A month passes
Today I am haunted by images that fly past me like speeding cars. A blur bleeds into another, and they become the same memory in one choking glance. Him in his last moment of physical life, spewing mucus and shaking while we sobbed- our wedding and his eyes, glinting and winking at me as he repeated his vows- his hands on my stomach, talking to the baby inside of me that didn’t live, February of last year- his daughter holding my hand as we strolled through the supermarket, negotiating sweet things for good behavior- him cradling our son in the last weeks of his life, explaining how Trey’d always be a Texan though I’d take him far from there in the future. None of it was supposed to happen so soon. There was supposed to be time to plan and to see things. I can only run so far and for so long. I am an old pro at pretending to not feel something. Now I’m overwhelmed with renewed shock, and guilt for weakening in those last months. I was so tired of the fight, sick of going back and forth to the hospitals and dealing with his pickiness and sudden cravings. I was exhausted from work and from Trey and I didn’t want to do anything at all, anymore. I gave up a bit. I didn’t want to hear crying anymore. And when he finally gurgled his last horrifyingly pained breath, I was so relieved. I should’ve wanted him to stay longer but at the end, I wanted him to just let go. It was too much for too long. I was as tired as he was.
We were married for eight months. Our son is six months old. We lived together for a year and a half. We didn’t have enough time to get to know one another properly, to see each other’s best sides. I was impatient and bitchy and resentful of having to live in Wichita Falls. He was insecure and hurting and disliked that I was smarter than he was. We loved each other, but I don’t know what would’ve happened if he wasn’t sick. Who we were, and what our relationship was, became defined by his illness. I saw his best, he saw my worst, and vice versa. If he wasn’t ill, would we have lasted? I honestly don’t know. And that’s the guilt that pulls at me.
It’ll be a month tomorrow that I watched him die before my eyes. A bride at 28, a mother at 29, and a widow at- well, 29. What else will happen before I turn 30? I don’t think I want to know.
