This is the first time I have told the full
story of the day my life changed forever - December 21, 2016. It was supposed to be an early
morning at the family farm cutting firewood for a few hours. Something Anthony
had done literally hundreds of times before. He knew what he was doing
and was no amateur, having learned how to trim trees while working for the City
of Columbia during summers in high school. He left early with our
son and they were supposed to be back mid-morning so that he could get some
work done in his office. We planned to have dinner with good friends that
evening, friends that we had not seen in some time and finally had found time
on the calendar to meet up. It was a good day, a beautiful, sunny,
unusually warm December day. The first day of winter, the first day of
holiday break for the kids, a day filled with Christmas spirit, as well as
anticipation of the holiday to come and time spent with cherished friends and
family. It was the kind of day to which you look forward. How
quickly that changed.
I got the phone call you dread and yet never
expect to get because you are too young. For most of us there is a pure
complacency, an it-will-never-happen-to-me attitude, a certainty that bad
things only happen to other people. Never to me, never to us. Unfortunately
I got that call from our son. I will never forget the panic in his voice.
Initially there was disbelief, then shock. My daughter had come to work
with me and was sitting in my office when the call came. I don’t know how
much time passed while I was on the phone either with my son or one of the
EMTs. It seemed like hours but it was just minutes, maybe 20 or so.
The waiting and the updates. The EMT telling me that they were attempting
to revive him, that it was a very grave situation. Sitting there holding
my daughter’s hand because even though she could not hear the words I was being
told, she knew that something terrible was happening. Hearing my own
voice asking questions in such a calm way, but being careful not to say too
much in front of my daughter.
Then, the EMT asked me if I wanted to know the
outcome. Of course I already knew. He said, in such a practiced,
professional, detached manner – “I am sorry to tell you that they have
pronounced your husband as deceased." How could this possibly be, when Anthony was just with me
earlier this morning, like every morning? I told the man that I would get
there as soon as I could, then I thanked him. Because my parents taught
to me to be unfailingly polite, that was my automatic response. And I
thought to myself, wow, I have just thanked the man who told me that my husband
is dead. How strange. There was a realization of prayers said in
haste now unanswered. The shock I had felt quickly turned into complete
numbness. Like being underwater where it is more difficult to move your limbs,
sound is muffled and everything moves more slowly.
I hung up the phone and turned to look at my
daughter. She already knew, of course, but I had to tell her that there
had been a terrible accident and that her father was gone. Seeing the
disbelief and realization in her eyes was a hard punch in the gut. She
was so quiet and so unbelievably strong. Exactly as he would have been.
I left her in my office with the door closed and
had to gather my senior team to tell them. I delivered the news in such a
matter of fact way, almost what I imagine an out-of-body experience to be
like. Hearing their gasps and seeing the looks on their faces, asking
what they could do to help. But of course there was no help anyone could
offer at that time. No help for me and certainly no help for Anthony.
The numbness continued.
We drove the 45 minutes to the farm getting
behind every slow vehicle in two counties along the way. Did they not realize
what a hurry I was in? Except that rushing to his side was not going to
make a difference. And the phone calls. I only made a few but my phone
was ringing constantly. Because somehow the word was already out that he was
gone. They say bad news travels fast but tragic news carries on lightning
speed. I will never forget the reaction of our close friends. I will
never forget the pain in their voices. I can still hear them in my head.
We got to the farm and were greeted by the EMT
who had talked with me on the phone. To this day I do not remember
his name, this person who shared such a personal experience with me. He
said my husband did everything right but the dead tree limb fell the wrong way.
Yes, a “widow maker” is a real thing. Hearing again “I am so sorry for your
loss.” What appropriate,
yet empty, awful words. I have lost count of how many times I have heard that
phrase. I completely and utterly hate those words, though I realize there
is nothing else you can really say to a person in my situation.
I remember seeing the ambulance in the
driveway. No flashing lights, no rush to get to the hospital because this
time there was no one to save. I remember talking to the other EMTs, some
of whom I recognized from when I was a child, and wondering how they could
remain so calm when my life had changed so dramatically. But that is
because they are professionals. And this experience had not happened to
them.
