I have been spending a lot of time trying to collect everything I can which relates to Karen, from notes she wrote, pictures, or just those random tangible things that remain from she and I sharing this time together. In a way there isn't very much because we had such a short time together, but on the other hand there is so much because of how close we were and how much we shared.
What there is very little of are things that mark James' life. For him, everything was the future. Despite being born and dying on November 16, 2008, I requested that the hospital not issue a birth certificate, and consequently a death certificate, because had this been done he could not have been buried with Karen. The thought of them not being together sickened me, as did the notion of seeing two coffins at the funeral. Thus the decision was, among all that I had to make during those horrific days, an easy one for me to make.
What this decision means now is that I am struggling to preserve the memory of James' short life in any way I can. The hospital took a photograph or two and made footprints, but I have not had the strength to look at either. Even looking at the sonogram pictures is exceedingly painful for me.
The reality of this is becoming more acute as February 13 approaches. That was the due date we were given by our doctor, although Karen was utterly convinced that he would be early. She was so sure of this that she asked her mother to come up to New York in mid-January so there would be little chance she would miss the birth, and Karen absolutely LOVED being pregnant. Many an hour she spent laying on the sofa or bed rubbing her belly. We had even been talking to him so that he would begin to know the sounds of our voices. Me speaking in English about how much I was looking forward to meeting him and apologizing in advance for the Mets, Karen speaking in French convinced that it would instill in him an early understanding of the language she loved.
For as long as I've ever known Karen she possessed a radiance, but in those 6 1/2 or 7 months of pregnancy she positively glowed. She moved through the day with a sparkle in her eyes and infectious smile on her lips. These were never more so than at the instant that I opened the door to our apartment to find her on the sofa. Despite whatever kind of day she might have had, her face lit up every time I opened that door.
Now each time I come to the front door and put my key in the lock I pause momentarily before pushing the door open. I hesitate in part because of the impossible, and perhaps irrational, hope that she will be inside. But more so I wait that brief moment to think about all those times the opening door would reveal her on the sofa laying back rubbing her ever growing belly, surrounded by her students writing, or just relaxing watching TV. Whichever way she was at that moment, her head would invariably turn at the sound of the door and whatever expression she might have had on her face was instantaneously replaced by that radiant smile.
Now the sofa is empty, only my memories of her being there are left and I surround myself with pictures of her smile and sparkling eyes. What they capture, however, is only a fraction of the woman she was and life she led.
Now there is no belly to rub or to talk to about the Mets, and I have no memories of James in life. Instead all I have left are a series of amorphous dream-like visions, sounds, and emotions acquired through my tears during the one and only time I held him. The only images are from the sonograms and hospital, which merely serve as a reminder of a life that should have been filled with happiness, hopes, dream, and love, but was so unfairly ended shortly after his mother’s.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Monday, January 26, 2009
On every block a memory
Today it occurred to me just how enmeshed my and Karen's life became in such a short amount of time and how much we lived and loved. On the one hand this can be measured simply by what we did in those 14 months: we re-connected, feel in love, got engaged, moved in with each other, started a family, and was married. There are also the vacations we took: Las Vegas a mere month after we met; St. Martin where we said "I love you" to each other for the first time; Florida for me to meet her family; North Carolina, twice, for two weddings; and Canada for our honeymoon. All these things would be a lot of things to happen in two people's lives if they were spread out over several years. But something struck me tonight while I was walking home from the subway on Flatbush avenue.
The route along Seventh Avenue from the subway to our apartment is about seven blocks. As I walked it today I realized that just about every block had a strong memory of Karen for me. I hope you'll indulge me recounting them briefly here:
Park Place to Sterling Place -- About a month into our relationship Karen, who had also just started at PS 321, was invited to a girls-only party at a colleague's house. I remember going there to meet and her telling me, with a great amount of excitement, about how glad she was to be getting to know the other teachers at a social event and how comfortable she felt among them. I just felt wonderful getting to wrap my arms around her.
St. John's Place to Lincoln Place -- Chiles & Chocolate is a fantastic Mexican restaurant, specializing in Oaxcan cuisine. We first ate there on our third date, when we sat in the front by the window. The second time was on Valentine's Day, the only one we celebrated together, the night before we left for St. Martin. Each time the food was amazing: flavorful and spicy, just the way Karen liked it!
Lincoln Place to Berkeley Place -- While we went to Chiles & Chocolate only twice, we went to Santa Fe, either for dinner of just for drinks, numerous times. I have many memories of Santa Fe from over the years, but the strongest and most lasting are of sitting at the bar with Karen, sharing guacamole and an entree, sipping cold Dos Equis. Also on that block is Mister Wonton, our favorite Chinese take-out and one of the places Karen would go to for lunch, often times calling me while she was there to say hello and see how my day was going.
