The Harrowed Heart

Tag: family

  • The first purge…

    This is the very first entry I ever made, when writing became a way for me to release the memories I held onto. It’s pretty raw, emotionally speaking. I was trying to purge the memories I kept then, the one’s that I still keep. They’re quieter now, and I know it might seem strange to refer to them like a tangible entity, but when something like that completely overwhelms your limbic system, it feels like it’s attacking your soul. Kevin wrote a song about it called “Seconds later” that I feel captured that day perfectly. It was hard to listen to the first time, triggering even, but I can see the beauty behind it too. I’ll see about attaching a link… Song listed at the bottom of the post

    19 November 2022: If he’s still alive       

    Time: 14:00 ISH  

                   I felt like my entire world just shifted off its axis when I heard those words. I feel like my brain is physically protesting understanding the meaning of them: “If he’s still alive.” What did that mean? This was just a simple accident, what sort of damage had happened to lead to those words, “If he’s still alive?” Does that mean that he could die? Who’s he? Surely, they’re not talking about Kevin, my Kevin. I was briefly glad that Kevin’s brother L– was here to offer support while I struggled with the information before me. But there was no one else in that emergency room and the flurry of people in and out of it seemed to indicate that whatever was happening inside was not good. Life threatening even. Is that what this meant? That Kevin could die? I couldn’t understand.

                   I feel like I blanked out for a few seconds when I heard those words, self-preservation at its finest. The background noise seemed to reach me from a long tunnel, it was muted, dull, and incomprehensible. A hush had already fallen around the Emergency Department: Everyone knew Kevin; they’d worked with him for years, almost 2 decades in some cases. They knew what was happening and did what they needed to do to keep Kevin alive. And the unspoken thought screamed from every direction: would it be enough?

    “What did you just say?”

    I felt Kevin’s brother, L– step closer to me, put his arm around my shoulders and Dr. G– stopped speaking while I struggled to grasp the situation. To this day I’m still not sure what it was that Dr. G– had said when I blanked out, the jargon far exceeding my knowledge of medical terminology; or maybe my brain had temporarily blocked my ability to understand it. But one thing seemed to be very clear: The people going in and out of emergency room 6, the lab techs running blood bags in; the frenzy surrounding the prone figure on the bed; the machines beeping; the cardio-ultrasound machine; the lights shining brightly overhead; the sounds of doctors and nurses yelling out directions and vitals; all of them were fighting to save Kevin. This is bad.

                   So I do the only thing I know: I cry. I run to the closest bathroom and try to slam my way thru the door, barely acknowledging the two cops standing guard outside the room down the hall. But the door doesn’t open, at least not fully. Instead, I’ve slammed the door, or maybe it was the handle, against a person, a woman. Specifically, I slammed that door with my full weight behind it, against her head. A blonde, 40’s-ish woman with pink-looking clothing around her ankles as she plays on her phone while she tries to do her business screeches and grabs her head. I notice the second door is open into another emergency room and there appears to be someone in there. The woman yells that I should knock and while I briefly think I should’ve shoved the door harder, it’s a fleeting thought; there is no room for animosity or anger towards this person. Knock? That was the least of my concerns. I just need a quiet place to think. To cry. God, I want to scream! All I know is I needed to get out of that room, out of the hospital if I could, but that wasn’t going to be possible. Not for a while. So I turned into the wall there, just beside the restroom door. I curled into it, I wanted to crawl into it, and tried not to collapse, tried not to lose my breath. I fought against the misery straining to escape and looked for anything that would help me keep my hold on sanity, anything.

                   The cops there knew me, I don’t know how, but Officer A– called me by name, “Andrea, what happened?” I tried to calm myself enough to speak, but I still couldn’t breathe. “Kevin…had an accident….he…shot himself…with a nail gun…” I don’t know whether that was enough to explain what had happened but I’m pretty sure they understood the brevity of the situation. Their faces looked concerned; it seemed like that they understood this was life or death. Please don’t be death. And the female officer, I have really got to learn (or probably remember) her name, she looked like she wanted to come give me a hug but stood in place, remembering her position on the room she helped to guard.

