This is the introduction and first chapter of a book I began writing in August 2005:
Today is July 10, 2014. This is the eighth year I have celebrated my birthday without Karen. The first year was the most difficult because that day was also the four month anniversary of her death. I first began writing this book at the end of August, 2006, a little over five months after Karen died. I did quite a bit of writing in a short time, but then I stopped. Writing about dealing with the grief process as I was actually going through it was much too difficult and at times became little more than a redundant journal. I tried a few times in the years after her death, but still I stopped. Now, after eight years, I can perhaps begin anew.
The first twelve months were the most difficult, most overwhelming moments of my life. After the first anniversary of Karen’s death, I think most people not only expected me to be “okay” but believed believed I was okay. Yes, I found reasons to laugh but I was never really “okay”. The second twelve months, from the first to the second anniversary, were somewhat easier, but still not great. The reminders were still there and sometimes quite powerful. I just felt that most people really didn’t want to hear that I was not always “okay”.
Once the second anniversary had passed, most people thought I was doing well and ought to be moving on with my life and even dating. But those months were a time of real reflection and the complete realization of just how much everything had changed, even the smallest things, although much seemed quite the same. Initially I titled this When Love Is Taken My Journey Through Grief. I decided to change through to with because I am not so sure grieving has a specific ending. I think that intense grief diminishes over time but grief never really ends, not completely…
I am not sure why I have been feeling drawn to try finishing this book now or even how to write the story in a way that might make sense to anyone. In less than a year, three women I know have lost their husbands. Two deaths were quite unexpected. The other, while perhaps not so unexpected, was certainly quicker than expected. One woman is younger than me, one the same age as me and one slightly older than me. Perhaps that is why I am feeling so compelled to share my journey.
Each time I heard the news of the loss, the eight years since Karen died seemed to melt away as I was reminded of my own journey with a grief that never seems to go away but becomes more and more bearable until such moments as these. Each woman will be alone in her grief, despite being surrounded by family, friends, co-workers all wanting and willing to provide a comfort that just can’t ever really comfort. Each woman will grieve differently and move forward differently than I did. But one thing will be the same for all of us. The life we knew will be forever changed by the absence of the one we loved. Obvious statement, I know. But unimaginable in its depth until it is experienced.
On Friday March 10, 2006, my life shattered completely. I lost everything I believed in, including my faith, in those moments when I held Karen’s hand as she took her last breath and her heart beat for the last time. The process began less than forty-eight hours earlier. Karen was in surgery when I arrived at the hospital at almost 6:30 PM. Wednesday evening. I was happy that she was finally having the surgery because she had been in the hospital for three weeks. I thought, “Now we’ll finally know what’s wrong and we can deal with it.”
I prepared myself for what I thought would be the worst-case scenario. The doctors thought Karen had ovarian cancer because she had a large mass in her lower abdominal area, which seemed to be growing upward from the ovaries. They planned to remove the mass and do a complete hysterectomy. Every blood test indicated that she had cancer. Since the mass was nearly twenty-seven centimeters, I knew the chances of her being in the advanced stages and not having longer than a year to live were far greater than her being able to recover fully. But when the surgeon walked into the waiting room, he told me what I never expected to hear: that Karen was dying, not of ovarian cancer as we thought, but of something so unimaginable that I still have a difficult time comprehending not just how it happened, but how it could have gone on as long as it did.
When he told me he had “very bad news”, my mind processed, in less than a second, what I expected to hear: that Karen had ovarian cancer, that she was in the advanced stages and had perhaps six months to a year to live. But that’s not what the surgeon told me. He started talking about her small intestines and that at some point in time, and they could never know exactly when, the blood stopped flowing to her small intestines. As a result, her small intestines literally died, decayed and rotted inside her body and the mass was almost gangrene-like in appearance. He said her body had built a wall around the mass to protect itself. When he made the incision, he said the stench in the operating room was unbelievable. He said the body could not survive without the small intestines, and he didn’t know how she survived the three weeks she had been in the hospital. I knew from the way he was talking that Karen did not have long to live. I just didn’t know she had less than forty-eight hours.