Berkeley Place to Union Street -- On this block is Roma Pizza, not the best in the neighborhood but where we grabbed a couple of slices while we were at a framing store (on Union Street) picking out matting and frames for several pieces of art. There is also the dinner at which we used to eat brunch after yoga and the dry cleaner where she brought two pairs of maternity jeans to be hemmed only a week before she died.
Union Street to President Street -- Seven Nails, upstairs from the street, is the salon Karen took me to for my first manicure and pedicure. It was the day after I gave her the engagement ring - yes, Virginia, I proposed without a ring - and she wanted her nails to be as pretty as the new ring on her finger. She was positively glowing and radiated throughout the room. I should also point out that I gave her the ring while we were having dinner just steps down Union Street from Seventh Avenue.
President Street to Carroll Street -- Park Slope Copier has been a fixture on Seventh Avenue for almost as long as I can remember and it was were we spent quite a bit of time in the days before the wedding finalizing the program cards. As often happens before any type of party, we had several last minute things to address. Some of them with the potential to cause tension between us. But this never happened. Even when we had to correct the layout, paper, and format several times, we worked as one to have the program card done perfectly with nothing but smiles and good nature because, as I've said about other things, we were doing it together.
Carroll Street between Seventh and Eighth Avenues -- On the corner of Carroll Street and Fisk Place is a tree whose blossoms and leaves cascades over the sidewalk creating a natural archway. Perhaps a quarter of the times we walked along that block, which was literally dozens of times, Karen would comment about how she had her picture taken under the tree many years ago and how amazing it was to her to be living just around the corner from it. She would also say how beautiful it was. I still walk under that tree and think of her each and every time that I do.
I could go on, noting locations on nearly every block along Seventh Avenue that evoke powerful memories of Karen. However it is not only in Park Slope. As I walk throughout other parts of Brooklyn and Manhattan I am constantly passing places and sights that remind me of times spent with Karen. The sources of memories are all around me, not just in the pictures I keep in our apartment but in nearly every step I take.
The simple act of going to the subway or the store becomes, in a literal sense, a stroll down memory lane for me. The path, however, has changed now that I walk it alone. The Carroll Street tree remains, but the beauty of it has faded slightly. The Park Slope Copier's storefront is unaltered, but now I think of it as where the memorial card was printed. Seven Nails still does manicures and pedicures, but I can't imagine the room is as bright now despite the floor to ceiling windows on two sides. Roma is just another pizza parlor and Mr. Wonton is just another take-out Chinese restaurant. Savory smells waft from Chiles & Chocolate and I can almost smell their homemade hot sauce as I walk by, but the front table merely reflects against the glass of the window.
Of all the spots along Seventh Avenue only Santa Fe, where I worked many years ago and drank and ate for many more years, remains relatively unchanged in the wake of what has happened. I've been back there several times and found the warm embrace of old friends there, as well being able to feel and remember the times spent there with Karen.
Every block contains a memory of her. Now I face all these reminders consistently throughout each and every day - from the moment my eyes open to see the empty spot on the bed next to me where she laid, to the routine act of trying to move about the city, to coming home at the end of the day to an empty apartment. Even were I to want to avoid the reminders of Karen I don't believe it would be possible to do so. Make no mistake, the memories are of happy occasions and activities. Yet it is the knowledge that those times are forever gone and all my plans for the future are lost that is my struggle now.
The route along Seventh Avenue from the subway to our apartment is about seven blocks. As I walked it today I realized that just about every block had a strong memory of Karen for me. I hope you'll indulge me recounting them briefly here:
Park Place to Sterling Place -- About a month into our relationship Karen, who had also just started at PS 321, was invited to a girls-only party at a colleague's house. I remember going there to meet and her telling me, with a great amount of excitement, about how glad she was to be getting to know the other teachers at a social event and how comfortable she felt among them. I just felt wonderful getting to wrap my arms around her.
St. John's Place to Lincoln Place -- Chiles & Chocolate is a fantastic Mexican restaurant, specializing in Oaxcan cuisine. We first ate there on our third date, when we sat in the front by the window. The second time was on Valentine's Day, the only one we celebrated together, the night before we left for St. Martin. Each time the food was amazing: flavorful and spicy, just the way Karen liked it!
Lincoln Place to Berkeley Place -- While we went to Chiles & Chocolate only twice, we went to Santa Fe, either for dinner of just for drinks, numerous times. I have many memories of Santa Fe from over the years, but the strongest and most lasting are of sitting at the bar with Karen, sharing guacamole and an entree, sipping cold Dos Equis. Also on that block is Mister Wonton, our favorite Chinese take-out and one of the places Karen would go to for lunch, often times calling me while she was there to say hello and see how my day was going.
