Vital Sign (3 page)

I swipe the screen and put the phone to my ear. “Hey, Jenna.”

“Hay is for horses,” she retorts in our usual greeting.

“Good thing you’re an ass,” I mumble
, lacking the enthusiasm that I used to show with our little exchange. We’ve been greeting each other this way since we first got cell phones. After the second or third time it kind of became a
thing
and so it stuck. I tilt my head to the side, pinning the phone between my cheek and shoulder so that I can rub my tired eyes.

“What’s on your agenda for today
? Wait a sec—Jackson, no honey. No. No. Yucky. Okay, sorry about that,” she chimes into the phone, sounding a little out of breath, probably from chasing down my 13-month-old, extremely curious nephew, Jackson.

“Um, nothing new
, really. Packing for my trip, I guess.” I glance around the living room as if I’m looking for a decent response like “dusting” or “alphabetizing the canned goods.”

Both would be a lie and Jenna would know it. I don’t dust. My mother is really good about cleaning the hell out of my house for me
even though I tell her to leave it alone. It’s her way of helping while she’s babysitting me. It’s suffocating. I wouldn’t alphabetize my canned goods even if I had them. I don’t exactly have to grocery shop much. It’s just me and I have a freezer full of sticky noted casseroles.   

“Yeah,
Mom told me about it.”

Of course she did.

“Are you nervous?”

“No. Just going to go and get it over with
, ya know?” I fidget with the hem of my cotton shorts, my bare feet propped up on the coffee table.

“I know, babe.”
Jenna sighs into the phone but says nothing more than that to convey her sympathy. Awkward silence takes over our phone call and it’s time to end the discomfort for both of us.

“
Give Jackson a kiss for me?” It’s a small thing, but it’s something that lets her know that I’m still here and I love my family. I just don’t love life at the moment.

“I always do.”

“Guess I’ll get some laundry done then,” I lie. I don’t need to do shit today except remember to breathe.

“Okay
. And Sadie,” Jenna calls after me.

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

“I know. Love you too, Jen.”
I swipe the screen, ending the call feeling a little sadder and more isolated than when it began. I always do.

***

April 20, 2013

I slide the plastic keycard into the lock and watch the red light flash at me taunting
ly. I’m in no mood for this shit. I slide it back into the lock quicker this time. The red light flashes.
What the hell?
I take a deep breath and set my bag on the floral patterned, low pile carpet and try again, slowly sliding the keycard back into the lock.

Please
.
I’m tired and grumpy and I may lose my damn mind if one more thing goes wrong today. The green light flashes as the door clicks to unlock. I grab my bag and suitcase and drag myself into the hotel room. I need a nap before I do anything else. A nap and a little while to pretend that I’m not going to go meet yet another person that has benefited from the most devastating loss I’m certain to never recover from.

I dig out my small notepad a
nd flip it open. “Mrs. Hampton, kidney lady—done. Terry Jones, liver guy—at four o’clock. Alexander McBride, heart guy—in two days,” I mutter to myself, trying on the words to see if saying them aloud will make me retreat back to the false safety of the house I once shared with Jake.

I pull out my cell phone and fight the urge to call. I can’t do it. Not right now. My nerves are already raw and frayed. Listening to Jake
’s voicemail will be the quickest way for me to end up nursing on a box of wine all night and smoking cigarettes until my lungs hurt. I squeeze the phone in my fingers with my eyes shut and put it back in my purse.

I’ve won this time.

I hate that I promised my parents I’d do this. Part of me knows that they’re desperate to help and this was their idea of help, but I wish they wouldn’t. It’s that awkwardness that ensues after loss that makes everyone grapple for solutions. The only solution that I find fits my predicament is to hide away. I understand what they’re getting at with the whole idea of meeting the organ recipients, really I do. I had thought about meeting the recipients many times myself, on the days when I visited the far off realm of Old Sadie. Those are the days that it’s a little bit easier to breathe in and out. Those days don’t feel so much bigger than me. They’re a rare occurrence, though, which only makes things worse because the little bit of relief that those days give me makes the next morning so much harder to wake up to. In truth, I’m better off without those days. Those days are the ones that secretly encouraged me to find the organ recipients and the day after, when I was back in my familiar hell, jealousy washed over me like a hurricane storm surge. I’m still so angry at everyone and everything. It’s an irrational anger, but it’s just how I feel. I can’t explain it. I can’t even apologize for it. It’s like this entirely separate entity living inside me. It’s as if there’s Sadie Parker, widow and failed artist, and then there’s Sadie the bitter, confused, hopeless woman walking around with an invisible wound.

My physical wound from that night has healed. It took no time to recover from that. The bullet tore right through my side
, leaving only a jagged, raised, circular scar as a reminder that it was ever even there. In truth, I was so consumed with worry for Jake that I had paid very little attention to the fact that I had been shot too. Jake’s gone and yet I’m still consumed with
his
wounds and the ripple effect that they sent out across the glassy calm that used to be my life.

I know there’
s nothing I can do. I’m fully fucking aware of that and if one more person tells me that crap my urge to strangle them may be more than I handle. I know that people want to help. Everyone wants to help. They feel so damn sorry for me. I feel sorry for me too but I’m angry above all else.

I remember walking into my deserted studio and looking around at the dust
-covered drawing table, the rumpled drop cloths on the floor, the hunks of dried clay sitting about, and having the
brilliant
idea to destroy it all. I tore through the small space that Jake created for me and trashed it like some lunatic. I cried and screamed and threw things. I crushed existing projects and turned over the furniture until I was too tired to do anything but sink to the floor and sleep. My parents found me later that night after two unanswered texts and three missed phone calls. That’s when they started smothering me to death.