                   I’m not sure what happened next, but I think I asked to sit somewhere, anywhere that was not in that room. Kevin’s brother, L– came with me and we sat quietly in one of the offices off the med surge floor.  “He’s strong, he’ll pull through.” I think he was trying to reassure himself as much as me and I wondered when and who had called him. That seemed like a lifetime ago. I remember asking that someone call them, Kevin’s brother, L–, and my brother R–: I think I had asked R– to go sit with the kids at my home. But everything was a blur and disjointed. Painful. It was fragmented.

                    I had only caught one piece of information prior to being told Kevin might die, and that might explain my behavior. Because I understood what it meant when the tech had said there was fluid in the cavity. Or did he say sac? Or did he say that it was blood that was leaking into the cavity or sac? Either way, I knew that the body shouldn’t leak after having an accident. Leaking was bad, especially around the heart. Especially if it was blood. Wait…where was the blood coming from? What was leaking? What did they mean by cavity? I wish that everyone would just shut up so I could think for a moment. But they didn’t… And then Dr. G–’s meaning became all too clear: Kevin might die.

    And I didn’t know what to do.

    I really shut down this time. My mind immediately going to every scenario and every thought of what needed to be done if he didn’t make it. What would I do? He’s not going to see any of his kids graduate; L–’s high school graduation is just months away. We’re meant to be in Florida for our niece’s wedding in March: Can I refund the tickets? I recalled the family gathering to help plan his mother’s funeral…oh my God, I was going to have to plan his funeral…Could I bury him…that’s ok, right? No, Kevin wanted to be cremated, didn’t he? Did he? Oh my God, I can’t think. I don’t have enough pictures of him.

    And I tried, I really tried to keep it together through my tears as I looked at L– and told him we needed to call the rest of the family: T–, C–, and Kevin’s father L2–. L– called their father. I called T– and C–.

                   I had to try calling C– three times before he picked up-he was still at work, as he made very clear when he answered. We hadn’t been on the best terms recently, but we were still family. I choked as I tried to explain what was happening. The words were fighting against me, fearing their place if I spoke them out loud. And I was frustrated: Did he really think I was going to call him repeatedly just to chat? While he was at work? “Kevin had an accident…he might…not… make it.” I just couldn’t give voice to the very real possibility of death. I didn’t want to fathom life as a widow. I was only 41!

    “I’m coming,” he said, and the line disconnected.

                   I called T– next.

                   What time was it in Alaska? 10? 11? Would she be in class or would the kids be at lunch? Wait, it’s Saturday. T– answered right away. She and her husband S– were driving, I think, as I again tried to explain what had happened. Her voice…I didn’t like it. There was too much emotion in it, too much in it that threatened to release everything I was feeling; too many things I didn’t want to feel. T– sounded broken. This was her brother, of course, and though they didn’t talk often, they were close and loved each other. They all did. We all did. Kevin and I were both close to our siblings. T– thanked me for calling her and told me to keep her posted and that was that. I remember feeling like the conversation, either of them really, should have gone on longer. But then I realized that T– was feeling what I was but on another level: I may have been Kevin’s wife, but that was his sister: I’m sure she didn’t want to think about losing her brother, not when it had only been a year since they lost their mother. T– wasn’t rushing to get off the phone but if she couldn’t be strong, she wouldn’t lose that with me.

                   L– had finished his phone call too. L2 had been heading out to spend time with his sisters, Aunties squared. I’m glad he wasn’t going to be alone for the news he just received. I don’t know what he must have been feeling but I also knew that while he was with his sisters, Aunties squared wouldn’t let Larry fall off the deep end. Hopefully, someone would be able to keep a calm head. Waiting to worry until there was something to worry about was something I tried to do whenever I found myself in worrisome situations. I just couldn’t find the spot in me that told me to sit down and stop worrying until we knew what was going to happen, and there were really only two options left to us: Kevin was either going to live, or he was going to die.

