When Roger and I first adopted our kittens last year, Gizmo was very sick.
We did not know it at first but by the third day she was on the brink of life or death.
Of course, we were already attached to the dear girl.
Even my husband who kept telling me they were my decision.
They were both underweight for their age but in those first few days Gizmo lost additional 4 ounces for only weighing two pounds, it was a lot.
She had a nasty bacterial infection in her GI tract that adult cats get a lot but they have the proper balance of good bacteria to fight it. Gizmo did not have that good bacteria. And considering it was extremely contagious, both cats were being treated.
And according to my dear husband, I choose broken cats.
The non-sick cat, Gadget, took her medicine like it was a treat. She followed all the rules just like me.
Gizmo would not just like Roger. She would start blowing saliva bubbles the minute we picked her up.
The orange medicine would end up all over her black face along with our bathroom walls.
Roger would take her and wash her face with a warm cloth. It was so sweet and she would let him.
She stopped eating and then stopped drinking by Saturday morning.
She was starting to get very lethargic.
We were worried.
So I took her to the vet and he instructed me how to give our poor kitty an IV for the next 48 hours three times a day.
When I brought her home and explained the whole process to Roger, I think he looked at me like I was from Mars.
It was a tag team process.
We hung the IV fluid from the upper kitchen cabinets to get gravity in our favor while we all sat on the floor.
Roger would hold poor Gizmo still while I put a needle underneath her skin.
The whole process took about five minutes. Poor Gizmo. And poor Roger was wondering what we/I had gotten us into.
But she started gaining weight and getting better.
Until.
We went away for the first weekend. We were only gone about 36 hours. We were both curious how they would do on their own.
We came home to both cats greeting us as we walked in.
I gasped when I saw poor Gizmo. She had a huge bald spot between her shoulder blades.
Great. What now.
Turns out she is allergic to the flea treatment we put on her a few weeks before but it takes that long for cats to show any signs due to the number of layers of fur and skin.
Roger exclaimed to me "You got us broken cats!"
And while our kittens were getting used to living with us, they did not play very much. I am not sure if they just didn't know how or if they were just not quite comfortable. And poor Gizmo just was too sickly. Some of their toys they seemed almost scared of. Eventually Gadget started to play with a string. However, Gizmo was still "broken."
It took a lot of patience and a lot of persistence, but eventually both cats started playing.
Roger even started pretending to train them for his own private circus he suddenly had a desire for. He trained them to jump between two stools as he spread them further and further apart. He would get so excited to see them succeed.
In this circus attempt, we tried to harness the poor cats. Roger wanted to be able to walk the cats cause that wouldn't look crazy at all.
They did not take to it. They just laid down or ran into the furniture.
At least part of the circus dream was crushed.
I was once again accused of adopting us "broken cats."
Poor Gizmo once more had a health scare.
One night she started drooling non-stop.
She had not eaten anything strange (to our knowledge) or gotten into anything but no matter what she had pools of drool where ever she sat for a few minutes.
Once more, Roger took her to the vet.
The vet checked her out with nothing but more drool. He gave her some atropine and she came home.
She was a little drugged but she was back to normal.
Normal but "broken".
But this broken cat had Roger's heart.
She sat on a stool next to the couch on his side of couch each evening and he would hang his hand over to pet her.
Her fur and coloring is so spontaneous much like Roger's personality.
She is affectionate but only in small doses much like Roger.
Also like Roger, she enjoyed some alone time.
She was Roger's cat.
She loved spending time with him. She would follow him upstairs for his meditation time and meow for him to open the door. (She almost never meowed at that time.)
I worried about her once I came home and he never returned.
I think both cats miss him. But I think Gizmo, the very "broken" cat, misses him even more.
She has started meowing more regularly.
The first random moment was one day when I passed her as I was walking through the family room. She was sitting on the rug and I looked down at her to ask her what was going on. She just simply looked up at me and meowed. She had food. She had water. Her litter box was clean, but suddenly she was randomly meowing.
