Ham & Eggs

One moment has stood out for me from our parade or caregivers last year.

I don’t even remember the guy’s name. He showed up around Easter during our first few weeks of struggling at home with health care and seemed to do a pretty good job. He was recommended by one of the managers at the company, who may or may not have himself been fired in turn.

I remember thinking this guy was the ‘coolest’ of all of our nurses. He was almost certainly the first person who came to our house who was German (which is not what made him cool). I thought he looked like Magnum PI. Like, when he finished his nursing shift, he was going to jump into a convertible and then head off to solve crimes or surf, whichever seemed more appealing at the moment.

We never saw him after the first shift. He was supposed to come again later that month, but he was one of those nurses that prompted a call around 4 p.m. from the administrator, apologetically telling Christina that there might not be a nurse showing up at 8 p.m. as promised because … well, there was always some excuse.

This guy – now that I think of it, he might have been named Stephan – had gone to the cemetery during the day to visit the grave of his father, who had recently died. Apparently it was too much for him. He had left a rambling message for the nursing group’s administrator and then never checked back in. She said it seemed like he had had a nervous breakdown.

I remember turning to Ricardo as Christina relayed the news – I hadn’t even stopped folding laundry, I was so used to nurses cutting out on us – and noting that, I did feel for the guy, but was unsure how I wasn’t the one having the nervous breakdown in this scenario. Maybe that was too flip. The guy was grieving. At that moment, I still thought Colin would live and was only hung up on trying to figure out how we sorted out his care for the next few days or weeks until we found some kind of normal. Maybe I could have been more sympathetic.

Whatever, I might understand a little better now.

Last week, Christina went to the cemetery by herself. When she came back, she told me she’d sat next to the gravesite and listened to some of his songs. When she told me this, my first reaction was, essentially “Wow.” It seemed so risky to sit there and then play with memories. As if you’re just daring a nervous breakdown to come along.

But I had a window of opportunity the next day. I had signed up to give blood and the donation center was in the direction of the cemetery, so I decided to swing by afterwards. I also brought along a copy of “Green Eggs and Ham,” which I haven’t looked at since I read it to his body the day he was taken away to the undertaker’s.

I don’t know if this was wise. I felt it was something I should try. It hurt. I mean, physically. I got a few pages in and I felt like my head was collapsing inwards. I had been prepared for being upset. I had been prepared for tears. I was not prepared to feel like my head was in a vise. I pushed through and read the book – making sure to stop at all the right spots so he could answer or comment – and it did get better. I suppose it helps that it only takes 10 minutes to read the book. I suppose it might have been a bad idea to try something like this right after donating blood. But we got through it.

I’ve been a touch more brittle since then. I’ve had to tell a co-worker that I wasn’t up to chit-chatting that particular day about kids just because, well, I couldn’t. I had a day where I felt I could barely move. I know I’ve been told that you can go months feeling normal after a death and then, months later, it hits you and then you’re in the thick of it. You begin to question what phase of this you’re in.

Most people understand. Not everyone. I told one person I was having an off day. The response came back that “we all have them.” I didn’t note that I highly doubt everyone else had spent the day before carrying their dead kindergartener’s toys to the attic. But I suppose the comment was well-meant.

It’s supposed to rain the next few days, so we’ll see if we get to the cemetery. When I went at the weekend with the family, I had to bail after 20 minutes, it was just too much for me. I’m sure it’s in my head, but it feels like gravity is heavier around the grave. Which isn’t to say I won’t return and isn’t to say I won’t try again with a different book. I guess it’s just to say that I’m going to have to figure out better ways of telling other people that, today, I’m not up for any of it.