Part 1.

I promised my therapist that I would write this week. We agreed it wouldn't have to be anything of substance, just a practice at thinking and getting it outside of myself. I'm adept at carrying all my grief, despair, anxiety inside and showing no outward signs of the storm that rages within. It's become a joke between us, that my face always looks the same, regardless of what I'm talking about. I'm sure this is some kind of coping mechanism, of course I like to believe it's because I've learned to transcend emotion. I also like to lie to myself.

Because I can't be light, and with the straightest face I have, I'm going to address the major events in the last year that have brought me to this weird, naked, but hopeful place. I'll probably need to take some breaks. It's been a doozy. But I think it's going to get better.

Nearly a year ago, my kids were at Disney with their dad. My husband Paul and I were home alone, enjoying our quiet evening and listening to Tanis. Our puppy Finn was being a butt and started a fight with his sister Millie. Out of the blue, Paul suggested we relinquish Finn. It startled and distressed me and we had an argument. I went to bed angry. I refused to kiss him goodnight. I woke up an hour later to the dogs barking. The house lights were off, Paul's computer was on and open, and several bottles of liquor were empty on the counter. The front door was wide open and my car was gone. I checked the bank account to see if he'd gone to the store to buy more booze, but found instead that he'd donated money to two different go fund me's. It felt very off. I texted him. I called. Again and again. And then I heard sirens and knew something had happened. I quickly put on a bra and got into his car to find him. I made it down my street when a police car pulled up. We both got out. "I'm looking for my husband." "There's been an accident."

The officer didn't give me much information. He wasn't certain who was in the car, just that it was a male and the car was registered at my address. I gave him Paul's information and he directed me to a nearby hospital. I drove there pissed that Paul had been so stupid to drive after drinking, pissed that he'd taken my car, pissed that I was up with this bullshit in the middle of the night. At the hospital, I was taken to a small room and told that a doctor would be in to see me. It was a long wait and I began to get nervous that I wasn't getting any information. Then the chaplain came in and my nerves got worse. When the doctor finally came into the room he told me that the accident had been bad. Paul had driven the van under a truck. They'd had to extricate him. He'd lost his left arm at the elbow. He'd been crushed. They were getting ready to airlift him to Loyola's trauma center. Was I prepared to see him?

The chaplain held my hand the entire time. I don't remember her name, but I remember her compassion. Paul was covered in blood. His head was crushed and he was intubated. There was a crowd of doctors and nurses surrounding him, trying to stabilize him in order to get him on the helicopter. I tried to stay out of their way. I was asked to give him a kiss before they left, no one saying in case it was goodbye, but I understood. The chaplain wiped the blood off my mouth with a tissue and walked me to my car. I told her I was fine to drive, but I pulled out of the parking lot and realized that wasn't true. I called the only friend I knew would be up at the time, Amanda, and she offered to take me to Loyola.

We got there and were met by my friend Joe who waited with us. It felt like an eternity. Again, a chaplain joined us. Eventually, a doctor did as well. Paul wasn't doing well. They couldn't stop his bleeding. He had brain damage. I asked if they'd found his arm, if they could reattach it. It was his left arm and he was left handed. "That's the least of our worries right now." I would be taken to see him once they were able to stabilize his condition. So we waited. And waited. And my friend Joe had to leave to open our store. The show must go on, right? Eventually they moved us to a visitors room. Amanda was thirsty so she left to get some water. While she was gone, the doctor came to see me. He took me to a conference room and told me that they couldn't stop the bleeding. Paul had suffered major brain damage. Did I want them to continue their efforts knowing his body couldn't survive without assistance?

We'd literally just talked about this. Like the day before. So I answered as he wished and told them "no." It was then they took me to see him. I stood next to his broken body and touched him. And kissed him. And told him that I loved him and was pretty angry that he chose to go for a drive. I talked about how we met on Twitter and how wonderful our story was. How the first time we met was at Midway Airport and he kissed me right there at arrivals to get it out of the way. How even when he made me angry, and boy did he, he still gave me butterflies. And as I was talking to him, the doctor came in to check his vitals. He was gone.

I hope that Paul's spirit left his body at the scene of the accident. I hope he wasn't aware of any pain. But part of me also hopes that I was able to give him some comfort as he passed. That he could sense my presence and it gave him some peace.

Listening to: "Sinatra" by The Fire Theft