I remember the pain on my father’s face when he
saw me, the way he gripped my hand. And his words – “It should have been
me.” Finding myself comforting him because I did not want him to blame
himself. He was nowhere near when the accident happened. Had he
been, it likely could not have prevented anything, anyway. I remember
being so calm and asking the EMTs what would happen next. Asking if I
could see Anthony and being told it was not a good idea at that time. Ah,
ok, I get it. He must look pretty bad. Imagining then what he
looked like instead. Bad idea, very bad idea. And remembering him
just a few hours earlier, the smile he gave me and the words “We won’t be gone
long, I will call you when we get back.” No, not this time. Never
again, actually.
Two of my Golden Girls (to be explained in a
future post) were waiting for me when I left my parent’s house. We were
supposed to have lunch that day. I had Christmas presents in the car for
them and had been looking so forward to spending an hour laughing and
exchanging gifts. No one can make me laugh like those three can.
There was to be no laughing that day, after all. I had called them while
driving to tell them what had happened. I told them not to
come. But they might be a little bit stubborn and they came anyway.
They drove the kids and me home and also brought back Anthony’s truck. I
have no idea what we talked about along the way. I kept thinking of
people that I needed to call, everything I needed to do. Feeling
overwhelmed. Where would I start? And the numbness continued to
consume me.
So many people came to our house that afternoon
and evening. I am not even sure how many but the volume level was
deafening. The lights and sounds, the Christmas decorations everywhere
were overwhelming. People laughing, people crying. I have never
seen so many grown men cry. Hugs and hand holding and stories. So
much food and no desire to eat anything. I knew if I had even one bite I
would be sick. I ate nothing for two days. The death diet is not
the way I would recommend losing weight, by the way. I continued to hear
that awful phrase, “I am so sorry."
Our neighbor and good friend could not get there
until late, after most people had gone. He is a doctor who is also
retired from the Navy after completing two tours in the Middle East. He
pulled me aside and he told me something that I have remembered every
day. He said that he had seen many of his friends and colleagues die,
there one minute and gone the next. He told me I had to keep getting out
of bed each morning, to keep putting one foot in front of the other and that
eventually, somehow, things would start to get better. He was right,
things do get better with the passing of time but for me the initial wound
remains intact as I imagine it does for him. I have a new appreciation
for the sacrifices active duty service men, women and veterans make for
our country.
The first night I did not sleep for one second.
I have one of those clocks that projects the time onto the ceiling in red
digits. I literally watched the clock on the ceiling tick off every
minute of the longest night of my life. I have never felt so cold, never felt so completely alone. And through it I was totally numb. I understand now that the numbness was a gift to help me get through what had happened hours earlier as well as what was yet to come.
The hours and days that followed were surreal.
Making decisions that I did not think I would have to make at my age and hoping
that I honored all of his wishes. Kicking myself for all of the questions I
should have asked but never did. Damn it, why didn’t I ask him those
important questions? And I will never have the answers now.
The numbness continued, maybe intensified.
Seeing him in a casket and knowing that was the very last time. He looked
different, just a shell of himself. Earlier I had given the funeral home
one of his favorite t shirts and a pair of jeans – no need to include socks and
shoes, he did not need them where he was going. I touched his chest and
even through the t-shirt I was shocked at how cold his body was. I will
never forget that cold feeling and thinking that just hours earlier his heart
was still beating. That cold combined with my numbness was a shock.
I stood there coping with my loss but feeling more profoundly the loss for our
children. Asking why. I will never understand why. And I will mourn all of the
milestones he and our children will miss together in future years.
I lost my best friend and rock, the most amazing
father to our children. His wit, dedication, sense of humor and work ethic made
him special. He loved his family and was incredibly proud of his children. He
loved his friends and would have done anything for them, truly anything.
He loved his country dearly. He loved his job and everyone he worked with. He
loved the outdoors and all they represented. He loved and lived life to the
fullest and left this life with few regrets. He just left way too soon. He was
very strong, both physically and emotionally, and his strength inspires the
kids and me to keep going even though at times that has seemed unthinkable.
Our children possess his strength in ways I do not.
The trees form a canopy, there is brush underfoot
and I cannot see my way out yet. I am not afraid as I travel even though
uncertainty surrounds me completely. There is a kind of peace that comes
from knowing that I am not the One in control, though I am still not sure how
or why I got here. Who knows where the path will lead but I will keep
getting up each day and putting one foot in front of the other until I find
out. Until then I will count my remaining blessings and simply keep walking out of the woods.