She has fallen in love with Roger's favorite Christmas present from a few years ago. It is a laser level with a stud finder. She loves the laser part of it. Much more than the cat laser I bought for them.
She knows its beep as well as the noise it makes when I pick it up.
It now sits on my coffee table for playtime whenever I feel like it.
They never really searched the house for him, but they don't let me out of their sight much. They follow me into every room.
They both talk more.
They are both so much more affecionate.
My broken cats.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Whats in the refrigerator?
It's a question I have used to stimulate conversation in the past for several reasons.
First, a lot can be learned about a person. Do they just have beer and ketchup?
Do they have gourmet ingredients? Do they have lots of leftovers?
I hate what's in my fridge. It's annoying. There is still a lot of Roger's crap. Stuff that I'll never use or eat.
Like spreadable butter. I guess I'll keep it till it expires. Maybe I'll have a visitor who likes it. I just hate the stuff. Too weird for me to have "butter" that is like that.
I also still have jerk seasoning we brought back from our honeymoon in St. Lucia.
It was not that expensive and I think I only got to use it once before the accident.
I want to use it again.. I think.
But I'm scared of the emotions attached to this silly sauce.
It also means I would need to cook a semi-real meal which I also have not done very much.
There is also some weird fruit smoothie thing that I won't drink.
Just one.
I don't have the heart to throw it out.
I wish someone would just drink it.
Someone during the accident brought some drinks to the hospital.
It is still in the fridge too.
No one likes it.
Again, I just wish it would disappear.
The pantry is full of his stuff too.
Some things I'll eventually use.
Like the million and one cans and packs of tuna.
We loaded up when a local grocery store was going out of business and it does not expire for a while.
Roger would eat it for dinner sometimes when I was eating my cereal for dinner and he wanted some protein.
So what does that all say about me?
Who knows.
First, a lot can be learned about a person. Do they just have beer and ketchup?
Do they have gourmet ingredients? Do they have lots of leftovers?
I hate what's in my fridge. It's annoying. There is still a lot of Roger's crap. Stuff that I'll never use or eat.
Like spreadable butter. I guess I'll keep it till it expires. Maybe I'll have a visitor who likes it. I just hate the stuff. Too weird for me to have "butter" that is like that.
I also still have jerk seasoning we brought back from our honeymoon in St. Lucia.
It was not that expensive and I think I only got to use it once before the accident.
I want to use it again.. I think.
But I'm scared of the emotions attached to this silly sauce.
It also means I would need to cook a semi-real meal which I also have not done very much.
There is also some weird fruit smoothie thing that I won't drink.
Just one.
I don't have the heart to throw it out.
I wish someone would just drink it.
Someone during the accident brought some drinks to the hospital.
It is still in the fridge too.
No one likes it.
Again, I just wish it would disappear.
The pantry is full of his stuff too.
Some things I'll eventually use.
Like the million and one cans and packs of tuna.
We loaded up when a local grocery store was going out of business and it does not expire for a while.
Roger would eat it for dinner sometimes when I was eating my cereal for dinner and he wanted some protein.
So what does that all say about me?
Who knows.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
"Congratulations"
On Tuesday I had to get my car worked on - oil change and brakes done.
Not a huge deal.
The wonderful thing about my car is that it does not have to have the oil changed except for about once a year.
The bad thing is a lot has happened since the last time I had my oil changed.
When I came into the service area, I saw my maiden name up on the board.
"Oh hey, I need to change my info."
When he brought my information up on the screen, I saw that almost all my information was wrong. My address from three years ago was still there as well as my really old cell phone number.
The service guy cheerfully helped me change everything.
And then it happened.
Being the really nice guy he is, he says "Congratulations on your marriage!" with a huge smile on his face.
Hmm, what do I do? Do I tell him "thanks" and just keep going?
No of course not, because that would have just been easy and clean. No, no, can't do that.
"Actually, I'm a widow now. My husband was killed in a car accident."
