Comfortably Numb

[Brenda Hoskins]

Warning!  Flashbacks ahead.  June 8, 2014.  The day dawned, bright and clear in North Dakota.  I was on my way home, having gotten up before the crack of dawn, to begin the last leg of my journey back from a Canadian fishing trip.  I had been gone for over a week, and was anxious to get back home to my husband.  We had spoken on the phone the night before, late, after I got back into the country and settled into my hotel room.  We talked about basically nothing, and our parting words to each other were “love you.” 

The next morning, at about 6 am, I received a couple of troubling texts from my neighbor who said my husband had gone to the hospital after feeling short of breath.   I remember being somewhat concerned and commenting to my nephew, “that sounds cardiac.”  I mean, seriously?  I find out that my husband was taken to the hospital and I make a clinical observation?  What the hell was wrong with me?  In the next 30 minutes or so, something way down deep inside began to know.  To know that this was a really bad thing and my life was irrevocably changing. 

The human body is amazing.  How many times have we heard or read about someone continuing to function, be alert, or not experience any pain after being grievously injured?  We know that the adrenaline produced in response to that injury provides some short term protection from the shock and pain.  After its effect wears off, though, comes the shaking, weakness, confusion, and pain.  I honestly really don’t remember a lot about the weeks, and even months, which followed that awful day.  But I remember that day.  Every horrific moment.  I was stuck, riding in that truck for another 8 or 9 hours.  I was so conflicted by the reality of it.  I was absolutely desperate to get home but at the same time dreading it because I would have to look it in the face.  I would see the reality in the faces of my sons, my neighbors, my friends, and the hospital personnel that were waiting for us to show up to view his body and sign papers.  Given that I was coming from several states away, they were kind to keep him there for us. 

It is after those moments at the hospital, after we got back to the house and began the business of death that my “adrenaline”, my numbing agent kicked in.  It was the only thing that got me through what followed.  I became an automaton; a living, breathing, fairly functional mannequin.  I smiled graciously, consoled others, and was “amazingly strong,” or so I’ve been told.  I really have no idea.  It was weeks and weeks until that anesthesia finally wore off.  Then the shaking, weakness, and confusion set in.  Oh, and the pain.   Indescribable, bone crushing, certain that nothing will remain of you but a pile of dust when it’s done, pain. 

In those moments, though, a truth becomes evident.  It is that pain, the one that breaks through the mind numbing loss, that wakes you up.  It reminds you that you are, indeed, still alive.  You are not the one who died, even though you may wish you were.  And how selfish is that thought?  The crazy thing is, NO ONE KNOWS.  They all think that you are this strong, fabulous, shining example of how to carry on in the face of tragedy.  And you let them think that.  For your own protection.  Until, little by little, you let some things slip out.  God forbid you should actually tell anyone what’s going on.  You don’t want to make them uncomfortable.  But why not?  What would happen if you did? 

Better question; what will happen if you don’t?