    As I come to this conclusion, I see Dr. S–, the surgeon, running up the hall; he all but throws his things on the desk and rushes into the room where Kevin is. I feel relief that he is here. I don’t know why but I know as a surgeon he is here to help.

  • Another nightmare

    Well, I’ve made it past the holiday slump that I’ve been stuck in. Kevin and I went to a few games this year; a playoff and championship game (next year, Denver!) and even went to visit his father- we really need to make that a regular thing. And things have just started to calm down, feel less heavy, if you know what I mean.

    And then, well, inevitably it seems, it happens again. I have another bad night, another nightmare. I knew to expect it, I knew it was coming. I didn’t think it would happen that first night after hearing about what had happened, but I knew it would rear its ugly head in time. And it did.

    This time was slightly different though; this time the nightmare seemed to stem from fear of abandonment. Don’t get me wrong, my family and I-and by that, I mean my siblings and mother- we love and take care of one another the way that families are meant to, even if we don’t see each other as often as I would like. And I’ve never feared them leaving me.

    But recent events lead to a trauma response. I work in health care, and shit happens sometimes that no one can prepare for. And while not directly involved in emergency patient care, I can still see the weight the team that worked this particular case carries. It did not end well. And it involved a small child. That is all that I will say about that.
    My heart aches for the caregivers and the family involved. It’s never easy working a trauma-speaking strictly as someone who is the wife of someone who suffered a serious trauma-but it’s worse when it involves a kid. You could feel it in the air and see it in the eyes of those who tried to help. It was even brought up in our daily check-in, to keep that team and that family in our thoughts.

    And then I saw the email the school sent to parents, letting us know of a sudden loss. I saw the names of the family involved, people I know, who we’ve been friendly with. And it hurt more.

    Someone mentioned, “I just can’t imagine…” and seriously, I hate that phrase. I have since Kevin’s accident. Those are the worst moments of a person’s life, why would you want to imagine what it feels like? I certainly wouldn’t want anyone to have the experiences I’ve had nor would I want to think about what it would be like to live through someone’s else’s worst moments. We can sympathize, sure. But no more, do not put that thought into the universe, trust me, you don’t want to be in that position. At least, that’s what I think.

    So this nightmare, I was alone. Kicked out of my family home. Packed my car so tight with belongings stuffed in trash bags that I had no choice but to take a bus to a friend’s house. And when I texted my brother to ask him how he could let this happen and that I had nowhere to go, I only received a texted picture of me with a friend; the message was clear: we won’t help you, rely on your friend. And I found myself crying on a bus, a kind stranger asking if I was ok, and me, shaking my head no.

    That was when I woke up, the feeling of being alone still clinging to my consciousness, sobbing. I had to work through my steps to calm down alone as Kevin had already left for work. I have a new process, I actually use to help me get to sleep, too: I think about 3 things that I can hear, and three I can feel…and this morning, I added 3 things that are true. This is actually my modified version of a coping mechanism to talk people out of their panic attacks. It seemed to be pretty efficient: I calmed down quicker than I thought it would. I also wonder if I calmed down more quickly than normal because the nightmare wasn’t directly tied to my own trauma, or the emotions that brought up.

    When I heard the news, I didn’t have to wonder what that family must be going through, no, my focus was not spiraling into my own memories. That wouldn’t have helped anything anyways. Nope, I focused on trying to stay present, allow myself to feel sympathy for that family, even before I knew I knew who they were, and keep going. Because that’s all we can really do. Keep going.

    And yeah, this sucks. It’s not fair, and no one will really know why things like this happen. There’s just no rhyme or reason to life sometimes. It just happens, and sometimes it’s hard.