Poor guy.
His face actually contorted to some thought like "Oh sh!t". The poor guy wanted to just eat his words. I felt horrible for him.
After he gave me the estimate for my brakes, I told him not to worry about that. He didn't know. No one knows what to say or how to act. He seemed relieved.
I have several thoughts and feelings about this.
First, this really sucks. I am still getting congratulations for my marriage. I was only married nine months ago. Nine months!! Although it seems like a lifetime ago now considering the rest of 2008 went.
Second, my wedding gift registry is even still active.
My registry will go on longer than my marriage. How effing sad is that! Its great for those looking to get me a gift. I have deleted the "Roger" items. I guess I might as well use it. But it sucks that we did not even make it to the point where our registry expired before we did. I still get emails about it and things in the mail. Ugh.
Third, I am still changing my name. Not even that process is complete. And yet, the man I changed it for is gone. And according to the IRS and other government things, I'm single. And some paper work does give the option of widow. But this is just wrong. Not even my passport is completely changed.
Fourth, I'm single and not by choice. I've heard of people not even making it to the year point. I've heard of people who made it to the year point but hated their spouse by that point. I went into marriage knowing that I wasn't going to be like those people. Divorce wasn't an option for us.
Yet, here I am. Single. Alone. While those other people, flippantly went into marriage or are in bad relationships. I was in a great relationship. Yes, Roger was not perfect but we were perfect for each other. This is so unfair.
So unfair...
Not a huge deal.
The wonderful thing about my car is that it does not have to have the oil changed except for about once a year.
The bad thing is a lot has happened since the last time I had my oil changed.
When I came into the service area, I saw my maiden name up on the board.
"Oh hey, I need to change my info."
When he brought my information up on the screen, I saw that almost all my information was wrong. My address from three years ago was still there as well as my really old cell phone number.
The service guy cheerfully helped me change everything.
And then it happened.
Being the really nice guy he is, he says "Congratulations on your marriage!" with a huge smile on his face.
Hmm, what do I do? Do I tell him "thanks" and just keep going?
No of course not, because that would have just been easy and clean. No, no, can't do that.
"Actually, I'm a widow now. My husband was killed in a car accident."
Poor guy.
His face actually contorted to some thought like "Oh sh!t". The poor guy wanted to just eat his words. I felt horrible for him.
After he gave me the estimate for my brakes, I told him not to worry about that. He didn't know. No one knows what to say or how to act. He seemed relieved.
I have several thoughts and feelings about this.
First, this really sucks. I am still getting congratulations for my marriage. I was only married nine months ago. Nine months!! Although it seems like a lifetime ago now considering the rest of 2008 went.
Second, my wedding gift registry is even still active.
My registry will go on longer than my marriage. How effing sad is that! Its great for those looking to get me a gift. I have deleted the "Roger" items. I guess I might as well use it. But it sucks that we did not even make it to the point where our registry expired before we did. I still get emails about it and things in the mail. Ugh.
Third, I am still changing my name. Not even that process is complete. And yet, the man I changed it for is gone. And according to the IRS and other government things, I'm single. And some paper work does give the option of widow. But this is just wrong. Not even my passport is completely changed.
Fourth, I'm single and not by choice. I've heard of people not even making it to the year point. I've heard of people who made it to the year point but hated their spouse by that point. I went into marriage knowing that I wasn't going to be like those people. Divorce wasn't an option for us.
Yet, here I am. Single. Alone. While those other people, flippantly went into marriage or are in bad relationships. I was in a great relationship. Yes, Roger was not perfect but we were perfect for each other. This is so unfair.
So unfair...
I'm not that strong...
... at least not Star strong.
It was one of the things Roger really liked about me.
He loved the way I could handle things on my own.
How I could deal with my own stuff.
I was independent. I could take care of myself.
Once when I ran out of gas, I called Marlyn who lived close by and we completely handled the situation. I was even able to laugh at myself.
No damsel in distress call needed. He loved that about me. I was not like his previous girl friends.
