The door to our garage has an undeniable squeak, and always has. It was convenient when teenagers were coming and going, but to hear it on this particular morning, at 4:30 am, startled me from sleep. I awoke feeling heavy in the head, not rested, a reminder of hours spent crying the night before. Coming out of the fog, I realized that the familiar sound downstairs was KK leaving for the airport.
Just five hours earlier Brendan and Maddie had arrived home. The three of us sat curled up on the sofa together, crying and talking. They began asking the same questions that family and friends were hashing out earlier in the evening. Why? How? When? Why? Why?
Maddie was laying next to me now. We had fallen asleep in my bed, arms wrapped around each other, both of us crying. I knew I should get more sleep but it was difficult to shut down the “inner roommate” who had taken up residence in my head. I remembered a moment from my kitchen the evening before. My friends were holding a few medicine bottles talking among themselves about which medication I should take...whose medication I should take. It was at that point when I realized I was going to receive far more help than I was comfortable accepting. I was willing to embrace that immediate fate, but there was no wavering on being present and lucid for my children, and being in check with my emotions. There would be no drugs.
I fell back to sleep for about an hour after KK left and when I woke again so did the "roommate." But this time there was a lot more going on in my head. The realization that I would be alone in this large (by my perspective) house was daunting. A place that I loved and in which I never felt uncomfortable being alone, even when John traveled. Now alone had a whole new meaning. It was so permanent. So final. I lay in my bed with myriad of thoughts swirling, “How can I stay here? My God, my husband took his life in the basement. How will I ever stay in this house? I won’t be able to stay in this house. What will I do? I will find a condo with no basement. That will be perfect. I will sell the house and move there and that will be great. But how will I sell the house? Who will want this house? But I have to, we will be so sad here. I have to.”
I was sobbing and Maddie was next to me so I got out of bed and went downstairs. Sitting in my favorite room (a four season space with lots of windows we had converted from a screened porch) I sobbed even harder. The conversation in my head changed. “I LOVE this house! How will I ever leave this house? This is where we raised our children. This place that is full of incredible memories, this place that is so cherished by all of us. How will I ever leave this beautiful room? Why did you do this, John? Why, oh why, is this happening? How will I ever leave this wonderful, beautiful home?” Tissue after tissue I sat and sobbed.
An hour had passed. I heard a car door close. It was John. One more child to greet and hug and assure that we would be ok. Through the garage I could see him. Eyes blood shot and swollen from crying. He gave me one of his huge, suffocating hugs and cried. Like the other two, we held our embrace and I told him how sorry I was. As we walked inside I turned slightly toward him, remembering, today was the 28th. "Oh, buddy, I’m so sorry that this is how we are spending your birthday.” We both just shook our heads. Inside we began to chat. Me telling him what I knew of the day before and him confiding in me how disappointed he was that it had been over a month since he had spoken to his dad. I assured him that his dad’s love was unconditional, no questions asked.
Brendan and Maddie were now awake. In the kitchen, my three children hugged each other and cried. I watched, tears trickling down my cheeks.
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