close my eyes, the events of the day replay themselves again and again:

  Sam fell; your husband is brain-dead; heart, liver and kidneys?

  Trauma unit; your husband is brain-dead; skin, tissues and kneecaps?

  He’s in rough shape; your husband is brain-dead; open casket?

  I don’t know how to stop the negative thoughts, so I come up with a nicer one.

  “Come to me in my dreams,” I whisper into the darkness. “And maybe you could turn on your watch light or something…you know, as a sign that you’re OK.”

  I AWAKE at 6:00 a.m. Saturday morning to see a large reddish-orange light framing the edges of the entire bedroom window. I blink a few times to make sure I’m actually awake then watch as the light slowly dissipates. Then I recall my dream. I was in an underground parkade and noticed blood spatter on the concrete a few meters away. I flew toward it, my body parallel to the ground, but when I got to the blood, my field of vision simply faded to black—like the end of an old movie.

  That I actually feel a sense of peace tells me that when Sam’s head hit the cement, it was simply over for him. I know now that he didn’t suffer.

  I fall back to sleep for an hour but when I awake the second time, the horrific hurt crashes into me. There are no mysterious lights, strange dreams or peaceful feelings to buffer the reality. All I feel is excruciating emotional pain and sheer terror.

  There’s a knock on my door. “Can I come in?” It’s Katrina.

  “Yeah.”

  “How did the night go?”

  “Brutal.”

  She sits on the edge of my bed. “What can I do?”

  “You could make poached eggs,” I say. “Those were Sam’s favourite.”

  “You got it.”

  Ed and Harry are waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Good morning, Googie,” says Harry.

  I manage a smile. “Good morning.”

  Ed asks me how I’m doing.

  “I’d love a coffee.”

  Then I wander over to the dining room window and look out at our mountain ash tree. The bright red berries stand out against the yellow leaves and blue sky. It’s a beautiful image. Harry walks up and hands me my coffee.

  “Thanks,” I say, turning to him. “I’m glad it’s a sunny day.”

  “You’re gonna be OK, aren’t you?”

  I nod slowly. “Yup. Someday.”

  After breakfast, I’m passing by the living room window on my way upstairs when I see one of Sam’s black work socks hanging from the birch tree. It’s as if my life has turned into one of those kid’s books—the kind where you have to find ten things wrong with a picture, like a person walking on air or a house with no door. I squint. That’s not Sam’s sock. It’s a squirrel hanging upside down, eating from the bird bell. Sasha joins me at the window and when she catches sight of the squirrel, barks ferociously, tail wagging. Sam always got a kick out of Sasha’s behavior toward squirrels. I smile.

  Then I remember that, according to the clipboard of fun, I was supposed to work day shift today and was going to duck out early so that my mom and I could take Sasha to the annual ‘blessing of the animals’ ceremony held in honour of St. Francis of Assisi—the patron saint of animals—at the Anglican Church where Sam and I were married.

  Plan B.

  I go upstairs. In Sam’s shower, I use his shampoo and soap—personal items he’ll never touch again. I run the water good and hot just like Sam did and the sorrow surges to the surface. Sobbing, I wonder how I’ll ever get through this. I step out of the shower and am reaching for Sam’s towel when I realize that’s one of the last things I’d seen him touch, so I know I can’t disturb it. I reach instead for my own towel which is when I notice my pink packet of birth control pills on the counter.

  “I think I’m gonna need some help in here!”

  Moments later, Katrina finds me in the bathroom trying to put on my bathrobe, but my hands are shaking so badly, I can’t tie it up.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks.

  I push past her and slump onto the bed. “I can’t fucking handle this.”

  “What happened?”

  I open up my hand.

  She looks at the birth control pills. “Uh oh.”

  “He’ll never touch me again.” I don’t recognize my voice.

  “Adri…”

  “We’ll never make love again.”

  She bites her lip.

  “We’re never going to be parents,” I say. “I knew we probably wouldn’t have kids, but this makes it pretty fucking final.”

  Then she holds me as I cry. And cry and cry.

  TODAY, I put on my jean overalls and a little gray T-shirt. No black for this widow; life is dark enough.

 
The first phone call of the day is from the organ transplant coordinator. I sit on Sam’s perch and ask her how the surgery went.