Sometimes he said I even needed to lean a little more on him and on other people.
And I was trying. I was getting better.
It's hard for me to depend on someone else.
But now, I'm not that strong person I'm used to.
I'm not Star stong. I am so weak in my eyes.
And its really hard for me to accept this new person.
I have the paranoia that is really annoying.
I suspect everything and everyone.
I have the irrational fears that make everyone look like a criminal and there is almost always going to be some sort of crime around me. Or some outragely obsecure situation.
Nor can I handle more than a few tasks per day without getting really stressed out.
And I definitely can not handle any bumps in the road.
This was proven once again by a little hiccup on the way home tonight.
I knew I needed gas but I thought I could make it to my exit on the way home. According to my car's computer I had about 33 miles.
Not a problem.
Well, on the way home there is a detour.
F#&%!
I beep on my horn to signal to the world that this is not acceptable. This is not part of the plan.
The detour takes thirty minutes to get to and get around except I don't make it all the way around.
In probably the worst section of Orlando, my car stalls.
This is the area of town that a few years ago I saw a lady expose her breasts as she tried to get a "job."
I'm out of gas.
F#&%! F#&%! F#&%!
I lose my head.
I start crying.
Hysterically.
People are blowing their horn at me.
I can't remember what the hell to do.
I finally put the car in neutral and hysterically phone Courtney to help me since she had just been at a concert with me.
A random lady stops to help me push my car, she walks with me to the gas station across four lanes of traffic, pump the gallon of gas, and then helps me put it into my car.
At the same time, a policeman also shows up to make sure we are okay. He watches our cars as we get the gas. This lady completely takes control of the situation. She was Star strong. [Thank God for random acts of kindness.]
As I drove home, I thought how I'm not the strong person I once was. How people think I am but how I think I'm not. This is not me! This is not the girl I'm used to.
There are so many days where I just want to crawl up into bed and have one of my friends hold me while I cry. Actually I want this about every day for the past couple of weeks.
It was one of the things Roger really liked about me.
He loved the way I could handle things on my own.
How I could deal with my own stuff.
I was independent. I could take care of myself.
Once when I ran out of gas, I called Marlyn who lived close by and we completely handled the situation. I was even able to laugh at myself.
No damsel in distress call needed. He loved that about me. I was not like his previous girl friends.
Sometimes he said I even needed to lean a little more on him and on other people.
And I was trying. I was getting better.
It's hard for me to depend on someone else.
But now, I'm not that strong person I'm used to.
I'm not Star stong. I am so weak in my eyes.
And its really hard for me to accept this new person.
I have the paranoia that is really annoying.
I suspect everything and everyone.
I have the irrational fears that make everyone look like a criminal and there is almost always going to be some sort of crime around me. Or some outragely obsecure situation.
Nor can I handle more than a few tasks per day without getting really stressed out.
And I definitely can not handle any bumps in the road.
This was proven once again by a little hiccup on the way home tonight.
I knew I needed gas but I thought I could make it to my exit on the way home. According to my car's computer I had about 33 miles.
Not a problem.
Well, on the way home there is a detour.
F#&%!
I beep on my horn to signal to the world that this is not acceptable. This is not part of the plan.
The detour takes thirty minutes to get to and get around except I don't make it all the way around.
In probably the worst section of Orlando, my car stalls.
This is the area of town that a few years ago I saw a lady expose her breasts as she tried to get a "job."
I'm out of gas.
F#&%! F#&%! F#&%!
I lose my head.
I start crying.
Hysterically.
People are blowing their horn at me.
I can't remember what the hell to do.
I finally put the car in neutral and hysterically phone Courtney to help me since she had just been at a concert with me.
A random lady stops to help me push my car, she walks with me to the gas station across four lanes of traffic, pump the gallon of gas, and then helps me put it into my car.
At the same time, a policeman also shows up to make sure we are okay. He watches our cars as we get the gas. This lady completely takes control of the situation. She was Star strong. [Thank God for random acts of kindness.]