I remember leaving the hospital and walking around in circles trying to come to terms with the reality that Karen was going to die, not in months but in days. I called my sister. I’m not sure why I had to call her. I just knew I had to tell her before I could tell anyone else. I don’t remember exactly what I said to my sister other than that Karen was dying and what was wrong with her. I do remember that my sister said: “I’m sure you’ll get through this”
After I finished talking with my sister, I sat down on the curb and cried. All I thought at that moment was how easy it was for my sister to tell me I would get through this. She wasn’t losing her husband. I was losing my partner. The woman to whom I had made a commitment and with whom I had planned to share the rest of my life. How quickly those plans ended. Then I called Karen’s mother and told her. She was, of course, shocked by the news. I also called a neighbor, Lori, and asked if she could give me a ride home from the hospital. I didn’t have a car and just couldn’t imagine riding home on the bus that night. I didn’t tell Lori anything when I called her. I waited until she picked me up and at some point said, “It’s not good and it’s not what I expected.”
I didn’t say anything else during the ride home. I know I told her exactly what was happening. I think I may have told her after we got out of her car. I walked in the apartment and my mother asked how Karen was.
“Karen is not coming home again. Karen is going to die.”
My mother was hard of hearing. I usually had to repeat myself. But this time she heard what I said. Then I went into the bedroom Karen and I shared, knowing she would never be there again, looked up at the ceiling, and, with tears spilling from my eyes, asked the God I believe in, “Do you really have to do this? Take them both now? Who else are you going to take? My mother? The other animals? Are you going to take everything from me?”
My oldest dog, Travis, who had been with me for thirteen years, had been having problems standing up and walking. I knew the time was drawing near when I would have to make the decision I didn’t want to make. Karen had asked me to do whatever I could to keep Travis comfortable until she could come home and say goodbye to him. We were going to take him to the veterinarian and have him put to sleep. But she wasn’t going to get the chance to see him one last time, and I was going to lose them both.
I sat in front of my computer and spoke to someone I had never really talked with until that moment: Karen’s father. He had passed away years earlier. I met him once when I lived in Massachusetts. “I know you will be with her.” I said as the tears fell once again. “I know she won’t be alone and you will take her hand.”
I called Karen’s cousin Kathy, whom I had known long before I ever met Karen, and her mother, Karen’s aunt Edna, to tell them that Karen was dying. I didn’t get much sleep that night. I went to the hospital Thursday morning. Karen was in the Intensive Care Unit. She was on a ventilator and her hands were restrained. She was awake but heavily sedated with morphine and dopamine. Every so often she would raise her head slightly, open her eyes wide and look at her mother or me. But for the most part, she just moved her head from side to side while making gagging motions because of the tube in her mouth. I had hoped for some good news that morning. Something other than the reality that I was losing Karen. Of course, that didn’t happen.
Karen’s mother was on one side of the bed and I was on the other side. I held Karen’s hand. I don’t remember whether her mother did. I know that her mother started talking about Karen’s younger sister, Brenda, who lived in another state. Brenda had apparently talked to her mother about visiting Karen.
“You know she wanted to come see Karen, but it really would have been a waste of time because we didn’t know anything for three weeks.”
I was stunned by her words. But I did not respond. I’m sure she didn’t intend them the way they sounded. But at that moment all I thought was, “She could have spent some time with Karen. They could have talked.”
Karen’s mother and brother, John, gave me a ride home and told me that I could make the decision about Karen’s final arrangements. When Karen had moved down, she was very clear about wanting to be buried back in Massachusetts with her father. But after our Holy Union Ceremony, Karen said that while she still wanted to be buried with her dad, she also wanted to be buried with me. I decided that the best way to honor both her wishes was to have her cremated and share the ashes with her family.
