There will be no miracle.
Ambrose’s brain is dying. Much of it is already dead. I am currently sitting vigil at his bedside. Playing Rush’s 2112 album for him. I already played another of his favorites, Candy-O by The Cars. I am acting as if he can hear me, even as I see the nurse perform a neurological check on him showing very little reaction. I am singing to him and talking to him.
I am taking my dad’s advice and telling Ambrose that it is okay. The physical vessel that he has occupied for the last 63 plus years is now too broken to support his spirit. His spirit is now free, and he can go to the light.
I don’t want him to be gone. I cannot imagine what my life will be like without him. That’s something I’m going to need to learn. And I know that I will survive this, but I also know it won’t be easy.
I honestly don’t know if it would have been better if he had gone quickly instead of slowly like this. Unable to speak or see for days, waiting for the brain to die. It would have been different, but I can’t really say harder or easier without going through both. And life is just a sketch. We don’t get the chance to go back and try the other path.
I have had no idea how to handle any of this. I have been just doing what I think is right, with only a few nagging thoughts about whether I was doing “the right thing” or not. Those nags have been shoved away, because there is no fucking right thing to do in this situation. Well, that’s what I thought.
But the neuro doctor gave me a high compliment this morning when he explained that he expected Ambrose’s brain to die within the next day or two. After explaining that he sees situations like Ambrose’s frequently (our chat was one of three he had today), he complimented how I was handling things. He gave two specific reasons for this.
One, I was allowing myself to feel. I cried freely. I let my body curl in on itself in profound grief. And I never apologized for it, as the doctor indicated many people do. A prior version of me would definitely have been apologetic for the “scene” I was causing. Today’s version of me doesn’t care what other people think about my emotions. I am proud to cry when I am moved to cry. Ambrose helped me get to that version of myself.
Two, I was putting Ambrose first. My grief and pain are real, but while Ambrose’s body still lives, he is the priority. The doctor explained that some folks get lost in their own grief to the detriment of their loved one’s care. And that if he were in the bed, he would want someone like me in the chair.
I’ll admit, this compliment initially made me bust out laughing.
“I get an A+ in tragic situation handling?” I cackled.
“You’ve always been an overachiever,” said my aunt teasingly.
I’ve been going through such ranges of emotions. Reminiscing of all the amazing things that Ambrose and I managed to do together in 17 years can make me cry and laugh and smile and ache all at once. I know what Ambrose would want me to carry on. To continue in my work of writing and creating videos. To backpack and some day finish the Idaho Centennial Trail. To continue the work on our house. The home we were able to live in together for just over a year.
But it’s so hard to think of doing these things without him. Of being a widow. Single for this first time since… 2003?
Not yet. But soon.