As I drove home, I thought how I'm not the strong person I once was. How people think I am but how I think I'm not. This is not me! This is not the girl I'm used to.
There are so many days where I just want to crawl up into bed and have one of my friends hold me while I cry. Actually I want this about every day for the past couple of weeks.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
"well-developed, well-nourished"
After weeks of hounding the Orange County Medical Examiner's office, I finally got the autopsy report.
I wanted it for curiosity's sake (some sick need to torture myself with more final information) and I later learned I needed it for insurance purposes.
I got the big fat envelope in today's mail.
Then I started thinking, "Do I want to open it first or do I want to sort through the other mail first?"
Junk mail first.
Bills next.
Then the autopsy.
I read it while standing up the first time.
There it is. All in black and white.
All permanent.
All official.
Most of the information was not new.
I had a physician friend translate it for me into more plain English.
Lots of brain damage. Lots of bleeding, lots of swelling, and lots of brain bruises.
Even his basic functioning was gone based on a lot of damange.
Pretty much all the damage they were seeing on the CT scan and predicting was there and it was there.
Roger would not have recovered.
Roger would have been in the exact state he was in on morning of his death for the rest of his life. At least mentally.
He would have lived in a nursing home, hooked up to a ventilator, having a feeding tube delivering his food, never awakening, never walking, never talking, and never seeing his world.
There is a sweet relief to having this information.
I did make the right decision.
I did what he would have wanted.
I did not choose to kill my viable husband.
He was not there.
There is also a lot of pain associated with it.
He is gone.
The permanency is even more real.
This is not a dream.
This is not going to change.
He is not here.
I also did not expect to be included.
But there I am, "his wife" the identifier.
There are both our names in black and white.
Our relationship clearly defined.
I was his wife.
I was put in the horrid position of identifying my 34 year old husband of six months.
It was nice to read that he was "well-developed" and "well-nourished".
He had nice teeth.
He had no deformities.
He had no cancer.
He had no congenital defects.
He had no drugs in his system.
He was perfect.
There are also some strange things that bother me.
Like the fact he wasn't dressed.
I sort of expected him to be in a hospital gown for some strange reason.
I was also bothered by reading all the medical intervention "evidence."
I was warned about this section but its still hard to read.
To read about all the catheters, bandages, and staples.
Maybe I'm sadistic or a masocist.
Maybe I'm too curious.
But at least he was well-nourished and well-developed.
He was perfect.
I wanted it for curiosity's sake (some sick need to torture myself with more final information) and I later learned I needed it for insurance purposes.
I got the big fat envelope in today's mail.
Then I started thinking, "Do I want to open it first or do I want to sort through the other mail first?"
Junk mail first.
Bills next.
Then the autopsy.
I read it while standing up the first time.
There it is. All in black and white.
All permanent.
All official.
Most of the information was not new.
I had a physician friend translate it for me into more plain English.
Lots of brain damage. Lots of bleeding, lots of swelling, and lots of brain bruises.
Even his basic functioning was gone based on a lot of damange.
Pretty much all the damage they were seeing on the CT scan and predicting was there and it was there.
Roger would not have recovered.
Roger would have been in the exact state he was in on morning of his death for the rest of his life. At least mentally.
He would have lived in a nursing home, hooked up to a ventilator, having a feeding tube delivering his food, never awakening, never walking, never talking, and never seeing his world.
There is a sweet relief to having this information.
I did make the right decision.
I did what he would have wanted.
I did not choose to kill my viable husband.
He was not there.
There is also a lot of pain associated with it.
He is gone.
The permanency is even more real.
This is not a dream.
This is not going to change.
He is not here.
I also did not expect to be included.
But there I am, "his wife" the identifier.
There are both our names in black and white.
Our relationship clearly defined.
I was his wife.
I was put in the horrid position of identifying my 34 year old husband of six months.
It was nice to read that he was "well-developed" and "well-nourished".
