Life changes fast. Life changes in the instant. - Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking
At some point, in the interest of remembering what seemed most striking about what had happened, I considered adding these words, "the ordinary instant." I saw immediately that there would be no need to add the word "ordinary" because there would be no forgetting it: the word never left my mind . . . I recognise now that there was nothing unusual in this: confronted with sudden disaster we all focus on how unremarkable the circumstances were in which the unthinkable occurred, the clear blue sky from which the plane fell, the routine errand that ended on the soulder with the car in flames, the swings where the children were playing as usual when the rattlesnake struck from the ivy. - Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking
This is what happened when the rattlesnake struck from the ivy, when my ordinary instant became unthinkable:
We were in bed. We'd had an ordinary day. I'd gone for a run that morning, as was my habit, and around the 7 km mark, just as I was rounding the corner on to the Ballarat-Colac Road, I thought, "I love my life," as was my habit. I drove home smiling, high on endorphins and on knowing that, at that moment, my life was perfect: a beautiful and loving husband; two whip-smart and lovely children; a limitless future. I wrote a bit. I studied French for a bit. I picked the kids up from the bus stop. I made dinner.
Peter came home. He'd been moving furniture at work, preparing to move from one office to another. He'd been doing it for two days straight and I knew he'd be tired, sore, and with a car full of files that he'd have to temporarily store at home. I walked out to the car and kissed him, and helped move everything inside. I put out dinner.
We had chicken tacos that night. I remember he said, "That was really good honey. I mean, it's always good, but that was really good." I did the dishes. He spoke with his best friend Itai. Peter had brought home a spare desk for me, so I took it up to my office and put it together. I remember saying to him, "I can't get one drawer to sit just right." He replied, "I'll look at it on the weekend."
There was so much we planned to do that weekend: My US taxes. Fix the desk drawer. Peter wanted to record an episode of his Podcast, too. Peter an Itai were planning an Oscars episode, and Peter had watched almost all of the movies.
Later, Peter sat with the kids and they watched an episode of Psych. I joined, and then we sent the kids to bed, and Peter moved from his chair to the couch, and we held hands and watched TV. Usually I went to bed first but on that night I wasn't tired and we went to bed at the same time. We were happy. We were talking and laughing and holding hands. We were happy.
Not long before midnight he told me he was having an asthma attack. He didn't have them very often, but when he did the routine was always the same: He'd go downstairs and watch TV and wait for it to pass. I'd wait 5 or 10 minutes and go down to check on him. I didn't want to go down with him because I knew then he'd worry that he was frightening me - asthma attacks are scary. And I didn't want to make things worse for him by sitting there with him, worrying him by being worried for him.
I said, "I'm sorry honey."
He said, "It's alright. I just need to take my mind off it."
I heard the stairs creak as he walked down. I heard him cough four times, like he was trying to get his breathing under control. I knew exactly where he was standing in the dining room. I could tell from the sound, and also because I knew that was where his asthma puffers were.
I looked at the clock. It was 11:50. I resolved to check on him in 4 minutes.
I wasn't overly concerned. I was worried, because I always worried about him when he had an asthma attack. But he'd had asthma all of his life. He knew what he was doing. I felt silly, actually, worrying about it.
At 11:54 I got up out of bed to check on him. In my mind's eye I could see it all unfold: I would walk downstairs and he would turn towards me and smile when he saw me. He would say, "It's okay, honey, go to bed, I'll be up shortly." I would say, "Are you sure you okay? Is there anything I can get you?" and he would insist he was fine, and send me back to bed.
Really, I remember thinking, It's kind of dumb to check on him. He'll be fine.
I walked downstairs. The light was on in his lounge room; I could hear the TV. But he wasn't turning towards me. He was grey. There was foam coming out of his mouth.
At first I thought he was playing some sort of trick on me. I didn't like it. I touched his arm. It was cold. I tried to rouse him. "Peter!" I said, soft at first and then louder. "Peter!" I hit the side of his face - not too hard, I didn't want to hurt him. Just hard enough to wake him up.
But he wouldn't wake up. He was cold. He was grey. The foam kept coming out of his mouth, out of his nostrils. Every now and then he'd lurch forward violently and open his mouth and even more would pour out.