I spoke to my sister after I got back from the hospital. She said, “I’m sorry you have to go through this.“
I called one of Karen’s friends, Sue. Sue and Karen worked together twenty-seven years before Karen decided to move from New Hampshire to Florida to be with me. Throughout Karen’s stay in the hospital, I had called Sue to let her know how Karen was doing.
On Thursday evening, I went back to the hospital. I was able to spend some time alone with Karen. I said the most difficult words I had ever said to Karen. “Karen, I know your Dad will come and get you. You don’t have to be afraid. You don’t have to be scared. You won’t be alone.”
I could no longer hold the tears back and cried, for the first time, in Karen’s room as I talked to her. The only person who walked into the room was the nurse, Stacy. She did everything she could to ensure that Karen was not in pain and was treated with dignity. I was, and still am, grateful that she was there during Karen’s last hours. Some of the nurses had been less than kind to Karen. But this woman genuinely cared. Stacy also took time to talk with me. She asked me about Karen’s last months. Was Karen able to eat and did she seem to enjoy what she ate? I said yes. She said to consider it a blessing because if Karen had known months ago that she was dying, she might have given up and died sooner. In my desperation, I asked Stacy whether something could be done to save Karen’s life. But I already knew the answer even before she said no.
Stacy tried to be somewhat optimistic in that she said perhaps Karen would be able to be moved out of the Intensive Care Unit, which would have enabled our friends to visit her. She also said that they might be able to remove the ventilator tube and take Karen of the dopamine so that she could talk and say goodbye to all of us. While I hoped they might be able to remove the ventilator because Karen never liked anything in her throat, I wanted her to remain sedated. I didn’t want her to have to go through the pain of having to say goodbye to anyone. I didn’t have to worry.
A few hours after I left the hospital, I stood outside our apartment, stared into the dark starry night and asked for the one miracle I knew I couldn’t have: that somehow the doctors were wrong and there was a way that Karen could live. “You can do this … You can let the doctor’s find some way to save Karen.” In those quiet moments afterward, I realized that I had already been given a miracle: Karen and her love in my life.
Friday morning I went to the hospital very early with Karen’s mother and brother to meet with the surgeon. Along with telling us what he had already told me, he added that rarely does a surgeon see anyone in Karen’s condition during an operation. That usually happened during an autopsy. After the meeting, before we went to see Karen, we talked about what would happen after Karen died. I told her family about sharing the ashes. Her mother thought that was a good idea. I also told her family that I didn’t have the money to take of the cost of the cremation. They assured me that I didn’t have to worry. They would take of that. I knew Karen’s mother had a life insurance policy for Karen.
When we went into Karen’s room, Stacy advised us that Karen’s condition had worsened dramatically overnight. She was in a coma. Her blood pressure was dropping. The medication to elevate her blood pressure also elevated her heart rate to a dangerous level, over 140 beats per minute. If Stacy continued to give her the medication, Karen would have a heart attack. At that point we decided it would be best for her mother to sign a “Do Not Resuscitate” form. Karen’s family had to make the decisions because Karen and I had never taken the time to fill out Health Care Surrogate Forms. Had I been her husband, those forms would not have been necessary. Nor would they have been necessary had we been allowed to legally marry. The possibility that she might have days to live was gone. It quickly become a matter of hours.
Her family dropped me off at my home. I called a few places to find out what it would cost to have Karen’s body cremated and share the ashes. I then called Karen’s mother to let her know. She and Karen’s brother went to take care of the final arrangements. I also called Roberta and Father Bill; both had been part of Karen and my Holy Union Ceremony. I talked to Roberta and left a voice message for Father Bill. A few hours later, I went back to the hospital. My mother decided to go with me because she had not seen Karen. Roberta met us at the hospital because she wanted to say goodbye to Karen. When we walked into the room, my mother cried as soon as she saw Karen. Father Bill called and said he would be there as soon as he could to administer the Last Rites.
