A widows experience as written by Kathy Worrell:
The door bell rings and wakes me. I sit on the bed for a second; are the kids up? Is 'dad' home? Yeah he's here, I think? I would of gotten a text right? What time is it? Ok, moving towards door and yawning, taking the stairs easy. It's dark. I see through the window police lights. Police? I look through the peep hole and confirm it's a man in uniform. Wait, I know him. I say "just a minute" and unlock the top of the door and open it. Now squinting at the light of the porch. He begins to speak. I try to think of his name...last name, last name? Wait. What? It's my husbands supervisor and standing back is another two officers I know well. He can tell I'm not listening. Where is my husband, why didn't he answer the door? He begins again. I say "No!".
He shakes his head as if he doesn't even believe what he's saying. And I yell "No!" Again.
He put his hand up, his eyes close, he bites his lips and and comes towards me. I attempt another "No" but it's inaudible, my raised hand is clinched and he hugs me as I both hit his chest and barley stand with the weight of the realization of why they are here.
As additional people arrive, they've helped with a small bag of things. Someone takes my cell phone and makes some calls. I neither remember telling them who to call, or what I was wearing. Or if I dressed at all. Someone hands me shoes. What time is it? Someone offers to stay with the kids.
I'm driven to the hospital. Before I know it, or how, I'm there. In a scene of blurry faces, white hallways and incoherent voices I'm lead to his room. He's hooked up to tubes, monitors and wires.
There's a series of different people, nurses, doctors, the EMT, other officers that speak to me, but I hardly hear any real words. I'm offered food, a glass of water and chances to "take a break" or go for a walk. But I refuse with a couple nods and half hearted smiles and glances that say "I can't" or at least that's what I heard myself saying in my head.
I'm spending every second I can here. I'm holding his hand so he knows I'm here. I'm frozen. I'm waiting but I'm dreading the inevitable. And as inaudible as the voices around me are so are the sounds until I hear it. It's the beep. I'm suddenly deft but I hear it. Time has instantly slowed and the beep is all that exist and although it seems like nurses and doctors are busy in a hurried attempt to save his life, I'm frozen again. Merely a spectator and everything is in slow motion. I still only hear the beep. Is my heart still beating? Did I remember to breathe? Can I move? Tick. One second. Tick, another second. Time has not stopped, but I have. I can't think, I can't move but my heart drops as the gravity of the pain starts to rush over me. Heat rises through my chest and up my face, as tears run down my face one a time, one after another. Tick. I can hardly swallow as it seems every tear is coming up through my throat at once and pour out my eyes. Tick. Every second is horrible.
I'm still holding his hand and as they tell me it's time. The time. The time of death. Tick. And although the beep has stopped, I still feel it, I still hear it. Tick. Just one second at a time is all I can face next. Tick.
I can't comprehend what's just happened. I'm still holding his hand and I have no idea what I'm supposed to do. Tick. Facing anything after this is impossible to imagine. So I'm just going to stay here now. Breathe. Tick.
Just take it one second at a time. Breathe. Tick. They need me to let go of his hand. Breathe. Another second. Sign a paper. Tick. Breathe. Tick. Tears. Tick.
He gone but he's still physically here for a minute. Tick. Before they take him. Just take it one second at a time. Tick. So I look him over carefully again and again and again. Tick. A nurse hands me a bag of his belongings. Tick. Others are there. Tick. Hugs bring no relief. Tick. Gentle touches on the shoulder. Tick. With out the strength to say anything. Tick. I lean over and kiss the sheet covering his forehead and whisper I love you. Tick. And I hear in my mind what I always heard in return...I love you more. Tick.
For days or what might have a just been hours, I take it one second at a time. Tick. The ride home. Tick. Hugging my children. Tick. Changing my clothes. Tick. Tears. Everything I did, every move, physically hurts for awhile. Tick. Everything was like doing everything for the first time again. Tick. Shower. Tick. Eat. Tick.
People are still in the house. Tick. It helps. Tick. It's easy to become consumed by the outpour of support and seconds turned into minutes. Tick. Just take one minute at a time. Tick. Planning the funeral. Tick. Choose pictures of us. Pictures of him with the kids. Our wedding day. Tick. Someone takes the kids shopping for what their going to wear. Tick. I sit in my closet. Tick. It seems nothing is worthy of wearing. Tick. Last call. Tick.
I became more functional, I could plan in blocks of an hour. Just take one hour at a time. Tick. Pack up a couple of his things. Tick. Tick. I have kids. I had to function for them. Just take it one day at a time. Tick. They'd have to go back to school. Tick. Just take it one week at a time. Tick. Every news cast of another officer killed brings a flood of emotions back. Tick.
Everything we would do from now on would be different. Tick. Would be without him. First holidays. Just take it one month at a time. Tick. First birthdays. Tick. And then there was his death date. We had made a year. Just take it one year at a time. It literally felt like we were surviving sometimes. It never gets easy. Tick. If I allowed it I could easily fall apart at any given moment if I thought about it. Tick. For my loss, for my kids loss and for his parents loss. For his loss. Every time I experience something with our kids, I sense his loss. Tick. Tears. Just take it one second at a time.
*a special thanks to the women who shared their experiences of loss, for which I based this on. It was hard enough to write and I am fortunate not to know this kind of loss. However, the pain, emotion and grief pulsed through me as I tried to recreate a compilation of some of their experiences. No experience is the same. My thoughts are with them and their families.
