Photo by http://www.flickr.com/photos/molajen/
I can describe to you in excruciating detail our midnight drive from Ottawa to Shawville, Quebec last February. I was driving and my husband was in paroxysms of grief in the passenger seat.
We were on our way to identify his brother, who was killed in a snowmobile accident hours before. The snow whispered as it fell, defeating the wipers on our minivan. The narrow ribbon of road sparkled beautifully with treacherous ice.
My night vision is terrible, but it was much better than my husband’s who couldn’t see for shit because of the tears in his eyes.
All I could hear was inane pop songs on the radio and a litany of “oh God, oh God, I can’t believe he’s gone.”
I remember deer on the road at the intersection and how I stopped for what felt like a long time, so we could look at them, to focus on something alive and beautiful and not awful–for just a moment. Just for one fucking moment.
I remember arriving and seeing Simon’s friends walking slowly toward us in the lobby of the tiny hospital. They were red-eyed and their huge, calloused hands hung loosely at their sides when they weren’t kneading their ball caps into knots.
I remember my husband seeing his brother lying there on the snow-white sheets and collapsing on top of his cooling body in that one-way hug you see on the news. You know, the type of hug where you are never, ever, ever hugged back. I stood there watching him talk to his brother and hold his brother’s mitt of a hand.
Simon looked like he was sleeping. He looked so…healthy. He was still tanned from his recent trip to Mexico for fuck’s sake.
I was frozen. I knew that my husband had to take his time, but I couldn’t wait to rush back home and hug our girls as tightly as I could and to be hugged back in return.
I remember thinking that at this very moment, there are thousands of people going through the same horrible moment that we are and I didn’t feel alone anymore.
****
Patti, you are an extraordinary writer. I cannot fathom what that felt like but you describe it in such a way as to bring us to the moment and share some microscopic part of what happened for you. Thank you for sharing that moment with us.
I have to echo what the other commenter, Jen, said – In the same way that I can’t imagine how that would feel, can’t grasp the scope or the extent of the emotions, somehow I also felt like I was feeling it right there with you. I am so sorry for your loss.
Thank you both. While I found this experience to be profoundly difficult, I had the role of the observer and second. I’d known Simon for half my life and loved him, but watching my husband lose his only sibling was gut wrenching. This memory plays like a movie clip in my head at the most inopportune moments.
Having watched my mum grieve her beloved younger sister, I know that gut-wrenching feeling; it’s horrific.
Thinking of you and your husband and families.
This post brought a tear to my eye. I’ll remember it for a long, long time.
This was a beautiful post. It caught my breath. You’re a wonderful writer. Thanks.
I was with my boyfriend when he found out about his brother’s death. I’ve seen the hug. I’ve been at the funeral where he refused to let them close the casket. It is grotesque and horrifying and frighteningly crystal clear. Time goes fast and slow for a long time. You’ve captured the feeling well. I’m thinking of you and your husband.
This is gut wrenching, and achingly written. I can identify so much with this.
Life is a series of steps, one foot in front of the other. You just keep going, as best you can. You muddle through, day by day.
I am taken with your writing, Patti. It’s earthy, right there and real.
I missed this during Reverb and don’t really know how, but it is beautifully written. It saddens me that something like this happened in order to have given birth to these beautiful words.
I think this is my first time reading this Patty. Beautifully written.