Father Bill arrived at the hospital before Karen’s family returned. He could not stay long because he had to work. “This is so hard” he said as his tears fell. “Usually we get a call that someone we don’t know needs the Last Rites. But this is Karen of Karen and Patty.”
I put my head on Roberta’s shoulder, unable hold back the tears, as Father Bill continued. There were a few times when I was able to regain a bit of my composure, but not completely until he was finished. Karen’s condition continued to deteriorate. Both Father Bill and Roberta had to leave. My mother and I had some time alone with Karen. During those moments, I talked to Karen.
“I know you have to go. I know you’re Dad is waiting for you with his hand stretched out and you have to take his hand. It’s okay, Karen. I love you and I always will.”
Her mother and brother returned to the hospital around 1:20 PM. The doctor walked in the room and spoke with us. He said that it was time to remove Karen from the ventilator and withdraw all medications because keeping her alive was not fair to her. Although her family had the responsibility of making that decision, they included me. We decided to follow the doctor’s advice, and Karen had told me more than once that she didn’t want to be kept alive by machines. The machines wouldn’t have been enough to keep her alive for long because of the problem with her blood pressure. My mother and I left the room first so that Karen’s mother and brother could have some time alone with her. We all went to the waiting room while the hospital staff removed the ventilator and intravenous lines. Karen was given oxygen by mask and enough morphine to keep her comfortable. From the time we walked back into her room at around 1:45 PM until after she had taken her last breath and her heart beat for the last time at 2:20 PM, I held her left hand with my left hand while keeping my right hand under her neck. She was very hot and sweating. No one spoke. I kept thinking, “It’s okay to go now, Karen.” as I watched the monitor.
Her heart rate was still very rapid at 140 beats per minute. Her blood pressure started dropping. Her respiration per minute decreased until she stopped breathing. Once her breathing stopped, her heart rate began a roller coaster ride of decreases followed by increases for what seemed like several minutes. … 140 … 125 … 113 … 97 … 80 … 125 … 100 … 75 … 112 … 85 … erratic lines on the monitor … I had never watched anyone die. I never realized how the heart fights to stay alive for as long as it can. After the heart rate monitor flat-lined, I looked at Karen’s mother and said softly, “She’s gone.“
We stayed in the room for a few more minutes. I still hadn’t let go of her hand. Karen’s brother thought it best if we all left the room. I remember watching him walk out the door with his mother and my mother. I rested my head on my outstretched arm and cried. I didn’t know he had come back into the room. I felt his hands on my shoulders. I turned and hugged him.
“I really loved her.” I said through my tears.
“I know you did.”
We walked out of her room. I called my sister to let her know that Karen had passed away. That was not a call I expected to make just four years, five months and ten days after Karen had moved in with me. All the time she was in the hospital, we both kept saying that five years was not enough. But ultimately, those years were all we had. I went back into Karen’s room several minutes later with the nurse to get Karen’s things. She was still in the same position. But the mask had been removed. Her skin was yellow and cool to the touch. Her mouth was slightly open. I kissed her lips for the last time and then looked at her arm and hand. I am not sure why I did that. I think I hoped that somehow she would wake up or at least move, but she didn’t. The one thing I didn’t bring home from the hospital was Karen’s wedding band. The ring had either slipped off her finger or had been removed before the surgery and was lost. I walked out of that room knowing I would never see her again. Our journey and life together had ended much too soon and much too quickly.