He had nice teeth.
He had no deformities.
He had no cancer.
He had no congenital defects.
He had no drugs in his system.
He was perfect.
There are also some strange things that bother me.
Like the fact he wasn't dressed.
I sort of expected him to be in a hospital gown for some strange reason.
I was also bothered by reading all the medical intervention "evidence."
I was warned about this section but its still hard to read.
To read about all the catheters, bandages, and staples.
Maybe I'm sadistic or a masocist.
Maybe I'm too curious.
But at least he was well-nourished and well-developed.
He was perfect.
Monday, December 1, 2008
What a day
Today I started to get back to my "normal" routine.
At 9:47am, I realized I set my alarm for pm instead of am.
I called about getting my windshield replaced for the second time in three months from yes "a new rock."
As I was completely some paperwork, I kept signing and dating things as 12/1/80.
And about 6pm I realized, my pants are on backwards.
While in HomeDepot.
Yeah... it's been a long day.
At 9:47am, I realized I set my alarm for pm instead of am.
I called about getting my windshield replaced for the second time in three months from yes "a new rock."
As I was completely some paperwork, I kept signing and dating things as 12/1/80.
And about 6pm I realized, my pants are on backwards.
While in HomeDepot.
Yeah... it's been a long day.
The Blood
The accident has started replaying in my head again.
It has stopped for a while but now its back.
And mostly its not the entire accident that keeps replaying now, but just short snips of it.
As I saw the SUV coming, I gasped.
This did not make sense.
How is there someone coming toward us on this road?!
We were on a highway. Where is this driver coming from?
There are only exits and entrances, not intersections.
My mind was not truly grasping what was happening as it is coming toward us and the SUV does not seem like it is slowing down.
Then I realize "Shit, we are going to be in accident."
I have no recollection of what Roger was started doing.
Was he talking to me still?
Did he see the SUV?
What did he do when I gasped?
Then, I dropped my hands down and grabbed onto the bottom part of my seat on each side. This action is what cut my forearm on the console.
I knew I should not tense up. Was I tensing up?
I wait for the impact.
People are in accidents everyday.
We would not be going to the reunion or seeing family in Virginia but everything would be fine.
We'd get through this.
As I understand from the police report, there was a cop in front of us and there was a cop behind us seeing the whole accident. They were driving home from their shifts.
We were in one of the left middle lanes. Our car was hit on the driver's door and our car slid about 75 feet to the right shoulder of the road.
I do not know how long I sat in the car without getting out.
I do not know if I tried to talk to Roger before getting out.
I do not know if I tried to touch him.
I do remember reaching for the door handle.
I do remember not even bothering to put both shoes on (I have a bad habit of slipping out of my shoes when I'm a passenger).
I do not remember feeling the wet, debris-filled road with my barefeet.
I sort of remember seeing blue lights from the police car coming from behind me.
I am standing on Roger's side of the car.
I am looking at him with his eyes closed.
I start to yell at Roger to get out of the car.
I keep yelling at him.
I hear a car drive by and hit the debris on the road.
The car door is gone.
But Roger must get out.
Roger is facing me.
I take my right hand out to touch his face.
The left side of his face.
The part of his face that is resting on the car seat.
As I touch his face, there is a warm gooey substance on my hand.
I look at my right hand in utter disbelief.
It's Roger's blood.
This can not be real.
It was all over my right hand.
I start to scream.
Time starts to stop.
I can't breathe.
The cop is running toward me.
He is telling me how I am bleeding a lot and I need to sit down.
I look at my left arm.
I see the bone.
My engagement ring and my wedding band are covered in my blood.
My right hand is covered in Roger's.
I am sat on the ground.
Panic starts to set in.
Tears are streaming down my face.
I cannot take a deep breath.
Rain is falling on me.
I want to go back to the car.
I want to be with Roger.
No one answers my questions.
Is he breathing?
Does he have a pulse?
My life starts crumbling.
Oh my God.
Please oh my God.
