Ida and the Stricken Savant

I remember the day she died.

I wish I didn’t. I wish I could forget. One night I saw a storm in the forecast for the next day and prayed I’d be struck by lightning so I’d forget everything.

I remember a lot of things about that day. I’m not talking about the day she died. I’m talking about the day after the night I prayed I’d be struck by lightning. And every day since then.

I remember everything that has happened in the past seven months because God answered my prayers. 

Of course, he didn’t answer my prayers when my wife started getting stomach aches. He didn’t answer my prayers when she walked out of our master bathroom one night and told me she’d coughed up blood. He didn’t answer my prayers when I walked into the doctor’s office with her eleven months ago and had a feeling in my gut something wasn’t right. He didn’t answer my prayers when she called me while I was at work and told me the results of the testing came back positive. He didn’t answer my prayers when she started treatment and came home everyday with a look in her eye that told me she was getting really, really tired. He didn’t answer my prayers when she went in for surgery last August and I sat outside the waiting room staring at the wall in front of me for seven hours because it felt like moving my eyes or body in any direction would be like opening a set of floodgates.

And he didn’t answer my prayers when the doctor called me into the operating room and told me she didn’t make it.

But he did answer my prayers about seven months ago when I stepped outside my house to let in a family of four who were caught in the storm, and a lightning bolt struck me on the side of my head.

The next thing I knew, I was in that same hospital. There was a ringing in my ears and everything was spinning. The doctor came up to me and told me I had just gotten out of surgery. 

If you really wanted me to, I could tell you the color of his eyes. 

And his hair. And his glasses. And the floor. And the walls around me. And I could tell you his name, and I could tell you the names of all the nurses and doctors and physical therapists and psychologists who took care of me in the three months I was there. And I could tell you the names of every single person who has attended all of the other grief groups I’ve gone to since my wife died. I could tell you what time I woke up every morning last month, or what outfit I wore seventeen days ago, or what I ate for dinner on the night of Saturday, February 5th of this year.

But they don’t want me to do that anymore, so I’m trying not to. Don’t get me wrong, though: it’s hard. It’s hard when there are so many thoughts in your head and you don’t have anybody to tell them to. And the doctors don’t know what’s going on with me. Why would they? They’re doctors.

My wife’s name was Ida, by the way, and that’s just a coincidence. I wouldn’t have thought so a year ago, but I do now.

I’m the type of guy who tells it like it is. So when I tell you this woman was the most beautiful woman I have ever met, you can rest assured I’m telling the truth. She was a goddess, and she just smelled so fucking good!

Sorry. I don’t know where that came from. Sometimes I get lost in my head and then I say something inappropriate. It didn’t happen before the strike. It happens a lot now.

She did smell good, though. I keep a bottle of her perfume on the desk in my office. I take a whiff whenever I get sad. Usually it makes me even sadder, but I don’t care. 

Whenever I smell that bottle, I think about her. She had a great laugh. She hated it. That’s what made it so great. And she had a great smile. It wouldn’t light up a room. It wasn’t like that. A person whose smile can light up an entire room probably smiles too much. She only smiled when she was truly happy. That’s the kind of person she was. She would only say things when she meant them. A lot like I used to. That’s why I loved her so much.

Of course, I loved her for other reasons too. I loved her because she was as smart as a whip. She could’ve done anything she wanted with her life. She could’ve been a doctor or a lawyer or a professor. 

She worked at a hair salon. She worked at the same hair salon for twenty years. For the record, I can’t tell you as many details about the salon as I could about all those things I said before because I haven’t been there since she stopped working to start her treatment. That was months before the strike. Don’t ask me why it works that way. It just does.

What I can tell you about the salon is how much she loved working there. She loved it about as much as she loved me, and she took pride in what she did there. She took pride in everything she did, really. Everything she did, she did with purpose. Everything she said, too. She didn’t mince words, and she used very few of them. I used to be the same way. That’s why she loved me so much. I don’t think she would love me if she met me today. The doctors tell me that’s not true. They would know. They’re doctors.

So, I remember a lot of things about my wife. I remember her smile, I remember her laugh, and I remember all the reasons why I loved her. 

But I don’t remember what time she came home from work every day or the color lipstick she was wearing three years ago to today. And that’s the part that bothers me. That’s the part that pisses me off. That’s why I don’t pray to God anymore.

My friend tells me a lot of people would kill to have what I have. I would kill to get rid of it. He’s not much of a friend. I don’t have too many of those anymore. Most of my friends have stopped talking to me. I know why.

Most people experience some sort of memory deficit when this happens to them. The doctors tell me I didn’t. The doctors tell me something miraculous happened. I don’t agree with them.

Because I don’t remember as much about my wife as I do about what happened on September 1st, 2021, and every day since then.