"I'm calling the ambulance!" I shouted at him, hoping it would make him come-to, hoping he'd realise he'd gone too far.
I called 000. I told myself to be calm; to give them the information they needed; that everything would be alright. The woman on the other end told me to pull him on to the ground and start CPR. She said that it didn't matter if he hit his head; he needed to be on the ground. I tried. She said to pull him from his feet. I tried. The chair moved across the room with him. I couldn't get him out of the chair. She told me to perform it on him while he was in the chair, then. To start CPR and to keep going until help arrived.
"He's dead, isn't he?" I asked. I remembered what I'd been told at a First Aid course years ago: CPR never works. If you have to do CPR, you will probably not end up saving that life. Don't feel guilty, because CPR never works. The woman on the other end just said, "Help is coming."
At one point it seemed to me that the problem was the foam, that he was choking. I stuck my fingers in his mouth to clear his airway. Inside it was warm. Outside it was cold, and wet from the foam that would not stop coming. And still the violent lurching, still the sudden thrust forward as he expelled more foam, still the backwards jerk. But inside it was warm. I held on to any hope I could. "He's still warm inside," I said. "That means he's alive doesn't it?" "Just keep going," the woman said, "Don't stop."
I thought of a lamb Peter's mother had saved when she was cold and nearly dead. She'd poured whisky down the lamb's throat to warm her up. I wondered, stupidly, if I should pour whisky down Peter's throat.
Help came. A knock at the window. I heard him shout, "The door is locked." Of course it was. Every night before he went to bed, Peter would check on our dog Pugsley, tuck him in under a blanket and lock the door on his way up to bed. I shouted, "Go around!" Because the other door was open. He didn't understand. He just kept saying, "The door is locked."
The woman on the phone told me to keep going. "Don't stop. Don't open the door. You have to keep going." But I had no choice. I couldn't not open the door. I ran as quickly as I could, flipped on the light, opened the door, and rushed back to Peter.
"Oh my," he said, "Oh my," he repeated. Together we got Peter off the chair and on to the floor. He asked me to grab a towel. He told me others were coming too.
Deltree came down. "What's going on?" she asked, and I shouted, "Go back to bed!" I didn't want her to see her father like that. I didn't want her to see him.
We saw the headlights of the approaching ambulance, and he asked me to go out and tell them we needed the defib machine, high flow oxygen, and adrenaline. I did. I remember my feet were bare and the dry grass was prickly underfoot. They grabbed their equipment - perhaps I helped them carry it in - and I took them to Peter. They set up the defib machine. It advised against giving a shock.
"That means he's alive doesn't it?" I asked. She shook her head. "No," she said. "That means it can't find anything to shock."
I remembered Deltree. It dawned on me that she wouldn't have gone back to bed. She'd be sitting there, alone and scared in the dark, wondering what was happening. I had to find her. I couldn't do anything more for Peter; I had to find her. I remembered how Judaism urges us to put the needs of the living ahead of the needs of the dead. Peter was dead. I knew that. On one level I had known it ever since I found him, at 11:54, cold and grey, with foam pouring from his nose and mouth.
I found Deltree. I tried to explain what was going on. She cried. I held her. I cried. We watched through the window as more lights and more ambulances arrived. I cried for my husband. I cried for the end of the life I had loved so much.
I cried because I couldn't make this one right. I cried because my daughter's heart was breaking, and here was an ouchie I couldn't fix with a kiss and a promise that it would all be alright. I cried because I'd failed her.
It was a long night. I don't remember much of it. At one point one of the paramedics asked me if it was asthma or if perhaps it was his heart. I said he'd said he was having an asthma attack. She said that to them, it felt more like it was cardiac, and asked if they could treat it as such. I was confused: Why were they asking me? They were the experts, surely they knew what to do? I said as much to her.
Another time, another woman needed to ask me a question. I can't even remember what it was. I said, "He's dead isn't he?" She smiled sadly and said, "We're doing all we can. We'll take him to hospital, there's more they can do there." I said, "Please be honest with me. I've lost him, haven't I?" She nodded her head and confirmed it.