When my mother and I got home, I told two of our neighbors, JR and Johnny, that Karen had died. JR called Lori, his wife, and Johnny called Heather, his girlfriend. Then I called Sue to let her know that Karen died. She tried her best to offer me some comfort. Sue said that Karen often had bouts of depression and was unhappy, especially in the years after her father died. She talked about knowing how happy Karen was with me. As much as I wanted to believe her and believe that Karen had been happy, I had doubts. The last months of Karen’s life had been difficult. I did not know or understand that she was dying. I just knew something was not right because she seemed tired and in pain all the time. But she refused to go to a doctor. She was convinced that she had cancer because of the chemicals she used at her job. I remember asking her once if she really wanted to die without ever knowing what was wrong with her. Her answer was: “Yes”. She got her wish. We had more arguments during those months than at any other time.
I made a few more phone calls. I do not remember everyone I called that afternoon. I do know that I called two of Karen’s cousins, Kathy and Susan, who were my friends long before I had met Karen and were the reason I met Karen all those years ago when we were both much younger and lived in Massachusetts. I also called one of Karen’s aunts, Edna. She and I had been talking every day for more than two weeks. I always called to let her know how Karen was. This time I called to tell her that her niece had died.
One person I did not have the chance to tell was Deb, another neighbor who had become Karen’s friend. They spent many nights sitting outside, talking and smoking cigarettes. Deb was at work when I found out that Karen had so little time left. I didn’t know how to get in touch with her. She did not get home from work until after 5:00 PM. I wanted to tell her, but I had to go to the grocery store. Although it did not take me long, by the time I got back, she was already home. She was outside with Johnny and Heather. I looked at her eyes. I knew she had been crying. Heather told her because Deb told Heather that she planned on going to visit Karen that evening. She had talked to Karen a couple of times when Karen first went in the hospital, but never went to see her. Her not going to see Karen really bothered me because Karen spent so much time with her. I understood she could not go at night because the headlights on her car did not work. She could have gone on Saturday or Sunday during the day. Now it was too late.
I do not remember what time I went to bed Friday evening. I just remember waking up Saturday to the realization that Karen really was gone. That I would not be going to the hospital as I had done every day since February 14. Although Karen had not been home for nearly a month, I had still seen her every day. I was so aware of her absence, much more than while she was hospitalized. She was not in our bedroom. She was not lying on the couch watching television. She was not sitting outside smoking a cigarette. Every time I walked outside to have a cigarette, I expected to see her. Every time I walked back in our apartment, I expected to see her. The reality of never seeing her, hearing her voice, feeling her embrace again hit hard. I cried throughout the day.
On Sunday, I went to Mass. Although my faith was shaken to its very core, I wanted to go because Father Bill said he would offer the Mass for Karen. The Mass was not celebrated at a Church. Ironically, it was at the place we chose to handle Karen’s cremation. I could not help thinking about that when I walked in the door or looking at the urns. Father Bill asked me to one of the readings. After his homily he asked me if I felt up to talking about Karen. I do not remember what I said that morning other than I loved her.
I also called Maureen, my former high school English teacher. We developed a friendship during the three years I was her student. She never spoke to me as though I were just a fifteen year old. Rather, she talked to me more on her level. She had an extraordinary impact on me. She and I had lost touch after I graduated, managed to reconnect briefly in 1979 just before one of my uncles died. She had been a source of comfort during that time. I found her again via the Internet and we talked or emailed each other occasionally. She told me that she had gotten married and given birth to a son. Shortly after her son was born, she had been diagnosed with breast cancer, had a double mastectomy, and undergone chemotherapy. I remember thinking how glad I was that I had found her. Once again, she reached out to comfort me. We talked for nearly an hour. Although we both knew there was nothing she could say to ease my pain at that moment, she told me a story about a particularly difficult day she had and how she dealt with it.
On Monday, I went with Karen’s mother and brother to pick out the urn that would hold my portion of Karen’s ashes. Since I had been there the day before, as I said, I had already looked at some of the urns. Still, it was a rather surreal experience and one more reminder that Karen was dead. Karen’s mother had already picked out an urn for the ashes that would be buried in the family grave when they made the arrangements Friday. She also decided to get a clock that held a small amount of ashes that she could keep in her apartment. She suggested that I also get the clock. I said: “I plan on having Karen’s ashes buried with mine when I die. I’m not going to bury a clock!” I chose a small gold square urn. I also gave Karen’s mother the picture of Karen’s father that had been hanging in our bedroom since shortly after Karen moved in with me. That picture was something Karen treasured. As much as I wanted to keep it, I knew it belonged to and with her family. The nails are still in the wall and the space is still empty where that picture hung.
