When Tomorrow Comes

I wrote this sitting in a hospital cafeteria between doctor appointments one morning some months ago and it made me think back…

Except the time I think back to was me sitting in a tiny room in the emergency room waiting to hear whether or not they saved my husband's life.

A myriad of thoughts went through my head in those moments. Is he going to live? Is he already dead? If they can save him, what quality of life would he have? Even I knew that the amount of time Patrick was without oxygen earlier that morning was long enough to affect him, even if he did survive. And even in those moments, what was happening was surreal. When people talk about out-of-body experiences, this must be what it felt like.

I made three calls that Saturday morning from the ER: first to my brother and sister-in-law, second to my parents. I had them both on speaker phone when I told them because I didn't want one to have to tell the other after I hung up. The third call I made was to Patrick's sister.

I remember my mom admitting later on that she thought I was calling to tell her I was pregnant. Uh, no, that wasn't the news I had to share.

It felt like the longest morning of my life. After my three calls, I sat in the room with Patrick's lifeless body, trying to take in the reality of what just happened, breathing tube still in because the nurses said they had to leave it there. They told me I could take as much time as I needed. I sat there in devastation but tried to say what I needed to, at least in that moment. There are always regrets, things you wished you’d said or did, no matter what you do, but in time you let go of them.

The morning was a blur in those first couple hours. I can hardly remember what I said or did, what I thought. I was in shock. I couldn’t even cry properly. I do remember standing in the ER hallway to send two texts: two of my high school friends and my coworker. Later I thought, what a horrible way to share news with people you care about, but I just couldn't bring myself to call anyone else. (I'm sorry again.) I knew news would eventually spread through word of mouth. Hearing later on who called whom and how friends informed one another was comforting in a strange way. It showed the network and friendship we had as a couple and Patrick had as an individual.

I remember receiving calls from a couple of Patrick’s best friends while I was still in the hospital, unable to bring myself to pick them up. I listened to their voices on the message as they tried to keep it together while at the same time offering comfort to me. I collected dozens of VMs I’d received from friends during that time and would go back to listen to them, sobbing as I heard the pain in their voices too. Even if you don’t know what to say or don’t reach the person, always make the call. You have no idea how much it means and how it helps.

While I waited for my family to arrive, I decided to take an Uber home to change, brush my teeth and put on my contacts, get my belongings and our little stuffed bears before driving back to the hospital. I remember walking in to my building, looking at AJ (our concierge), my eyes telling him that Patrick didn't make it. Damien, our overnight concierge, who had come upstairs to help after my dreaded call early that morning had already left, witness to a life ending before his very eyes even if he didn't even realize it yet.

I got back to the hospital and waited for my family to arrive with my then one year-old nephew, Myles, and Kumo, the dog Patrick had gifted me nearly 15 years prior. I never imagined our dog would've outlived him. Felt like a sad movie as we all stood there in that ER room in silence.

I picked Kumo up to say his goodbye. He sniffed and licked Patrick lovingly not knowing (or maybe he did) that he would see him again just two years later to the month over the rainbow bridge. I was comforted when Kumo passed—also suddenly—knowing that he had a friendly face to greet him when he arrived.

Patrick's mom, dad and sister then arrived a few hours later (they lived in CT two hours away) and my family drove back to my apartment to leave them to say their own goodbyes and spend their last moments with their son and brother. Though I felt shock, pain and grief, I cannot fathom the pain they felt and still feel after losing their child and brother. It all hurt.

I wasn't expecting to start writing this in that hospital cafeteria that one morning and never knew what I'd do with it. It seemed fitting to share with you all today, five years after Patrick died, to give the memories the space they deserve, knowing that sharing could help someone someday, or perhaps just because recounting it helps me. I've always felt that talking about it openly was a part of the healing process.

There's so much more to our story and grateful to have a forum in which to share it, even if I'm the only one listening.

This story is a part of my why, of who I am now, and what keeps me wanting a better life for everyone.

If you got this far, thanks for reading.