Sometimes after I finish writing a blog post, I sit back and feel pleased with myself. Pleased about how I was able to express myself in words, paint a picture for whomever might be reading it. While I don’t believe I’m the next great American author, I do think I generally write well. I loved writing when I was younger – English was always a good subject for me. As much as I moaned and complained about the papers I had to write all throughout my schooling in almost every subject (there were even papers in math!), there was always a part of me that felt fulfilled and proud every time I got through an assignment and turned something in.
But these days, with this writing, after that moment of feeling pleased I recoil and my chest tightens. This writing is not for fun or being done to demonstrate my skills or my mastery of a subject. This writing is not for pleasure.
I don’t feel guilty about my recent writing and am not looking for reassurances. I’m just recognizing out loud (on paper) that sitting with the fact that this writing is only happening because Sara and George are dead is very, very heavy.
My words, all mundane and ordinary in of themselves, are about the loves of my life who are gone, and about my grief for them. With the theme of death – the very real death of my loved ones, both of whom I held in my very real hands after they were dead, it just changes things.
The writing is good for me, I think – I would go as far as to say that I find it helpful to have had regular planned outlets for my feelings over the last month. But do I enjoy it? Not really – because it only exists because Sara and George are dead.
It is a strange balance I have to strike, a negotiation with myself – putting this writing out there and appreciating comments, responses, etc. (even finding some positive feelings in that process), but all the while in the back of my head knowing – this is only happening because Sara and George are dead. This writing is very different from many other things – it doesn’t HAVE to happen. I have to eat, I have to sleep, I have to work, I have to take care of our dogs and cat, but I don’t HAVE to write, and if they weren’t gone, I almost certainly wouldn’t be writing like this, or possibly even at all.
I’d never been around the dead before, outside of the context of a funeral where the deceased had been embalmed already. I feel compelled to do a little writing about what my experience was, physically, with Sara and George after they died. I want to honor that, and recognize that. If that is going to be too difficult for you to read, you may want to skip the rest of this particular post.
After it seemed that Sara taken her last breath, I put my face up next to hers, and my hand on her chest – could I sense any movement? Feel any air flowing past my cheek? When I realized the answered were no, I notified the nursing staff, then I touched my forehead to hers and gave her a kiss. In the few hours I was there with her after she died, I would occasionally touch her arm, or her cheek, or her leg. She was just so, so still. It’s indescribably strange being in a room with someone who is dead – no breathing, no shifting, no blinking – just stillness.
I remember so, so vividly how cold Sara got. She had her hospital gown on, and a blanket over her, but even before she died she’d started getting cold. After – I was surprised at how quickly I noticed a difference. We covered her eyes with damp cloth to preserve her corneas, which we ended up donating.
Toward the end of our time with her, before we left the hospital, I noticed that her blood was pooling under her skin on the side that was underneath her – Livor mortis, it is called. That’s not something I ever thought I would see in person, and I think it was the thing I found most unsettling.
Sara seemed so small after she’d died. It’s hard to explain, but seeing her still and cold on the hospital bed, it wasn’t really her. She was always so full of life – until she wasn’t.
And our little George – it was different with him. I’d just gone through hours and hours of labor and had been in such pain. When it was time for him to actually be delivered, it happened so quickly. The nursing staff (or maybe a doctor, I’m not sure) grabbed him and cut the cord and wrapped him up. The room was so quiet, except for perhaps our sniffles and crying. A minute or two later someone brought him over and offered for us to hold him.
I took him into my arms first – I was scared of hurting him somehow, even though he wasn’t living. His eyes were closed, and his skin so red and transparent. His waist was very narrow and his limbs so, so thin. I held him in the blanket, looking at him, searching for myself in his face, trying to comprehend that I’d never see him open his eyes. I was afraid to breathe and didn’t really touch my hand to his skin – it seemed so fragile. I only held him for a few minutes before I handed him off to Sara, who did the same.
Part of me wishes I’d held him longer, spent more time with him, but we were just so emotionally spent. This wasn’t something we’d been prepared for. We hadn’t slept in about 24 hours and I was hurting and uncomfortable and beyond exhausted.
I’m glad that I was there for both of my loves, physically, when each died. It was important.
Note: this was written based on a writing prompt provided to me through a paid course I am taking. I am not including the prompt, because the daily prompts are a critical component of that course.