Mom and
Dad orchestrated an intervention of sorts after numerous failed attempts at
helping me grieve
, which, by the way, is the most ridiculous fucking thing I’ve ever heard. My parents and Jenna were there, along with Jacob’s parents and his two sisters, when I was backed into a corner by my worried inner circle. I should have seen the whole drama coming but I was too busy hating the world, avoiding everyone, and slipping further into isolation.

The deal that we agreed on was not made easily. The entire family, Jacob’s included, begged, bargained, and coerced me into this journey. I was standing my g
round until Alan, my father-in-law, took me aside for a one-on-one talk. Jacob is practically a clone of him, so naturally, I’ve always had a soft spot for the man who is like a second father to me. His warm eyes pleaded with me exactly like Jacob’s did when he proposed. Jake’s question was easy to answer. Alan’s? Not so much.

After two hours of talking, crying,
some
yelling, and one heart-to-heart with Alan, I relented. I agreed to reach out to three of Jacob’s organ recipients. I had no idea which ones I would end up corresponding with. I made no specific agreements about that and I don’t think my family really cared which recipients I ended up picking. They were just happy that I was going to attempt to move forward with my mourning process. They see it as an opportunity to move forward. I see it as a waste of time, money, and a test of just how well I can act. Their theory is that perhaps meeting the people who benefitted from my husband’s death will somehow bring me comfort. I can’t stand the idea of it. No amount of “good” could ever make that night any less of a world-altering cataclysm in my mind.

I lost my husband. Bottom line.

There
’s no way to spin that. There’s no other truth. Jake’s death is the singular truth that was born that night. In my opinion, there’s no other synopsis of the whole thing. He died and a bunch of other shit happened in response to his death. He died, other people got a chance to live, and I was left to stand awkwardly in the corner at every holiday, birthday, wedding, and reunion following it. What else is there? 

My inner circle’s theory on things don’t seem to add up anyway. They want me to move on with grieving by meeting some people who I hate simply because they exist and Jake doesn’t.

Let me reiterate: they want to send their emotionally unstable family member to meet some strangers who she feels an irrational hatred towards.

I may come by my insanity honestly
.

How am I suppose
d to let go of Jake if there are pieces of him still out there, living on in some perfect stranger?

Of course, I love my family
, and even through my grief and self-diagnosed insanity, I want to make them happy. And I want them to stop breathing down my fucking back every day.

Despite how I felt
and still feel, I promised I would try out their theory. I didn’t say how hard I would try. I decided that the recipients I would choose would be the first three I heard back from. I agreed to meet them, see that they were well and living their lives, and then I would return to my misery and the simple fact that there’s no help out there for me. I’m where I’m at and I had better get comfortable, because this is my life. This is what it has become. I’m okay with it. My family are the ones who need to get over shit.

The group therapy sessions were an epic failure.
I won’t take the blame for that though.

Okay
, maybe
some
blame.

Apparently, hostile outbursts are frowned upon
in therapy. But I couldn’t stand another minute of that therapist talking about how the circle of life was such a beautiful thing and learning to love that circle would help ease the pain of losing a loved one. Fuck the fucking circle. Fifteen minutes into the first session, I jumped up from my chair, sending it flying backward, and pointed my finger at Dr. Sunshine and Wildflowers. I may have tossed out a few insults and told him that this circle of life theory is a bunch of bullshit and his fee for said bullshit is practically highway robbery, but that’s hardly criminal of me. Anyone in my position and mindset would have done the same.

I stormed out before security was called and much to my surprise, blowing o
ff some steam felt good. I had gotten into my car in the parking lot and banged my fists on the steering wheel until my hands ached. I gritted my teeth hard and growled under my breath until the rage didn’t feel so much bigger than me.

S
o maybe the group therapy wasn’t a total fail after all, though it may have fueled my rage a tad. Acting like an irrational ass and screaming at people gave me a little relief. My entire body had been feeling like a pressurized holding tank of fury. Bleeding off a bit of that steam felt nice, addictive even. I started doing it more frequently. I’ve been an inconsolable loose cannon for the better part of two years and I can’t even say with any amount of sincerity that I feel guilty for it. I lost my husband. The man who shot both of us was never caught. Excuse the hell out of me if I’m a smidge on the bitchy side.

My individual therapy is just kind of…
whatever.
The only reason I keep on going is to make sure that my prescription for my anxiety meds is kept up to date. The doctor says that I’m the one hindering my progress. I disagree, so we usually spend our weekly visit staring at the clock and passing time exchanging mild civilized conversation. It’s a
Good Will Hunting
scenario, except I’m no genius and he’s not from Boston. He’s a balding sixty-something man with an annoying habit of flicking his index finger at the tip of his nose like it’s always itchy or something. Most of the time I spend our hour together daydreaming about throwing some allergy medication and a box of tissues at him. We almost never discuss much of anything in depth. He’s holding out for me to give in. He’s holding out for me to open up. He’s holding out for me to tell him all about what I’m feeling. He’ll have to keep waiting and chatting about nothing relevant. Even if I wanted to, I could never articulate the magnitude of loss that resides deep down in every cell of my body. Loss is what I’m made up of. Talking about his morning commute is a whole lot better than him asking how much I’ve been crying, or how much sleep I’m getting, or if I’ve forgiven the rest of the family for backing me into a corner and basically forcing me into turning off life support.

I wanted to hold on. I had hope that maybe a miracle would happen and his brain function would return. Mostly, I wasn’t ready
.