My mouth is full of glass.
I can feel it cutting me.
I feel it grinding in my teeth.
I need water.
I need Roger.
I need this not to be my life.
Finally someone brings me my purse.
A man with a badge around his neck with an orange polo shirt.
I think my arm is broken.
I can see the bone but I can move my fingers.
Can I move my fingers if my arm is broken?
I want to go back to the car.
They won't let me near him.
They say they are keeping me safe.
They all knew the ending.
They all knew how our story would end.
Marlyn cleaned my rings.
I threw away my bloody clothes.
We brought home his bloody boots.
The blood underneath my nails eventually went away.
But I will never forget the moment of his blood on my hand.
It has stopped for a while but now its back.
And mostly its not the entire accident that keeps replaying now, but just short snips of it.
As I saw the SUV coming, I gasped.
This did not make sense.
How is there someone coming toward us on this road?!
We were on a highway. Where is this driver coming from?
There are only exits and entrances, not intersections.
My mind was not truly grasping what was happening as it is coming toward us and the SUV does not seem like it is slowing down.
Then I realize "Shit, we are going to be in accident."
I have no recollection of what Roger was started doing.
Was he talking to me still?
Did he see the SUV?
What did he do when I gasped?
Then, I dropped my hands down and grabbed onto the bottom part of my seat on each side. This action is what cut my forearm on the console.
I knew I should not tense up. Was I tensing up?
I wait for the impact.
People are in accidents everyday.
We would not be going to the reunion or seeing family in Virginia but everything would be fine.
We'd get through this.
As I understand from the police report, there was a cop in front of us and there was a cop behind us seeing the whole accident. They were driving home from their shifts.
We were in one of the left middle lanes. Our car was hit on the driver's door and our car slid about 75 feet to the right shoulder of the road.
I do not know how long I sat in the car without getting out.
I do not know if I tried to talk to Roger before getting out.
I do not know if I tried to touch him.
I do remember reaching for the door handle.
I do remember not even bothering to put both shoes on (I have a bad habit of slipping out of my shoes when I'm a passenger).
I do not remember feeling the wet, debris-filled road with my barefeet.
I sort of remember seeing blue lights from the police car coming from behind me.
I am standing on Roger's side of the car.
I am looking at him with his eyes closed.
I start to yell at Roger to get out of the car.
I keep yelling at him.
I hear a car drive by and hit the debris on the road.
The car door is gone.
But Roger must get out.
Roger is facing me.
I take my right hand out to touch his face.
The left side of his face.
The part of his face that is resting on the car seat.
As I touch his face, there is a warm gooey substance on my hand.
I look at my right hand in utter disbelief.
It's Roger's blood.
This can not be real.
It was all over my right hand.
I start to scream.
Time starts to stop.
I can't breathe.
The cop is running toward me.
He is telling me how I am bleeding a lot and I need to sit down.
I look at my left arm.
I see the bone.
My engagement ring and my wedding band are covered in my blood.
My right hand is covered in Roger's.
I am sat on the ground.
Panic starts to set in.
Tears are streaming down my face.
I cannot take a deep breath.
Rain is falling on me.
I want to go back to the car.
I want to be with Roger.
No one answers my questions.
Is he breathing?
Does he have a pulse?
My life starts crumbling.
Oh my God.
Please oh my God.
My mouth is full of glass.
I can feel it cutting me.
I feel it grinding in my teeth.
I need water.
I need Roger.
I need this not to be my life.
Finally someone brings me my purse.
A man with a badge around his neck with an orange polo shirt.
I think my arm is broken.
I can see the bone but I can move my fingers.
Can I move my fingers if my arm is broken?
I want to go back to the car.
They won't let me near him.
They say they are keeping me safe.
They all knew the ending.
They all knew how our story would end.
Marlyn cleaned my rings.
I threw away my bloody clothes.
We brought home his bloody boots.
The blood underneath my nails eventually went away.
But I will never forget the moment of his blood on my hand.
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