A Brutal Finality
They brought Susie’s body into the adjoining room, where we were given the opportunity to see her. She was still intubated but she had been cleaned up a little.
But she was still. So, so still. And not a peaceful still. It was a lifeless still. Already her colour was fading and her warmth dissipating. I held her hand again. I kissed her forehead. I was tortured by her non-response. But the worst was still to come, partly because I hadn’t anticipated it.
At 3:30am, the police came and questioned me. Standard protocol for a death in the home, apparently. I answered their questions to the best of my ability for about 20 minutes. How I got through that I don’t know. Then the time came to formally identify her body. “Yes. That is…was…my wife.” (The past tense made me nauseous).
Finally, the time came to collect her “personal effects”, her jewellery. Her trademark hoop earrings were first. I tried to be delicate, not wanting to hurt her, not realising how that was no longer a possibility. The one in her left ear was still coated in blood. The last physical remnant of her.
But then the worst moment: removing her engagement ring, eternity ring, and wedding ring. Of all the things, this was perhaps the most difficult. Marriage was a treasured privilege to us. Having her as my wife was my greatest earthly gift. And now that gift was gone. As I took her hand in mind, the memories of doing the same thing in a very different setting 18 years earlier rushed in. It was such a delight to put those rings on those delicate fingers. Taking them off was devastating. I remember looking up at the two police officers who were with me in that room, and saying: “There’s a brutal finality to this, isn’t there?” They didn’t really respond.
The rings reluctantly came off. Our marriage was over. Death had done us part. And I hated death for its part. The only thing I wanted became the only thing I could never again have. Susie.
And so the torture started. We left the hospital at about 4am on that winter night. Dark and cold. Numb and alone. My sister drove me home. To my children. Four little people who I would now be responsible for raising by myself.
And my first job as a single father was to tell them their mother had died.