    It can also be really beautiful. The community has rallied around the family, it’s what we do. Our organization took care of their own, meals were provided to the EMT team, the ED team, and counseling is always an option for staff in these circumstances.
    Friends reached out to friends, we’ve all been checking in with each other a little more, and we’ve all given just a little more grace.

    Because that could have happened to any of us.

    And we can only be there when it does.

  • I just miss her

    It’s my grandma’s birthday today; she would have been 89.
    This is the first birthday without her, and it sucks.

    I always hate these types of first; they’re always the hardest. The first birthday without being able to call her-it reminded me of the last birthday I got to spend with her. The first and last time we went to a baseball game together. The last call we had where she asked when I’d be back to take her to another one.

    I’ve been thinking about her all day and I struggled to keep it together at work. I made it to mid-morning before I started crying. That’s me. I’m the cry-er in my family. Always have been. Always will be.

    I used to hate that I was always so emotional. It seemed like a burden that my anger or my sadness would always result in tears, and I couldn’t help it. But now I see it as a strength…my compassion lets me do my job and do it well.

    Kevin said he could feel my heart breaking as I cried over the enchilada’s he made for me tonight; they were grandma’s enchiladas. I remember the first time I ate them after she was gone… I was crying in the grocery store, in front of the Mexican food section, asking my Kevin if he would make them for me. I sobbed through every bite; he said it’s because I love so deeply. And it was the same tonight, but I couldn’t let her birthday pass without her enchiladas.

    I knew today was going to be hard but what I didn’t expect is that it would feel as if no time had passed since I got the news that she was gone… it hurts every bit as much as it did then. Maybe a bit worse since it’s been almost a year since I last spoke to her. I can still her soft voice calling me “mija” and telling me I eat like a bird.

    But I also remember the last trip to California before her death; we took a day trip to Yosemite. Grandma told me about the trips she and grandpa used to take my mama and my uncles on when they were younger; how they would leave early and make camp by the river and cook up breakfast. She must of told me that story about 9 times on the way to and from Yosemite. I remember not minding…knowing I wouldn’t have many more opportunities to hear them. Knowing that she just wanted to talk with me. Know that we loved each other so much. Not knowing that would be the last time I heard that story. I didn’t mind.

    Man do I miss her.

  • A good reminder

    I often get people, patients and visitors alike, coming into my lobby and looking for specific services that are not located in my area; usually, I just direct them to the appropriate location and wish them a happy day.

    More often than not, I get those who need to be directed to the emergency room for various reasons: they require emergency services; they’re here to visit an in-patient and need to check-in with the emergency room unit coordinator first (for patient safety), or they’re here to be with someone in the emergency department-usually a relative or friend.

    I typically handle these visitors with care, first finding out what is bringing them in, though they’re usually good about letting me know when I ask, “how can I help you today?” Then I’ll either direct them around the building to access the emergency room department, or personally walk them down, and through the locked access doors. FYI: anyone bleeding and people in obvious discomfort or pain get an immediate escort directly to the emergency room while visitors are given directions on how to get there.

    Last week, however, I had a gentleman come in looking for his son, who had been in an accident. That was all he said. Normally, I would give him directions to the emergency room but something in the tremor of his voice spoke to me. I could hear his fear and his grief; I felt his pain wrapped around the way he said “son” and “accident” in the same breath. And I felt a kinship towards him, knowing that feeling myself.

    So I didn’t hesitate to shut down my computer, lock up my HIPAA protected papers, put the bell out, and walk him to the emergency department. Knowing the strength he would need, I asked if he would like me to grab him a coffee or juice before I led him to the ED. He declined and that was that.

    Quietly, we made the short trek to the ED; we didn’t speak a word between us, other than my light direction to take a right down another hall, but I could feel each shudder in his breathing, not knowing what to expect. As I let him through the final door, I introduced the unit coordinator to him by name, let him know they would help him from here, and to let us know if he needed anything.