On Tuesday, Melody and her husband, Dennis, drove down from their winter home fours away from where I live. We decided to honor Karen’s memory by going out to eat at one of Karen’s favorite restaurants. When they visited two months earlier, we went to one of their favorite restaurants. I decided to give Melody and Dennis each something of Karen’s. Since Karen loved lighthouses and collected them, I gave Melody a small lighthouse. I knew exactly what to give Dennis. The New England Patriots Super Bowl shirt he gave Karen.
I finally told Melody a few days after Karen died just what the shirt meant to Karen and asked Melody to tell Dennis. I did not think I would be able to say those words to him without crying. That shirt was one of many gestures by Melody and Dennis that let Karen know that she was accepted and loved as a part of my life and our family. I had to give the shirt back to him because I knew it would mean something special to him once he knew what it meant to Karen. It was several weeks before I could talk to Dennis without struggling to maintain my composure.
At the restaurant, Dennis gave the toast, “Karen, we know you’re watching us, we just wish you were here with us.”
On either Monday or Tuesday evening, I am not sure which day it was, I called Linda and Russ. We had met them one night when we sat next to them at a hockey game the previous October. We had such a good time that whenever we went to a hockey game, we always managed to sit with them regardless of where our seats were. Linda answered the telephone and was shocked by the news that Karen had died. She asked whether there was anything she and Russ could do. We decided to go to the hockey game Wednesday night in Karen’s honor. I do not remember much about the game other than sitting with Linda and Russ. I could not concentrate on the game because I was too aware of Karen’s absence.
I called Karen’s sister, Brenda, Tuesday evening. I had only spoken to her once while Karen was in the hospital. I told her that I loved Karen and would have done anything to save her life. “That’s good to know,” She said rather coldly. When our conversation ended, I felt I had just wasted my time. But I did not call her because I expected her to be sympathetic. Karen’s mother had told Karen once that Brenda never really like me. I called because she was Karen’s sister, and I was Karen’s partner.
On Thursday, I went to pick up my paycheck. I had not been to work since Saturday, March 4. I had reached the point of emotional and physical exhaustion. I had been working five days a week, going to the hospital every day, and twice on my days off along with doing everything I could not do on the days that I worked. Karen wanted me to be with her the night before she had surgery. Since we were not sure when the surgery would happen, I took some time off. Little did I know that it would be the last week of Karen’s life.
When I walked into the restaurant, Sandi and Don were there. They were in often, and I had waited on them a few times. The first time I waited on them, Sandi ordered grits. Since it was late in the evening, the only grits we had were instant. I told her that I had never made grits. Both Don and Sandi said they had faith in me that I could make them. I was not as confident, but gave it my best shot. The grits were okay. More important, however, was that the friendship that began that night. None of us realized that friendship would be such a tremendous gift during the most difficult moments of my life. A few minutes before I walked in the restaurant to get my paycheck, one of my coworkers had told them that my partner had died because they wondered where I was. They did not know that I was gay until they found out about Karen’s death. They offered their condolences and asked how I was.
On Friday, exactly one week after Karen died, I spent the morning and early afternoon thinking about those last moments of Karen’s life. From 1:45 PM until 2:20 PM, I looked at the picture from our Holy Union ceremony. I also looked at pictures I had taken of Karen the previous September. I wondered whether she was already dying at that point. I know that, shortly after those pictures were taken, she had severe pains in her lower abdomen. I had asked her, begged her and even yelled at her to go to the doctor or the hospital. She refused. Would it have been too late to save her life even if she had gone? So many unanswered questions … when did the problem start? When did she reach the point where nothing could have saved her life? How could I have not known how seriously and gravely ill she was? How could I have been so blind as to not see what was happening? She was dying every day, and I never knew until it was too late.
