I Remember the Full Moon

originally posted in my blog 29 December 2006

It's been a while since that night. Five years to be exact.

December 29th, 2001.

The day itself was benign and quite uneventful.

My in-laws had gone back to their house for the weekend. My brother-in-law was going to take them out to dinner that night. Why? I can't fucking remember.

It was the end of the month which meant I had to write checks for our bills. That took up most of my morning.

Around noontime, I headed out to the pet store to buy our weekly metric ton of dog food, cat food, and litter. I was used to doing this task on my own. It was my way of escaping, getting the hell out of the house, even for a few hours. I returned home around two-ish.

The house was dark and uninviting. My house was always dark. He hated having any light coming through the windows; it hurt his eyes. It was like living in a tomb. A dirty, smoky, dusty tomb. I fucking hated my home. So many times I just wanted to run, take off and never come back. Loyalty was the only thing that stopped me. Loyalty and pity.

He was still in bed. The TV was on the Speed Channel or something like that. The bedroom was even darker than the rest of the house. The ashtray was filled with Marlboro butts. The section of the ceiling directly over his spot on the bed was brown. Is that fucking gross? Brown from all of his smoking. He would argue with me (his favorite pastime), saying that the brown was dirt tracked in from the dogs from the backyard. He was such an ignorant bastard. Ignorant, abusive, and disabled. And he never left the bedroom.

Our dogs, Schindler and Caesar, were at his bedside. They never left him. Poor animals. I swear they had to have lung cancer with all the second-hand smoke trapped in that room.

He was asleep. He had started to snore and it was becoming increasingly loud. Occasionally, while asleep, he would stop breathing. I'd have to yell at him to wake up so he'd start breathing again. I was tired as well, but I refused to sleep in that room with his snoring.

I tried to wake him up. I wanted to let him know I was home, but that I was going to lie down and read in the other room on the couch.

His eyes opened for a moment and he looked around wildly. He said something rather inaudible, something like "Did you remember the twenty dollars?"

I pacified him, saying something "Okay, hon".

I grabbed my paperback book, The Sword of Shannara by Terry Brooks, and headed for the couch.

I read about ten pages and drifted into a deep sleep. It was deep and it was restful, but dark.

I opened my eyes.

What the fuck was that noise?!

It sounded like someone gargling. I sat up and looked in the kitchen at the clock on the stove. It was 5:40 PM.

I walked in the bedroom. The Catholic Channel, of all things, was on the TV. I looked at him. That noise, that unholy fucking noise was coming from him. He sounded like he was drowning. I looked at his face. There was this brown, thick spittle coming out of the right corner of his mouth. I walked over to him. He didn't look good. Something was seriously wrong.

"Nick," I said, "come on. It's late. You need dinner."

He didn't move.

"Nick! Did you hear me?! I said wake up. It's dinner time."

No response.

I turned on the light on the bureau. He didn't look right at all. I hovered over him now.

"NICK! NICK! Come ON, WAKE.UP!"

He wasn't moving at all. I felt panic kick in. By this point, with my big mouth, he would have at least shifted.

I remembered on TV that people would smack another person in the face to help them regain consciousness. I started to lightly and rapidly smack his left facial cheek.
"Nick, come on! You have to wake up! Do you hear me? Wake up!"

I repeated that over and over and over. The light smacks started getting harder and harder. I was up to full force facial smacks.

Nothing.

I grabbed his right arm. He had a damaged rotor cuff. He couldn't hold his arm at a right angle to his body. I thought moving this it would surely waking him due to the intense pain.

I pushed his arm up and OVER his head! He hadn't been able to do that for days! The pain would have been excruciating.

He didn't even flinch. And for the love of fucking G-d, he was still gurgling!

Panic swept right through me. Tears were welling up. I was by myself! No one was home anywhere! What the fuck do I do?!

That's what I kept repeating both out loud and in my mind.

"What the fuck do I do? What the fuck do I do? What the fuck do I do?"

I grabbed both of his arms and tried to lift him out of bed. Now, the man is 6'4" and weighed I don't know HOW much, but he was NO lightweight. I figured if I could carry the pet food haul, I could move him.

I pulled with all my might and got him in an awkward upright position; however, I lost my grip and he fell. I mean he tumbled out of the bed and was now wedged between the bed and the bureau. He just fell like a rag doll. I grabbed his arms again and dragged him up and out of the tight spot and onto the floor.

The dogs were watching me the whole time, as if to say, "Yo, ma. What up with dad?"

His gargling stopped. He wasn't making any noise and he was lying there on the floor wearing nothing but a Depends diaper.

Logic kicked in.

I grabbed the phone and dialed 911.
I spoke slowly and succinctly to the operator. I told her that my husband was disabled and he was being unresponsive. I told her I was in another room asleep for a few hours and when I woke up, I found him that way. I gave her my addy and she told me to remain calm and that the rescue squad would be on its way.

I tried calling my parents - nothing. I tried calling his parents - nothing. I tried calling his brother - nothing. I repeated this routine until the rescue team came.

Within minutes, there was the sound of a siren coming down my street. I saw the red lights flashing through the light open windows on top of my front door. The lights seemed to stop in front of my house. Within another minute, there was a fire truck on the scene.

I opened the door and let in the rescue workers. I guided them to the bedroom. One of the firemen asked me to take the dogs outside. Reason being that the dogs might not understand the men were there to help Nick and might attack. I led the dogs outside in the backyard. I then walked back to the kitchen and began dialing again, trying to reach anyone.

I walked back into the bedroom. I smelled something god awful. There was this clear liquid all over the floor.