  “Excellent. The doctor didn’t finish until early this morning. He was able to remove Sam’s heart, both his kidneys and his pancreatic islets for transplant.”

  “That’s pretty good, eh?”

  “I’ll say. The transplant surgeries were also successful. Sam saved the life of the fifty-three-year-old man who received his heart, and greatly improved the lives of three other people. You should be very proud, Adri.”

  Pride is rather low on the list of what I’m feeling. Anger, hatred, sorrow, resentment, disgust and fear rank significantly higher.

  I recall the late-night incision in Sam’s side. “What about his lungs?” I ask.

  “Unfortunately, no. One was badly bruised from the fall and the other had pneumonia. Sam’s liver wasn’t suitable either.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well it was healthy,” she says, “but it had significant fatty deposits, which was probably dietary.”

  “That’d be his mom’s Greek cooking,” I say with a small laugh.

  Then I remember the red light I saw in our bedroom window when I first woke up this morning. I ask her what time Sam’s heart was removed.

  “Oh well, let’s see. His heart was obviously the last to go so I’d say that was around…” There is a rustling of papers. “6:00 a.m.”

  Oh my God.

  The next call is from an ICU nurse. They found Sam’s cross and medal.

  “Any idea where they’d disappeared to?” I ask.

  “They weren’t found until after his transplant surgery, so I guess they must have been stuck to his back the whole time.”

  “But you guys were keeping an eye out for them all day,” I reply. “Surely someone must have looked underneath him at some point. I mean, Sam must have been moved at least three times yesterday.”

  “I wasn’t working, Adri. But I could find out more if you like.”

  “Nah.” I wave at the fireplace. “I’m just glad they’re found. Thank you.”

  Two of Sam’s buddies had given him the St. Jude medal the day he’d graduated from police recruit class. They’d got the idea from the movie, The Untouchables, and had told Sam that St. Jude is the patron saint for police officers and lost causes. He’d placed the medal on his chain, next to the tiny cross he’d received the day he was baptized and had rarely been without the two pendants next to his heart since.

  Even though Sam hadn’t attended church regularly since he was a kid, his belief in God, Jesus and the Saints had been unwavering. I’d asked him once why he refused to go to church except for weddings and funerals.

  “Because when I was little,” he’d said, “I realized that many of the people going to church were more interested in the clothes they wore and the cars they drove than in being good, decent people.”

  “Isn’t that a bit over-generalizing?”

  “Of course, it is. Plenty of great people go to church as well.”

  “But?”

  “I just don’t feel I have to go to church to be with God, Adri.”

  The doorbell rings. Upstairs, Tom is at the front door. He looks rough. When he holds out to me a pretty basket of autumn flowers and miniature pumpkins, I stare at it.

  When a person dies, Adri, you get flowers.

  “Uh…thanks,” I say, taking the basket.

  Then he hugs me. But I’m disoriented, and I want to call out to Sam that Tom has dropped by. Since I can’t do this in the new reality, I tell Tom that the hospital staff found Sam’s pendants. He says he’ll send an officer over right away to pick them up.

  I put the basket on the coffee table and am introducing Tom to my family when the phone rings again. I take the call downstairs. Minutes later, I hear a crash.

  “Adri!” Harry yells down the stairs. “You better get up here right away.”

  I run upstairs to find Tom passed out on our front step, bleeding from his forehead.

  “What the heck happened?” I ask my brothers.

  “I’m not sure,” replies a baffled Ed. “He went outside to answer his cell phone and then I guess he fell.”

  Tom opens his eyes and tries to sit up when a police car pulls up in front of the house and two officers get out. When they see what’s happening, they race up the walk.

  “What happened?” the shorter officer asks me.

  “I think he…” I am about to say “fainted” but then realize a guy might not appreciate this choice of words. “Passed out.”

  “You must be Adri,” the officer says.

  I nod and am about to shake his hand when I hear these horrible wracking sobs coming from Tom. He’s sitting up now but his whole body is shaking. I sit beside him and put my arm around his shoulders, which is when I hear a distant voice calling out, “Hello, hello…is anybody there?” The voice seems to be coming from our cedar bush and frankly, at this point, a talking bush wouldn’t surprise me.

  I look at the taller officer, standing open-mouthed in front of me, and point to the ground beneath the cedar bush where Tom’s cell phone obviously landed after he fell. “You might want to answer that.”