More people, more paramedics. More procedures. On and on it went, for hours. Around 2 AM I was told that they had done all they could.
Peter was dead.
My love was gone. My purpose, my reason for being, was gone.
I remember thinking I had to wake Calan up. He had to know it. I couldn't let him wake up in the morning to find his daddy was gone. He had to know. I woke him up. He told me later he thought it was morning. I held him tight and tried to explain through my tears.
They said we could see him. Spend time with him. I told the kids they could see if they wanted to but they didn't have to. We went downstairs. Deltree got as far as the dining room and sobbed, "I can't!" One of the paramedics took her into the other room. Calan came with me. I stroked Peter's hair. I kissed him. I cried over his body. Calan tentatively reached out and touched him and said, "I love you Daddy. You were a good Daddy."
I wanted nothing more than to curl up beside him and die - or at least stay there until they took his body away. But again I remembered the lessons of Judaism, that we put the living ahead of the dead. I knew I couldn't do anything more for Peter. I knew our children still needed us.
We went back upstairs and curled together in the bed. I made a few phone calls to let people know what had happened. It was really as much to convince myself as anything. I knew he was dead; but saying it out loud somehow made it real. Sharing the tragedy with others made it real.
The police came, because he'd died at home. They asked a few questions. I remember one of them telling me how frustrated he was because of the pandemic, because he was supposed to be in the US on a baseball scholarship. I remember thinking, Why does he think I care about his baseball scholarship? I've just lost my world.
After the police, the undertakers. I am making it sound like it was quick. But it wasn't. The undertakers didn't get there until around 5. It was hours and hours, the three of us curled up in a ball in my bed upstairs, the bed I had been sharing with Peter only a few hours earlier, crying together. And every now and then I would go downstairs to see Peter, to kiss him, to stroke his forehead. And every now and then Calan would come with me. But Deltree never could. She didn't want to see him like that.
The undertakers came at last, and we were given one last chance to say goodbye before they wheeled him out. I asked if it would be alright if I cut some of his hair and they said yes. Peter had such lovely, thick hair. They waited until I said I was ready. I knew I'd never be ready. But I also knew that it wouldn't do any good. I said that I was ready, although I wasn't. As they wheeled him out and into the hearse, they knocked his arm against some plaster, and it fell to the ground. I cried out, "My baby!" And he was gone.
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
- WH Auden, Funeral Blues
He was my North, my South, my East and West. He was my home. He was my everything. I remember walking away, that April night in 1995 when I first laid eyes on him. I remember the dress I was wearing, burgundy with sunflowers, the way it set in at my waist. I remember the way my heart stirred, and something deep inside of me woke up, and I remembered, Oh yes, this is why I was created. I was created to love that man.
I don't know what purpose my life can possibly have, now that the purpose of my creation is gone.
For months, I replayed the night in my head, wondering what I could have done differently. What if I'd gone with him? What if I'd been there, when it happened? (It wasn't an asthma attack at all, it wasn't an asthma attack after all: It was a cardiac arrest. His heart, which was too big, simply gave up and stopped.)
This is what I know, as far as I can know anything:
Only 7% of people who have a cardiac arrest event outside of the home make it to the hospital. Of those few who do, only 15% walk out of the hospital. The vast majority either die in hospital, or end up in long-term care.
It takes four minutes for permanent brain damage to set in.
The foam that was pouring from Peter's mouth and from his lungs is something that happens after death. Which is to say, he was already dead when I found him. I do not know for how long. I cannot know for how long. Was it a minute? More? Less?
All I know is that at 11:50 he was alive; and by 11:54 he was dead. In between he'd had time to walk to the chair, sit down, and turn on the TV. (It was ABC News. I remember that. I have barely watched the news since. I have also not made tacos for dinner, nor have I patched the place in the wall where his arm knocked the plaster.)
I've timed it myself. It takes six seconds, perhaps more if he'd had to find the remote. So for six seconds at least, after that cough, he was alive.
Could I have saved him, if I'd been there with him?
