Client AH.67.109

(Beep Music fades in)

I’m surprised you’re listening to this. I mean, maybe I shouldn’t be. The dreams told me you were going to, but no matter what happens or how many times I’ve been right about things, there’s always going to be a bit of doubt in my mind. And can you really blame me for being reluctant to trust this absurd thing that currently defines my existence? Often for the worst? Usually for the worst. And then there’s the simple fact that I still really don’t want this to be real. Even if that’s hoping against hope.

But here you are. It must have been morbid curiosity, if I had to guess. That always seems to get the job done.

Yes, I knew her heath would take a bad and sudden turn, but I also knew you weren’t going to let anything happen to her. You were too alert, attentive, knowledgeable. Many things. You knew what her monitors were supposed to read and how she was likely going to look and act after childbirth. It might have been her first kid, but that didn’t matter to you. There was no way you weren’t going to catch that downturn. You’ve always been watching over your family as a hawk that had no need for the eyes of someone who might be clairvoyant.

All I had to do was make sure this all stayed in your hands, for your own sake, really. I don’t mean to reduce your daughter to an instrument of your own journey, but there are times when simple narratives work best. It isn’t always, but it does happen.

She wasn’t going to die. That wouldn’t have happened no matter what I said. And maybe that’s why I wasn’t charged with her welfare but with yours. She was being cared for. She will always be cared for. Always and forever.

Then again, I don’t understand how any of this works, so that’s probably being a bit presumptuous on my part. But you can see my logic, can’t you? You can see what I’m drawing from.

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

But in some ways, that’s an even worse conclusion. Because now  we’re pushing towards something you really don’t want to talk about. That moment of weakness, the moment your superhero cape fell off, otherwise known as the moment of his death.

I should watch my phrasing there, shouldn’t I? I mean, I could say it that way, but this is a great example of when simplified stories strip themselves of larger meanings. And I wish you could see that. Because this is the rut you find yourself stuck in, isn’t it? You keep replaying that memory over and over again in your mind. That moment in the hospital as you stood over his weakened form. You saw him as a shadow of what you once knew him to be. And you felt the same thing about yourself. Which led, as you understand, to make a decision you should not have made. You knew better.  Or you could have done better, but in that moment, as you say, you were no longer a superhero; you were less than that. And that scared you. Because suddenly you didn't know who you were.

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

From what I could gather, his final decline lasted about a year. And that lines up with the last appearance in our coffee shop and the dreams are full of all the seasonal fixtures.

Losing him wasn't easy, was it? I can't imagine the heartache you experienced, but the basics are rather obvious. Namely that loss is never easy. And I don’t think your friends were right in thinking never mind saying that gradual declines are easier to grieve than sudden losses. That might be splitting hairs. In reality, they both suck, just in different ways. But to be fair to them, they were trying to help you. They failed, but they did try. We aren’t taught how to deal with death and loss, and to be fair to whatever, it’s not something we are too eager to learn.

They don’t know everything. Not even about you. It’s part of being human. No one can be a source of infinite knowledge, no matter how much they want to pretend otherwise. It’s a defense mechanism, I guess. We all use them. After all, it’s part of human nature to be scared.

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

You were scared then. But it was hard to think about that sometimes. It was a constant thought, a constant panging in your heart, but just like breathing, consistency makes it possible to ignore things. The human mind can only juggle so many thoughts at once, and it will always prioritize what it sees as impending doom. And that’s where the exhaustion comes in. You already knew the physical pains that came from tending to him, particularly the ones that center themselves in your old joints. You’d done this before, but you were younger and stronger then. Back then, you could grip the world without your joints breaking or cracking. Not anymore.

It was always painful, but it gradually grew more unbearable, didn’t it. And somehow it still got worse. . And then the exhaustion and dull ache in your bones evolved into torturous pain. And you knew your own breaking point was coming, seemingly as your care devolved into a vigil for his death. All things considered, particularly his age, it was inevitable. Not easy, not desired but inevitable. Factually speaking, he wasn’t going to make it.

And, as terrible as that fact is,  that wasn’t your fault. You were only human. A human being trying to not become collateral damage of your husband’s demise.

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

I know you won’t believe me, so I don’t know if I’m saying this more for you or me. But sometimes, he does speak to me.

“She had to live,” he once said.

“Of course,” I replied.

“They need her.”

Your kids, I presume.

“I wanted to tell her that.”

“I can,” I offered.

“No matter what,” he stressed. “She has to live.”

“Okay,” I replied.

“I don’t care about anything else,” he said.

“I believe you,” I replied

“Not even me.”

I’ve come to see that those were the stakes in that final moment. Maybe that’s what he need me to understand but couldn’t fully convey. You had trapped yourself beneath the weight of his illness and impending death. You were gradually being crushed, but you didn’t want to run. He wanted to tell you to run, but by then he was too weak. The moments ticked by. In the darkness of the hospital. Your children had come and gone, said their goodbyes but couldn’t handle witnessing the end. Particularly after the doctors said he was not going to wake up again. And it was only a matter of his body shutting down. The mind was gone. He wasn’t in pain. It was a formality in many ways. This last bit was your job, you told them. You would see it to the end.

But the end didn’t come right away. He lingered. Longer than the doctors thought. And for a moment, you led yourself to believe that this story might have a different end. That’s what you convinced of. Anything that let you step away. Just for a moment. You needed some coffee.

Honestly? He timed it out. That was his plan. He had to keep you safe.

He knew you were human. A being with limitations and complexities, even if you were the greatest one he had ever known.

You know, I half-heartedly used to joke that humanity was a mistake. I say half-heartedly because it was only half a joke. The rest of it I meant. Now, I’m not so sure. We have our problems, and we do terrible things, and then you see people in love. Not just romantic love. In your case, there was parts of that. And then there love for all the children.  Those you carried in your womb and those you didn’t. Genuine, authentic, self-giving love…. You see it, and it’s hard to be so pessimistic.

I don’t just see it with you. Your student and the girl down the hall--those two young women, youthful, almost childlike souls--they’ve also worked to make me believe what your husband so passionately preached. Being human will always be a beautiful thing as long as you can love.

They need a hero right now. They need you. No matter what happened when your husband died, you’re still an amazing being, capable of holding worlds together. And as they start to rebuild theirs, maybe separately, maybe together--they need your strength to get them through.

So please help them.

(Music fades out. Beep.)