Sunday, March 20, I rode a bus to the terminal, then another the bus part way and walked the rest of the way to the chapel where Karen and I had our Holy Union Ceremony. Father Carl was saying Mass. He had called me the day after Karen died. Father Bill had called him. He had returned to the priesthood and was assigned to a Church quite a distance from where I live. He could not attend the Mass I was having because he had to say Mass at his Church that morning. He told me that he would be saying the Mass at the chapel for the wife of a friend and would also say it for Karen. He asked me to bring up the gifts with his friend if I was able to be at the Mass.
Going back to that chapel without Karen was very difficult. It was the place where we celebrated our greatest joy, our Holy Union Ceremony. I stayed outside and talked to Karen. I told her how much I loved her and wished she were there with me. I was unable to walk in through a door she and I had walked through many times. Then I saw Father Carl. He walked over and hugged me. I could not stop the tears from falling. He said, “I know it sounds corny, but it really is better to have loved, even for a short time, than to never have had that love in your life.”
I knew he was right. Knowing, however, did not ease the pain of being there without Karen for the first time. I finally went inside and sat down in one of the last rows. Father Bill was at the Mass and sat next to me. Although I tried to stay focused on the Mass, my thoughts wandered back to the night of our Holy Union Ceremony. Karen and I standing at the altar … Karen crying throughout much of the ceremony and me wiping her tears … saying our vows and exchanging rings. We were so happy that night. I never expected to be there without her a little more than three years later because she died. I struggled to keep my composure and, at times, came very close to crying. But I was able to hold back the tears.
I received several sympathy cards from Karen‘s family, some of whom I did not know, and friends of hers from Massachusetts that I did know, especially the week after Karen died. I was touched by their thoughtfulness and called each one personally to thank them. I placed each card on the shelves of a bookcase with Karen’s lighthouses. I found blank cards that had a pop-up lighthouse inside and sent everyone a thank you note. I explained that Karen loved lighthouses. I also included a picture of Karen as well as a picture of the two of us that was taken during our Holy Union Ceremony.
On March 27, I had a Memorial Mass said for Karen. Father Bill presided at the Mass. Deb gave my mother and I a ride. Regina, who had also been part of our Holy Union Ceremony, attended with her husband, Peter. I worked with him on the overnight shift for a little over a year when all three of us worked at the same company. Peter’s sister, Lisa, and one of Peter and Lisa’s cousins also attended. Regina had gone to visit Karen at the hospital. A few other people also attended the Mass, but I did not really know them. Nor, for that matter, did they know Karen. I brought one of Karen’s lighthouses. Before the Mass began, Father Bill asked me if I would do one of the readings. He also asked when Karen was born. He started the Mass by lighting a single white candle, which he had placed on the table next the lighthouse, and saying, “On July 20, 1954 Karen’s light came into this world. And even though she is gone now, her light will never go out.” After his homily, he gave everyone a chance to say something. Regina was the first to speak, followed by Lisa, then her cousin, then my mother and finally me.
“My life has not changed in that I still live at the same place and work at the same place. And yet, everything has changed because Karen is not here. Nothing could have prepared me for this moment. Nothing could have prepared me for what it would be like to lose Karen.”
Deb did not say anything because she was too upset. After the Mass ended, I gave everyone the same pictures that I had sent to everyone who had sent me a sympathy card. That was the last Mass I attended.
I had already gone back to work. But I knew I was not the same person I had been before Karen’s death. Everything was difficult, even the simplest things like going to the grocery store. I remember having to go pay a bill one day and walking around in circles as I waited for each bus. How strange it seemed to not have Karen with me. For over four years, we did everything together. Now I had to get used to doing everything alone again. There was no place that I could go that she had not gone with me. Although we did not work together, even going back to work was not easy. All I thought about my first night back at work was that I would not be calling Karen when I left. I always used to call her, and we always had the same conversation:
“Hi honey, I’m leaving now.