"Sorry about that," the one paramedic said, "that came out when we put the breathing tube in. I'll clean it before we go."

"Go?"

"Yeah, we have to take him to the hospital."

"Oh, then he has to go to Holy Redeemer. I know Nazereth is closer but he would probably prefer Holy Redeemer."

The paramedic looked at me.

"Okay, we'll take him there."

The other paramedics asked me what medication Nick was taking. I grabbed all the bottles I could find and handed it to them in a Ziploc baggie.

I walked back in the kitchen and tried dialing once again. I looked up from my dialing and watched four of the workers take Nick out on what I thought was a black blanket.

"Should I follow you guys?"

The one paramedic who apologized for the floor said, "Well, take your time. There is no need for you to rush and get into an accident or anything. Just get there when you can."

After they left, I brought the dogs back in and put them in the bedroom. Christ! That fucking stench was still in there.

I grabbed an overnight bag and proceeded to throw in some clothes, toiletries, and a few other items. I checked the clock. It was almost 6:35 PM.

"Here we go again," I mumbled, "it's almost New Year's Eve and I'll be celebrating in a hospital wing."

I was used to going to hospitals due to Nick's disability. He was in the hospital a lot.

I threw the bag in the car and headed out. I checked the gas gauge and noticed it was a wee bit low. I stopped at the local gas station to fill her up.

As I was filling the car, I looked up in the sky. The moon was full and really bright that night. It was beautiful. It was a cold, clear night and the moon was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen.

When I got to the hospital, I pulled into the ER parking lot. I found rock star parking right near the door. I thought it was my lucky night. I grabbed the bag and ran in.

I walked up to the nurse's station and told her who I was.

"Hi, I'm Mrs. S. My husband was brought in via ambulance a few minutes ago."

She looked at me, checked some paper, and told me she would be right with me. I walked back to the double doors that lead into the ER. I saw the rescue guys in there. They were all standing around. Then they saw me through the windows and quickly dropped their faces.

"Oh great," I thought, "Nick must have woke up and freaked out. This is gonna be fun."

The nurse from the desk startled me. She took my arm and led me through the double doors. I walked past the workers, past the ER desk, the makeshift curtained rooms, and was led into this small room with a little desk and a machine that sterilized operating instruments. She told me to take a seat and she sat down as well.

"The doctor will be here in a minute."

Within a minute, a doctor walked in the room.

"Mrs. S? I'm Dr. Cannotremember. Mrs S., we tried everything we could for your husband, but there was little we could do when he got here."

I sat there for a moment. I must have had the dumbest expression on my face.

"I don't understand." I finally said.

"Mrs. S., your husband is gone."

"Huh? What are you saying?"

"He's dead. He was dead on arrival."

That thing about your entire life flashing before your eyes? It's true.

Everything, I mean EVERYTHING I had ever done with Nick, and was planning on doing with him, zoomed around in my head. Pictures of when we met. When he proposed. Us buying our house. When we got the dogs. When I adopted the kitties. When his parents moved in. His extensive hospital stays. Our fights. His legal battles. Our plans of moving. I was feeling dizzy and sick. I was going to vomit.

Then I screamed. I screamed louder than I ever screamed before in my life.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"

I collapsed. It was all surreal. Was I just told my husband was dead? What the fuck? Was I just fucking told my 35 year old husband was dead? This wasn't happening! I kept shaking my head in disbelief.

"No! He's not gone! He's not dead!"

Then I looked at the nurse.

"He's Catholic! He needs a priest! Please, get him a priest! He needs his last rites! He won't rest, I know it!"

She assured me that they would get him a priest to administer his last rites.

Time passed by quickly yet slowly in that room. What seemed like minutes later, in walked in my parents. My mom, who can't take bad news for fucking shit, was a wreck. She looked worse than me. SHE fucking collapsed. Fucking drama queen.

I was in too much shock to realize what an idiot she was.

I looked at my dad.

"Daddy! I don't want to be a widow! I'm only 33! I don't want to be a widow at 33! I don't WANT to be a young widow!"

My parents, or I should say my dad, led me out of that little room. I was a bit more collected than my pathetic mother. I didn't want the world to see me like this. I was in a room with mothers watching over their sick children and children watching over their sick parents. They were the ones really hurting. They had the living to tend to still. I only had the dead.

My godparents showed up at the hospital as well. They were all there for me, thank fuck. I called the CFO at my job and explained to him I wasn't going to be in work for a few days because I had to make arrangements to bury my husband of three years.

That's when I felt it. I was in the room where Nick was laying on the table. His cold, lifeless body was just there. I checked the clock. It was 7:10 PM.

I looked at my dad and said, "I can go now, Dad. My husband isn't here anymore."

He looked at me and said, "That's right, honey. He's no longer in here, but the rest of the world is out there."

I knew what he meant. I walked with everyone to the doors leading outside. People were staring at me. I felt stigmatized, like they all knew I was now a widow.

Funny, I thought my life ended that night. I thought that being at a widow at 33 meant my world was over.

I thought, "Who would want me now in their life? I'm marked. I'm a young widow with cats and dogs. No one on this Earth would ever want me now."

It was dark and cold outside, just like my tomb of a home. But off in the distance, on some neighboring houses, I saw little lights. Little Christmas lights were breaking through the darkness. Seeing them made me smile, be it just briefly.

I looked up at the moon again. It was still there, and it was still just as beautiful. It was there when I thought my husband was alive, and it was still there now that I was a widow.

On that night, I learned that life has no guarantees and I learned to accept everything that came my way, be it good or bad.

The moon changes and we all accept it because that's what happens. And so is the same with life.

Life happens, good and bad, and you just have to accept it.