Parking lots and wedding rings
Write the notes
For anyone who has been reading or following me for a long time, you’ll know that my husband did not like his picture taken. Or, perhaps more to the point, he didn’t like his picture shared on the internet. The profile picture on his email account is a picture of the top of his head.
It was funny at the time and it’s still funny, though there’s a part of me that’s a little petulant he deprived me of a photo of his face. It’s very him though, so the other part of me is glad to have this record (among many others) of his personality.
I had to go through his things earlier than I would have liked. I needed passwords and logins for work-related things, and found myself scrolling through his short list of pictures, videos, and audio recordings.
There weren’t many photos on his phone. Along with a bunch of accidental screenshots of his lock screen (he had large hands and often fumbled with digital devices), there were a couple selfies I asked him to take before he cut off his curls or shaved his beard. On brand for him, he forgot to send them to me. After finding them, I texted the photos to myself, but that meant his name and number popped up on my phone like he was really here, sending me a message. I cried for a few hours wishing he was and he had.
I can scroll back through our text history on his phone for about a year and a half. This little timecapsule of our everyday life is heartbreaking in its mundanity.
Me: “Can you get milk?” Him: Thumbs up emoji.
Me: “Are you taking K to dance?” Him: Yes.
Him: “Where are you? It’s after midnight on a Thursday?” Me: “Sitting in the driveway talking to Kat, be in soon. Sorry!”
Me: “Do you want to come do bills with me?” Him: No answer, because he’d just come in from the shop and meet me in the office.
It’s a whole bunch of nothing, but at the same time, it’s everything. I took screenshots to save, especially of the texts where he was watching my book sales and cheering me on.
It’s a little scary going through a loved one’s digital footprint. But there wasn’t anything I didn’t already know; he didn’t have any mistresses or secret love children. He was just an ordinary dude who loved his family, liked fixing things, and enjoyed following the NBA draft.
The browser history on his iPad was mostly lurking on sports forums and news sites. The last search on the day he died was for a Nintendo Switch because he wanted to buy me one for Christmas. (He was quietly amused that I had been enjoying Animal Crossing on Ben’s Switch.)
Youtube was similar. He’d watch videos on how to replace a spark plug or how to update wiring on a machine he’d ordered for work. Sometimes he’d listen to the occasional oldies song (Juice Newton) or watch sketches from SNL.
I suppose I was hoping to find more evidence of what we had together. Some secret folder where he’d listed out everything he loved about me. Photos he snapped of me, of the kids, of his dogs. But there just wasn’t much. I was always the family documentarian—the photographer, the journaler, the card-giver, the writer. His quiet way of showing love didn’t translate into a secret, password-protected file where he detailed how much he loved the skin behind my ear or the way my leg looped over his when we were watching a movie together. All I can do is write down what I already know. That he loved me. That he loved us.
I have a lot of photos and video from twenty years of marriage, but I wish I had more. I wish I’d recorded him singing. I wish I had better clips of him laughing.
I wish a lot of things.
I wish that last year when we did quick family photos, we’d gotten something better than this of just us:
It was funny at the time. We’d finished snapping family pics with my tripod and handed the camera to our youngest. Ben was freezing and I didn’t check the images before we piled back into the car to go home.
Like his email profile photo, this photo is still funny. It’s sweet too. I like looking at his hand on my shoulder.
Driving to the hospital after the ambulance left was one of the most surreal experiences of my existence. I’d packed this sad, hopeful little bag with a change of clothes for Eric—his glasses, his wallet, his phone. It was after 10pm on a holiday, the streets were empty; the night so quiet.
I had not yet processed the fact that Eric had died on the kitchen floor even though I was right there and saw it happen. I still clung to the hope that the medical professionals were going to be able to help him. They’d be able to fix whatever this was, and surely I’d be sitting next to him in a hospital bed soon.
When I got to the hospital, the ambulance was parked, its lights still flashing. I paused for a moment, looking at the little bag. I decided to leave it in the car, telling myself I could come back for it once I knew what was going on; once Eric was admitted and I had the reassurance I so desperately craved. A tiny, lucid portion of my brain knew I wasn’t going to need that bag and my heart began to fracture.
It was a short walk from my car to the ER entrance, and again, everything felt incredibly surreal. The night was silent, the winter air so crisp and clear. I thought about taking a picture of the ambulance, of the sky. But it didn’t feel right, and I knew no camera would capture whatever this was–this suspended moment in time. I felt as though I would never forget how the sky looked or how the air felt, but I already have. I couldn’t tell you if it was cloudy or clear, if the sky was pocked with stars or if a moon was shining. I only remember the stillness.
A nurse took me back to the triage rooms. The curtains were open and there was a crowd of people—a code blue is a pretty exciting thing when you’re working the night shift.
They’d cut Eric’s clothes away, and he was so vulnerable and exposed on the table. He was too tall for it; his legs hung off by about 15 inches. A giant crane-like machine was pumping his chest so hard, his whole body was moving. He was intubated and what seemed like dozens of machines were whirring and beeping. If it was a scene in a movie, it would be one of those montages where you can’t hear what anyone is saying, but the music is swelling in a heartbreaking way. The camera would move from the monitors, to the doctors, to the husband’s unresponsive form, then zoom in on the shocked wife; her face pale, her hands trembling.