“Okay, be careful, babe.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Most of the time Karen was sitting outside our apartment when I got home. All of the time, she made me a cup of tea. Regardless of what job I had or what time I got out of work, Karen almost always had tea ready when I arrived home. Even if I was home and we were arguing, she still made me a cup of tea. I always thanked her, though not necessarily in the kindest tone and always drank the tea regardless of how angry I was. The simple things were what I so easily took for granted and became the things I missed most. As hard as the days were, so the nights were even more difficult. I dreaded going to bed knowing that Karen was not there and never would be. I stayed up as long as I could, usually until about 5:00 AM unless I had to work early the next day. Someone suggested that I try sleeping on the couch. But that would not have helped. I had spent far too many nights on the couch when Karen and I argued because I could not lie down next to her if I was angry. The anger just kept building up inside me, especially since she did not seem to have a problem sleeping.
I spent quite a bit of time being very angry after Karen’s death. But I was never angry with her for dying. For the most part, my anger was directed at me. So much wasted time that I could never have back. So many words I wish I had never said. I had so many regrets. I blamed myself for her death. Maybe if I had loved her more she would still be alive. Maybe if I had not walked back into her life, she would not have died. Maybe if I had been more patient or kinder, God would not have decided to take her from me. I spent many nights thinking about everything Karen had given up just to be with me: her job, her family and her friends. She had paid the ultimate cost for loving me: her life, and that was far too high a price to pay.
I had always believed that people die when it is their time to die. I had lost family members and friends. But I had also believed that there was nothing Karen and I could not overcome. Every time we struggled, Karen was always the one who told me to have faith when I lost hope. But my beliefs changed dramatically when I lost Karen. This was the one thing we could never defeat. Nothing about her death made sense. Nothing anyone said at that point helped. The kindest words reminded me of the deepest sadness. The pain and loneliness were, at times, more than I could handle. I wanted her to wake me up or, at least, to wake up and find her there. I wanted it to be February 14. I wanted to tell her about this incredibly bad dream that I had and hear her say, “Don’t worry, babe, you’re not going to get rid of me.”
But she was never going to say those words to me. Never again would I hear her voice … wake up and find her there … reach over and feel her skin … listen to the sound of her breathing as she slept. She was gone. Nothing I said or did would change that. This was not a bad dream. This was a reality from which I could not escape, and the one truth I did not want to accept. But I had no choice. I was still here … still alive. Whether I wanted to or not, I had to find a way to go one without her. There were times when I did not want to do that. Had my heart not had the ability to continue beating and my lungs the ability to continue breathing without my having to make an effort, I might not be here now. One afternoon shortly after Karen died, as I walked home from the store, I thought to myself, “I really don’t care what happens to me.”
I was also angry at the hospital. Because that hospital was not the county hospital, they were very concerned about Karen not having insurance. Had the surgery taken place within the first few days or week after Karen was hospitalized, I was certain she would still have died within forty-eight hours. Was the extra time worth it? Not when Karen suffered as much as she did.
In the weeks immediately following Karen’s death, my mother and I often talked about how unreal Karen’s dying seemed. Several times my mother said, “I can’t believe she’s really gone. I expect her to walk out of the bedroom or walk in the front door. You know like she just went to the store or was outside having a cigarette.” There was something else my mother said, more than once, “If I could trade places with Karen, I would. I’m almost eighty. I’ve lived my life. But Karen is still young.”
Moderately liberal, liberally moderate, American flag waving Democrat! Bachelor of Arts in History with concentration in Early American History and Abraham Lincoln
Graduate student pursuing a Master of Arts Degree online in American History at Southern New Hampshire University