This is what I know: It took me about a minute to process what was happening and call for help. I could not have moved him from the chair; and it was a soft recliner, so I could not get traction to do CPR properly. It took five minutes before the first paramedic arrived. Another minute to move him to the ground.
It takes four minutes for permanent brain damage to set in.
This is what I know: I would take Peter any way I could get him. If he was a vegetable, if he was slobbering in a chair, if he was brain damaged to the point where he didn't even know who I was, I would take him, and I would love him.
This is what I know: Peter would not have wanted that.
This is what I believe: If Peter had had the chance to come back to me like that - a vegetable, or slobbering in a chair, or brain damaged to the point where he didn't even know who I was - he would've. Because he loves me. Because he loves our children. Because he never would have chosen to leave us, if he'd had a choice.
This is what I believe: Peter didn't have a choice.
Peter's death was gentle. He would not have had a moment's fear. He would have felt light headed, and closed his eyes, and simply slipped away. I often wonder what his last thought was, as it happened: "Oh, I'm feeling a bit dizzy," I can imagine him thinking, "I'll just rest my eyes." I often wonder what his first thought was, as he realised he was dead.
This is what Peter believed: He didn't know if there was a God. He didn't think it mattered, much. He thought that the only thing that mattered, in the end, was how we treated each other. That if there was a God, and God was good and just, that nothing else would matter. That if there was a God, and God was petty enough to punish us with eternal damnation if we couldn't say, for certain, that we believed, that that wasn't the sort of person he'd want to spend eternity with, anyway.
But Peter never feared death. Having grown up thinking so often about his own death, which was supposed to happen before the age of 30, he'd become reconciled to it. If anything he was, perhaps, a bit curious about it.
So this is what I think: When he opened his eyes again, he saw his dad, and he was confused. And his dad gently broke the news to him. He would have looked at me, sobbing and trying to bring him back, and he would have said, "No, I can't be dead, Quimby still needs me." And his dad would've said, "Sorry, mate, you don't get a choice."
I think Peter would have been sad. I think he would have been desperately sad, because we were sad, and because he missed us. A few days after Peter died Calan said, "We have it easier than Daddy, because we just miss one person and he misses three." And I think that's true. I think Peter misses us, like we miss him.
But I think he's probably okay, wherever he is.
Because to Peter, everything was just an adventure. So why would death be any different?
This is what I hope: One day, when our children are grown up and no longer need me, I will close my eyes, and I will join him. I imagine opening my eyes and seeing him there - looking at me in that way that always made me feel like I was the most important person in the world, smiling at me with that smile that is brighter than a thousand suns. I imagine falling against him, and crying, unable, for once, to say anything at all - just overjoyed at seeing him again, at being with him again. I imagine him holding me in that hug that seemed to swallow me up, and whispering, "It's okay, you're okay, I'm here."
Or maybe, "I've missed you."
Or probably, "I knew you could do it."
Because I know, deep down, that he knows I can do it - even though I don't know that myself. Each day I think, "I can't do this." But Peter - Peter believed in me, even when I couldn't believe in myself.
Itai told me once, "Peter was excellent at everything he did, and that extends to choosing a wife too. He wouldn't have chosen you if he didn't think you could do this."
This is what I know: I love our children, and Peter loves our children, and Peter needs me to stay here and make sure they're alright.
This is what I know: I will wait for Peter, and he will wait for me.
This is what I know: Our separation is only temporary. Peter was my past, and he will be my future.
It's only the present that is so hard.
I thought love would last forever. I was wrong - WH Auden
Though lovers be lost, love shall not, and death shall have no dominion. - Dylan Thomas
I choose Thomas: And death shall have no dominion.
I love you, Peter. I always have, and I always will.
Peter had one cardinal rule of marriage. It was, "I will always choose you." When the winds of family disagreement blew against us, "I will always choose you." When a neighbour disagreed with something, "I will always choose you." He said it so often, the words are etched in my heart.
I will always choose you.
And I will always choose Peter. I always have, and I always will.
i always wanted you.
even when i didn't
know what i wanted.
even before i knew
you.
it was you.
you were the chapter
that i didn't know
the words to, but
always knew it existed.
and when i finally
found it and began
to read, i knew i
was home
- JMStorm
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