Page 10 of Someone to Remember
Gage takes over, offering to show them to their son.
I’m thankful for him because I simply cannot.
Iris and the nurse help me back into bed, and the nurse reconnects me to the monitor.
The echo of the baby’s heartbeat is a reminder that I’ll soon be a single parent to an infant and two other children who’ve already endured enough grief in their young lives. Even years after losing their dad, they still occasionally cry themselves to sleep. They lead happy, joyful lives but are always aware that someone important is missing. Now there’ll be two people missing.
I’ve always known life isn’t fair, but this is just too much.
“What can I do for you?” Iris asks.
“I don’t know.” I stare at the far wall, focusing on a black dot that gets my full attention. As long as I’m staring at that dot, I don’t have to think about the monumental task that lies before me. I don’t have to think about how I’ll tell my kids this devastating news, or how I’ll have a new baby on my own, without the daddy who couldn’t wait to meet him. There’ll never be a photo of Will with his son, a thought that sends me into new sobs right when I thought I’d run out of tears.
Iris crawls into bed with me and wraps her arms around me. She says nothing, which I appreciate. What is there to say that would help me right now? Not one damned thing, which she knows.
We’re still wrapped up in each other when Will’s parents return to my room, their expressions haunted and devastated. They look to me for something I don’t have to give—an understanding of how such a thing could’ve happened to this man we love with all our hearts. But I have no answers.
If my love could’ve saved him, he would’ve lived forever.
Three
Iris
I’ve been through some rough shit in my life, but this is one of the most excruciating things I’ve ever experienced. My heart is shattered for Taylor, her children, Will’s parents and everyone who loved him. I hold her through that long, awful night. I’m there every time she wakes with a start to remember once again that Will has died, and the life she carefully rebuilt for herself and her children has died with him.
Gage stays, too, sleeping fitfully in the recliner chair next to the bed, there for us if we need him.
It means so much to me that he stays when he certainly doesn’t have to. I try to put myself in Taylor’s position, and I simply can’t let my mind go to a place where I’ve lost him, too.
When we were first widowed and coming to terms with our new realities, Taylor and I were introduced by mutual friends who thought we might take comfort in each other. They were right. She and I made a pact. We swore to each other that we’d survive our losses, and we’d embrace optimism and hope as we guided our fatherless children through an uncertain future. We vowed that we didn’t need a man to make us whole, but thatwe’d embrace and welcome a new love if it came our way. Those were the central tenets upon which we founded the Wild Widows with Christy.
After Taylor married Will, she chose to move on from her active involvement in the Wild Widows, which I certainly understood. Dwelling in that place of deep grief, reaching out to others in need of what we had to offer and guiding them through their widow journeys takes courage and fortitude. Every time we encounter a new widow, we’re forced to relive the worst day of our own lives as we help them navigate their loss.
At times, I think about stepping back from active involvement in the group, as does Gage. Then we consider the enormous amount of good we’ve done through the Wild Widows, not to mention the found family of fellow travelers who’ve become our closest friends, and we keep showing up for those who need us.
It’s almost like a calling at this point, and Gage feels the same way.
But this… How do I encourage Taylor to retain optimism and hope after tragically losingtwohusbands? Where will she find the strength to go on, to rebuild yet another new life from the ashes of a life she loved with a man she adored? Of course, like so many of us, she’ll have no choice but to go on for the sake of her soon-to-be three children.
And how will I support my other widow friends through the secondary trauma of realizing this terrible thing can happen again? So many of them have moved into new relationships with open and hopeful hearts that’ll be broken by Taylor’s unspeakable loss.
These are the thoughts that keep me awake for most of that long night, holding my sweet friend through the worst grief either of us has ever known.
When the sun comes peeking through the blinds, I’m no closer to answers to my most pressing questions.
A young female doctor comes by on rounds and notes thatTaylor’s blood pressure has stabilized. She unhooks the fetal monitor and puts on gloves to remove the IV, jobs normally done by the nurses, but I appreciate that she does them herself to expedite things for Taylor.
“I’ll sign the discharge paperwork for you, but make sure you follow up this week with your OB.”
“She will,” I reply for her.
“I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” I say.
The doctor places a business card on the tray next to Taylor’s bed. “If there’s anything I can do for you, don’t hesitate to call. My cell number is on the back.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