  The officer nods, picks up the phone and explains to whoever is on the line what’s happening. Meanwhile, the shorter officer introduces himself and the tall guy as the police chaplains.

  “Nice to meet you,” I say. “But I better get an ice pack for Tom.”

  When I return from the kitchen, I sit beside Tom on the step and hold the compress to his forehead. The shorter chaplain sits on his other side and asks him what his name and date of birth are. But as Tom is answering his questions, I happen to glance up at the sky and notice how the rays of sun shine through the fluttery leaves of our birch tree. I am again struck by the beauty. For just a split second, I even feel happy…and safe. And then just like that, I’m at the top of Splash Mountain again, floating along in the log car with Sam, watching the cheerful chipmunks singing their song.

  Oh boy. There sure as hell was something coming my way.

  I shake my head and see that my brothers are now scattered across the front yard. My teenage half brother, Anthony, from my dad’s second marriage, is on the sidewalk watching for the ambulance. Dale and Harry stand beneath the birch tree. Ed is stationed under the fir, staring slack-jawed at the unfolding drama of his little sister’s life.

  The paramedics arrive, and the tall chaplain goes with Tom to the hospital, leaving the shorter chaplain behind with me. We all watch as the ambulance pulls away.

  I turn to the chaplain. “I hope he’ll be all right.”

  “Me too. The shock and exhaustion are obviously taking their toll.”

  It hadn’t occurred to me until now that because Sam fell at the end of his night shift, Tom, the rest of his team and the other officers at the scene have likely been awake and answering questions for at least thirty-six hours.

  IN OUR living room, my family takes their seats while the chaplain sits beside me on the couch. I pull my knees up to my chest, tightly wrapping my arms around them.

  “I’m very sorry about Sam,” he begins.

  “Thanks. I still don’t know much about what happened.”

  “That’s why Tom was here. He was going bring you up to speed about the investigation.”

  Plan C.

  I stare at the chaplain. “You knew Sam, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “He told me once you were a good guy.”

  The chaplain smiles. I unlock my arms and sit cross-legged.

  “We’re going to have to talk about Sam’s funeral,” he says.

  “Oh?” Just like the basket of flowers, this first mention of Sam’s funeral surprises me. I don’t know why else the chaplain would be sitting in my living room and yet it strikes me as odd that he’s here to talk about funeral arrangements.

  “Since Sam died in the line of duty, the police service is going to cover all costs for his funeral.”
/>
  Again, I’m surprised. “That’s good.”

  I have no idea how much a funeral costs. I don’t know much at all about funerals.

  “Adri, do you have a copy of Sam’s will? We just want to make sure we’re in accordance with his wishes.”

  “Yeah.”

  Thanks to Ed—the financial guru in the family—harping to Sam and me about the importance of financial and estate planning for the past decade, we have wills. I go downstairs to my office and retrieve Sam’s from the file. But before heading back up, I quickly flip to the part about organ donation and read (much to my relief considering Sam’s heart is already beating in another man) that he had wanted to donate his organs for transplant.

  Upstairs again, I read out loud: “If Sam passed away on duty, he wanted a police funeral. If it was off duty, he wanted the service to be Greek Orthodox.”

  That’s odd. Why would we have put the latter clause in Sam’s will when we knew it couldn’t happen?

  “With your permission,” says the chaplain, “we’re hoping to give Sam a full police funeral.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And Sam’s priest has spoken to me as well.”

  My eyes narrow. “Oh really?”

  “Yes. And they’re prepared to also have a Greek Orthodox Service.”

  “Well, isn’t that interesting.”

  “Why?”

  “Because when Sam and I made the decision to get married in the Anglican Church, he was specifically told that he wouldn’t be allowed to be buried by the Greek Orthodox Church.”

  “That doesn’t seem to be an issue now.”

  “Well, it sure as hell was an issue four years ago!” I snap. “Between his goddamn church and my mother, planning our wedding nearly tore us and our families apart.”

  The living room is very quiet. I point my finger at the chaplain. “You wouldn’t believe the shit his church put us through.”

  The room goes a notch quieter.

  “Sam was devastated at losing the right to a funeral in his own church,” I continue. “Do you know how hard that was on him?”