    I don’t know the outcome of that encounter or who they were: I don’t need to know. I know what I needed when it was me and I just wanted to pass along any kindness I could to that person. It’s scary, the not knowing. And the fear you feel is so painful, so crushing, it’s a wonder it’s not tangible. It’s something dark that just lives in you until you get the relief you need, if you get it, until you hear the words that can turn it into a bad memory. And when that relief hits, it’s so sweet it’s draining. It takes your strength and the air from your lungs.

    This meeting has been sitting with me the last few days; I find I’ve been dwelling on it more than I should, as well as a few other personal issues… yeah, there have been a few lately. It just really makes me wonder, ya know? Why do some of these things happen? Some people are gone before we’re ready; some are told how much time they have left. And in between…in between I guess we just do the best we can; we just keep showing up and showing the world how resilient we can be, even if it doesn’t feel like it at the time.

    I also got some really wonderful new, coming May 2025; there will be a new baby in our family…not me!! Another family member is expecting and we’re thrilled for them. That news was just what I needed right now… it was a reminder that while shit hits the fan, regularly and with more frequency than I care for, good things are still happening, too.

    I really needed that.

  • That time of year again

    I haven’t been sleeping all that well in the last few weeks; I kept trying to tell myself that I wasn’t sure why it was such an issue recenlty: I’ve been going to the gym, monitoring my emotional health and state, talking to Kevin about my frustrations (not necessarily related to his accident), and overall just trying to remember that I control my peace, especially when others are so determined to be miserable.

    Nope, I know exactly why sleep has been an issue for me lately: it’s because it’s about that time of year again.

    I used to love this time of year, I loved the brisk mornings and the warm afternoons. I loved the way you could see the sparkle of frost on the aspen leaves and smell the smoke from a wood burning stove. To me, this meant a changing of the season’s, a change that typically everyone indulged in as we entered the holiday season.

    Halloween would bring laughter and costumes, a reminder of our earlier youthfulness, and a return to harmless shenanigans, if you were of a mind to dress up or play tricks. And that youthful exuberance would turn into something softer, something that resembled gratitude and thankfulness as we moved right on through to the Thanksgiving holiday. Everyone was a little nicer, more patient, a bit more generous, and endlessly grateful for their blessings. We could all wander through memories to see where we’ve been and how far we’ve come. It was hard not to feel appreciative for our lives and remember that maybe, we might not have it so bad after all.

    Then Christmas. My all-time favorite. I can remember when I loved to decorate the house, put the tree up, expand our set up outside. There would be garland and lights hung everywhere; ornaments were hung from tree limbs outside; lights circled the overhangs and the patio. And when it was quiet, I’d sit quietly and gaze at the tree and just breathe, thinking there was something truly magical about the season, even if the magic had changed from childhood fantasy.

    I had always thought that there was something magical about this time of year, it was always something to look forward to.

    But the truth is, the last few years seem to have stolen the last bit of magic I used to hold onto. We still decorate, but I’m not as invested as I used to be. Halloween is either on or not, mostly not in more recent years…I can’t even remember when I last carved a pumpkin. And Thanksgiving, while still delicious, hasn’t been the same since the T-Day 2022: ICU turkey is NOT food.

    Don’t get me wrong, I’m still going to work hard to get past this time of year, and do my best not to be too much of a grinch, but I won’t lie: this time of year is now incredibly difficult for me. This time of year is now dotted with the loss of people I loved deeply and compounded with Kevin’s accident, yeah, I struggle with it. Last year, it felt like trying to take a deep breath under water, or with a pillow smothering you, sometimes both.

    I think what it comes down to is that I miss the magic; I miss the times when the holiday season had a tangible effect on the world, or at least mine. I miss the times before pain changed me. Wow. I felt that: I miss the times before pain changed me.

