Nothing had stopped

The first night I had without Tim, I was in a daze. I was foggy. I was exhausted.

When I awoke the next morning after 9 hours of sleep, I showered, got dressed, with no idea what to wear, and drank two cups of coffee. I then walked downstairs to my apartment rental office to extend my lease. I had already made the decision earlier in the week to stay put.

As I waited my turn for assistance, another resident was complaining to the agent about a new policy requiring wristbands for entry into the pool area. She was explaining her reasons as to why this was such a major inconvenience to her life.

My mind went wild. And I mumbled under my breath, who the “ef” cares?! How could THIS be a problem when someone I loved just died? This went on for weeks. My judgement of other people. How could something so small be of any importance? How can a person expend energy on something with no meaning? This alone made it difficult to go out in public or even watch TV. I didn’t like that I was being so harsh and judgmental, all in my own head, never out loud. It wasn’t fair of me. But there it was.

A few weeks later, I received a phone call that our marriage license was ready for pick up. I was eager to drive to the Office of Records to retrieve it. As I neared the building, I flashed back to three weeks earlier  – the day that Judy and Chuck took me there to sign the papers allowing Tim and I to officially marry on his “deathbed.”.

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This time, I entered the building moving slowly, not running as I did the day of our wedding. I walked to the open line. Andre was at the station to my left, the man who had been so kind and had gone out of his way to help weeks before. I reminded him of who I was and let him know that Tim passed away 26 hours after our ceremony. I shared my gratitude to Andre for making it as easy as possible for us to do what we wanted and needed to do so quickly. He was empathetic and kind, and he reminded me that he was still planning to try a recipe from Tim’s cookbook as soon as he had the chance.

As I walked back to my car, document in hand, I felt a pull, like a force of energy. I was four blocks from the hospital where we spent that last week of Tim’s life; and of course, where we said, “until death do us part.” I turned the Audi in that direction. I actually giggled as I entered the hospital parking garage remembering the frustrations we all shared about circling the same floor of the garage over and over. I found a spot and sat in the car for a few minutes. The garage was still as busy as it was that week.

I opened the car door, placed both feet on the ground and confidently headed toward the main entrance. I came in and out these doors many times that week when I needed to breathe deeply, make a phone call, to smell the blooming jasmine in the garden arch, or take a quick walk in the stifling humidity. It was on one of those outings when I had discovered the chapel down a side hallway. I had ended up there on three occasions. Always by myself. No better place to cry, let it go, and see if I could get a sense from any spirit of what was to happen next for Tim.

So, there I was, walking back into the hospital, directly to the chapel.  Again, I was alone. I cried. I let go. And I asked questions.

I don’t know if this was an answer to a question, a message from somewhere, or simply my own observation, but I realized something as I sat there. The world hadn’t stopped. The doctors and nurses were still working with patients. Some people had left. Some were still there. New patients had been admitted. Phone calls were being made. Family and friends were feeling pain, relief, shock, joy, and worry. People were dying. Babies were being born. Nothing. Nothing had stopped.

I sat there in this place that, so quickly, had become familiar during that one week of my life, and now I felt unwelcome. We were old news. My time here was done.

Though I felt sluggish, hazy, and late for almost everything, I was still alive and moving. Not only had nothing stopped, I also had not stopped.

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