Til Death Do Us Part

“Til death do us part.” I sit in my lukewarm Epsom salted bath. I push rewind on my mind’s eye. “Til death do us part.” I see his shaky left hand, fingers slightly blue under the nails. It was cold in that great stone cathedral. You know the big Catholic families we both came from wouldn’t have it any other way. Stained glass, robes, communion and an atmosphere designed to be frigid so you didn’t fall asleep on “the word of our Lord.” I see his boutonniere, God, the money we spent on those damn orchids. They were lovely though. “Til death do us part.” You’ve heard the story--whirlwind romance, young and dumb, living on love; and all the other clichés you can think of. But we were. We were every cliché...weren’t we? The sound of the front door brings me back to reality and my pruney fingers instinctively reach for the edge of the tub. It must be Zoey.

“Heya, I’m just dropping off the groceries,” she calls up the stairs. She knows where I am. It’s where I’ve spent a great deal of time lately. “Thanks Zo,” I respond, sloshing around a bit of water with my hands as I answer, just to confirm my location. “Tim’s fine. He’s had his massage and sheets changed. I’ll see you this evening!” “All good!” she chimes back as I hear the door close. Same old, same old. I probably should get out and check on him, I really don’t know how long I’ve been marinating in here. And there it is--the quickening heartbeat, the slight shake in my wrinkled fingers. Every damn time I even think about going in there, my body reacts as if I have an appointment with the boogieman. “He’s your fucking husband Sabine! Get it together!” I sit. Deep breaths. Five things I can see. Four things I can feel. Three...I’m cold. It’s time. I lift myself out of the tub and reach for the fluffy grey towel with the monogrammed R in the corner, a wedding gift from his sister. I hate it. I don my black sweatpants and his oversized ACDC t-shirt; my uniform, and head to his room.

He’s so frail. The accident left him unresponsive, immobile and with significant brain damage. This poor man lying so helplessly in what used to be our bed is just a failing shell. We haven’t spoken since the day before the accident. I haven’t heard his voice or seen him smile or felt him touch me. His wedding ring kept slipping off his bony finger, I moved it to the nightstand and then eventually into the drawer. Mine too. It only seemed fitting that they stay together. Tokens of who we were. 

My heart cracked the day I got the phone call, it broke completely when I saw him; all tubes and wires and bruises. Every time I come in here I have the same montage of thoughts; the shock of who he is, the memory of who he was, the repeat reel of our last moments together when he was whole and the flashes of the hospital, all sterile and white. Little things are highlighted in my mind’s eye. The scratchy feel of the paper coffee cups, the way his left hand curled into a rigor mortis like fist, my blue slippers. When I got the call I didn’t even take the time to put on real shoes. I just grabbed whatever was nearest to me and left. I stayed in those slippers for days. I know how silly I must look every time I come in here. I’m sure I just freeze and stare. He doesn’t care though. And the playback always ends with our wedding day--Cold hands and the phrase “Til death do us part.”

When I married him, I married HIM. My Tim, my strong adventurous, goofy, boisterous man. I made vows to that man. Everyday it’s the same push and pull of madness. I go through the motions, I take care of him, I feed and wash him, I keep his heart beating. But for Christ’s sake this isn’t living! Not for me and certainly not for him. Thank God I have Zoey. She reminds me that there is a world out there and sometimes we laugh together in between taking care of Tim. She came to work for us, for me, shortly after we transitioned Tim from the hospital back home. She’s become my dearest friend and confidant. Do you know she’s the only one that has ever said that he wouldn’t want this for me. His family and mine are all, what I call ‘arms length supportive’. They send their thoughts and prayers and light candles for us at every mass. They always text new research or miracle cases of people recovering after traumatic events and say things like “don’t lose hope,” or “thank goodness you have each other.” But Zoey, she knows. She’s sees what it’s like. I’ve tried having these conversations with Tim. I spent hours next to the bed in the beginning. Holding his hand and crying, begging for him to pull through. I’d have meals with him and share my day, and as time passed, I started having the really tough talks with him. Issues with my parents, finances, things from our past that I was always too worried to share. I’d end every conversation with “I love you.” Because I did. I do. I wanted him to hear my voice, to fight to for me; I wanted him to be that one in a million that came back. I don’t do that anymore. I can’t. Day after day of hoping and of recommitting yourself to the sanctity of marriage; it’s soul draining. And over time, it just got easier to go through the motions and see him as my responsibility. Not my husband. “Til death do us part.”

I’m not a bad person. I meant every word of my wedding vows. Sabine meant every word of her vows to Tim. She was committed to him fully, she loved him in sickness and in health; she gave him her whole heart. But they are gone. Those people no longer exist. “Til death do us part.” It did. Every part of the man I loved-that made him the man I loved-has died. And I died the day I realized he wasn’t coming back to me. So am I free? Is he?