    And I stronger now, I know I am. I turned my pain into purpose, or at least, I’m trying to. And my next step, is to purge these thoughts tonight, and maybe, just maybe, get a good night’s sleep.

  • That’s Pretty Good

    I just read something that essentially said, with all the therapy I’ve been getting, I’m not learning how to handle the trauma, pain, anxiety, or depression I’ve been through, rather, I’m healing to enjoy and love all the good things that come my way, to allow happiness to resonate in my soul again. I felt that.

    On the one hand, there is no way the experience of Kevin’s accident is ever going to fully fade into memory; there will always be a trigger I don’t anticipate. Or a memory. A sound. A feeling. Tonight for instance, I watched a movie in which a husband lost his wife: the scene showed the husband crying and trying to curl into the wall of the hospital where he was waiting with family and I was transported to November 19, 2022, when I tried to curl into the hospital walls myself…when I was so scared and so overwhelmed that curling into anything else for comfort was all I could think to do at the time. Just to stop thinking, to stop feeling. I’ll never forget that moment, the one where my comfort was fighting for his life and I had no one else to tell me it was going to be alright, to offer that comfort, and tell me it was going to be ok.

    That comfort did come, eventually, in a coworker I was familiar with but didn’t know well. As soon as she opened her arms to hug me, I fell apart and allowed the grief to take me, knowing someone was there to help piece me back together, to help me navigate this terrifying situation, and to tell me it would be ok, even when we weren’t sure it would be.

    But I digress. The last few years of therapy have been exceptionally helpful in helping me manage those triggers and emotions, so while watching that scene did bring up extreme emotions and memory for me, I was also able to let slip the tears that managed to break through, remind myself that what occurred in the scene was not the outcome we had, and that Kevin was fine. We are fine.

    But then I think about the second part of what I had read…that I’m healing to accept happiness in again and that made so much sense. You see, when Kevin had his accident, and even though he’s fine now and I did not lose the love of my life, there was a period of time that I grieved his absence, and our future, not knowing then what would happen or that he would survive. Honestly, the trauma to his heart…I didn’t know if he’d make it; I’d been told to bring the kids, to prepare for the worst, to call our family. So yeah, I grieved a future we had planned, even if only for a few hours: trips we wanted to take, golf excursions, Florida for a wedding, our children’s graduations-our eldest child graduated from high school 7 months after Kevin’s accident-and so many other plans. I felt like I lost it all, all our future memories, even if they hadn’t happened yet…gone.

    The first year following the accident was exceptionally difficult: the wedding anniversary I thought I’d face alone, Father’s Day, my birthday, graduation, a wedding, a visit to my grandmother. I honestly thought it was all lost to me and so reaching each of those milestones, while amazing in their own rights, were bittersweet to me. They were tinged with memories of what we almost lost and a sense of relief that Kevin and made it this far. The first anniversary of Keivn’s accident brought on its own set of anxiety inducing memories and emotions for me. But we made it.

    And with therapy, I was able to face that I was afraid to fully embrace those times because they were almost stolen from me once. I was afraid of facing that I had almost lost them; afraid to believe that they did happen, that Kevin was here and celebrating with me. It took some time, but I’ve gotten better at being present in those moments now, in letting myself feel the joy and happiness that radiates in them.

    We just dropped our son off at college a few weeks ago and it was bittersweet for all the right reasons. Kevin and I, we only ever wanted to give our kids every opportunity we could, to allow them to be children for as long as they could, knowing what it was like to have to grow up early, and not wanting that for them. We wanted to keep them free from the burden of being an adult before their time.

    So dropping off our son at school, leaving our baby behind, in a place he worked so hard to get to, knowing that we had given him every tool we could to help him be successful; knowing that he had reached the first step of his dream, and knowing that Kevin and I could do that for him, that was pretty amazing. So, while I was crying for a whole different reason, I was also so incredibly happy, and that is pretty good.