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?