The gurney was positioned so that Eric’s left hand was facing me. It was limp, hanging off the edge of the bed, bouncing a little as the machine tried to coax his heart into beating on its own. I stared at his wedding ring glinting in the harsh fluorescent lights.
I look at that picture Ben took; Eric’s left hand alive and warm, his wedding ring just visible in the blurry photo. If I close my eyes, I can almost feel his hand on my shoulder; feel his chest against the back of my head, hear the sound of his laugh as he bends forward trying to help Ben get him in the frame.
After several ‘checks’ where they’d turn off the big machine and we’d all watch the monitors to see if Eric’s heart would respond, everyone told me they were very sorry and said I could take all the time I needed with him. Someone brought me water and pulled a chair over so I could sit beside him.
I wanted to wail. I wanted to throw myself across his body and cry until my tears soaked into his skin and some sort of latent magic activated that would bring him back. But the curtains were thin, and an entire bustling ER nurses station was right outside.
I held his hand and felt his big fingers between mine for the last time. I kissed his ‘parking lots’—the little patches of receding hairline in which our toddlers could so perfectly park their matchbox cars after driving them up his arm. I ran my hands through his curly hair. I peeled back the sheets to run my fingers across the giant bruise forming from the chest compression machine. He was so still. No breath, no heartbeat. I wanted to kiss his mouth–is that weird?–but they had to leave the tubes in place for the coroner. I kissed the backs of his hands and the bridge of his nose instead.
I don’t remember all I whispered to him, but I remember the crushing emptiness I felt; the absolute inability to accept the impossibility of whatever this horror was. Surely I would wake up from this nightmare.
I knew I needed to drive home. I needed to tell the kids. I needed to make the worst phone calls of my life; calling his parents and mine. But I wish I could have stayed. I wish I could have climbed into the hospital bed with him, closed my eyes, and followed him into the dark. But I have children who need me and family who do not need to mourn another loss.
My neighbor who lost his wife in May texted me when he heard what had happened. This part of his message helped me understand that wishing I could die too was a normal part of grief:
I know right now, you just want the world to collapse in on you and your kids so you can join Eric and you don’t have to deal with the million demands and decisions that come with the death of a spouse.
It was one of the best texts I received. Though I appreciated (and appreciate) all of the messages (seriously, you can’t know how much), getting this message from someone who had gone through something very similar was a comfort like none of the others could be.
A nurse helped me get Eric’s wedding ring off before I left. I moved it between my forefinger and thumb for the next two weeks before I dropped it off at the jeweler to be resized. I’m afraid it won’t feel like Eric’s ring when I get it back–they have to cut it to size it down to fit me, so they’ll have to polish years of wear off–but I want to wear it without worrying about losing it.
When I took it in, I told myself I was going to be able to tell the jeweler what I needed without dissolving into a puddle of tears. I did not succeed. He was very kind, offering to resize and engrave it at no cost. It took me a week to figure out what to engrave on the inside. Other than the often harried or exasperated, “Hon!” we didn’t really have pet names for each other. “Forever” or “always” felt a little too commonplace.
When we were first married, our bishop told us we should spend a few minutes every single night of our lives telling each other what we loved about the other. We gave it a few tries and usually ended up in fits of laughter. One of the first times we gave it a go, Eric couldn’t think up anything to say and out of his mouth came, “Honey lover muffin head.” I don’t remember if it had any context, but I know we cry-laughed for a long time. On another try, he blurted, “You’re my cream salad.” It sounds like a gross sexual innuendo, but it wasn’t. He just freaked out and he’d already used muffin. Out of all the foods and candies in the world… salad? And creamy salad at that? I can remember how his whole body curled up in hysterics as we laughed and laughed.
The nightly ‘sweet nothings’ did not last, but “honey lover muffin head” endured, showing up on random notes and texts–later we used it just to gross out the kids. So I decided to have the jeweler engrave the initials, ‘HLMH.’ It won’t mean anything to anyone but me, and if I lose it, someone will just think it’s a person’s initials. Unless they google and find this post, in which case, my PO Box is on my contact page, please send Eric’s ring back to me ASAP, thanks.
It’s not even his original wedding ring. He lost that one while doing cement work in Arizona. Somewhere, embedded in someone’s patio, is my husband’s OG wedding ring. This one was a replacement. So I suppose if I get it back and it doesn’t feel like him, it’s okay. I have the locket… and that email profile pic. (Ha.)
I suppose I’m glad to have it—the ridiculous profile photo, I mean. I used to reach over and run my fingers across those ‘parking lots’ while we were sitting in bed or during our weekend drives to Jackson Hole. The skin there was so smooth. He had that hairline when we got married and it didn’t change very much over the years. It was one of my favorite things about him.
I suppose there’s no good way to wrap this up. Just… if you’re a quiet sort of partner, one who shows love through acts of service, maybe consider sitting down and writing a few things out. Even if it’s hard to come up with the right words, even if it’s just a couple of lines. Even if it’s silly ‘honey lover muffin head’ nonsense or a single, “I love you.” Put it in a file for your loved one to find if you suddenly pass away.
I cherish the life Eric and I built together, and I know deep down a secret folder or a file full of love notes wouldn’t help me hurt any less. But it would be nice.