Berkeley Place to Union Street -- On this block is Roma Pizza, not the best in the neighborhood but where we grabbed a couple of slices while we were at a framing store (on Union Street) picking out matting and frames for several pieces of art. There is also the dinner at which we used to eat brunch after yoga and the dry cleaner where she brought two pairs of maternity jeans to be hemmed only a week before she died.
Union Street to President Street -- Seven Nails, upstairs from the street, is the salon Karen took me to for my first manicure and pedicure. It was the day after I gave her the engagement ring - yes, Virginia, I proposed without a ring - and she wanted her nails to be as pretty as the new ring on her finger. She was positively glowing and radiated throughout the room. I should also point out that I gave her the ring while we were having dinner just steps down Union Street from Seventh Avenue.
President Street to Carroll Street -- Park Slope Copier has been a fixture on Seventh Avenue for almost as long as I can remember and it was were we spent quite a bit of time in the days before the wedding finalizing the program cards. As often happens before any type of party, we had several last minute things to address. Some of them with the potential to cause tension between us. But this never happened. Even when we had to correct the layout, paper, and format several times, we worked as one to have the program card done perfectly with nothing but smiles and good nature because, as I've said about other things, we were doing it together.
Carroll Street between Seventh and Eighth Avenues -- On the corner of Carroll Street and Fisk Place is a tree whose blossoms and leaves cascades over the sidewalk creating a natural archway. Perhaps a quarter of the times we walked along that block, which was literally dozens of times, Karen would comment about how she had her picture taken under the tree many years ago and how amazing it was to her to be living just around the corner from it. She would also say how beautiful it was. I still walk under that tree and think of her each and every time that I do.
I could go on, noting locations on nearly every block along Seventh Avenue that evoke powerful memories of Karen. However it is not only in Park Slope. As I walk throughout other parts of Brooklyn and Manhattan I am constantly passing places and sights that remind me of times spent with Karen. The sources of memories are all around me, not just in the pictures I keep in our apartment but in nearly every step I take.
The simple act of going to the subway or the store becomes, in a literal sense, a stroll down memory lane for me. The path, however, has changed now that I walk it alone. The Carroll Street tree remains, but the beauty of it has faded slightly. The Park Slope Copier's storefront is unaltered, but now I think of it as where the memorial card was printed. Seven Nails still does manicures and pedicures, but I can't imagine the room is as bright now despite the floor to ceiling windows on two sides. Roma is just another pizza parlor and Mr. Wonton is just another take-out Chinese restaurant. Savory smells waft from Chiles & Chocolate and I can almost smell their homemade hot sauce as I walk by, but the front table merely reflects against the glass of the window.
Of all the spots along Seventh Avenue only Santa Fe, where I worked many years ago and drank and ate for many more years, remains relatively unchanged in the wake of what has happened. I've been back there several times and found the warm embrace of old friends there, as well being able to feel and remember the times spent there with Karen.
Every block contains a memory of her. Now I face all these reminders consistently throughout each and every day - from the moment my eyes open to see the empty spot on the bed next to me where she laid, to the routine act of trying to move about the city, to coming home at the end of the day to an empty apartment. Even were I to want to avoid the reminders of Karen I don't believe it would be possible to do so. Make no mistake, the memories are of happy occasions and activities. Yet it is the knowledge that those times are forever gone and all my plans for the future are lost that is my struggle now.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
The loneliness of being alone
I consider myself lucky. I have an extremely close and loving family, as well as countless wonderful friends who have and continue to lend me support. This has provided a measure of comfort, without which I don’t know how I would be functioning. Yet despite all these people in my life and living among millions of New Yorkers, I exist day-to-day with a powerful sense of loneliness and persistent undirected feeling.
Not long ago, two months a two days to be precise, I felt happier then I ever thought I could. Indeed, there were times when I actually felt guilty because things were going so well in my life. I had a good job, nice apartment, and was healthy. Most importantly there was Karen. Each day with her was, quite literally, better than the previous and it would be impossible for me to put into words the woman she was or to describe what we had together. It was amazing and to become even better, if that were possible, with James. But all that is gone now.
Walking has always been something I enjoyed doing, it is one of the wonderful things about living in New York City. Often after work I would walk through the city, sometimes for up to an hour all the way to the bottom of Manhattan before getting on the subway. I used to move with the joyous, floating steps of a man in love and happy with his lot. I reveled in the sights and sounds of the city, taking in and adding to the surge of energy around me.
Now I walk with the heavy gait caused by grief and sadness. No longer do I delight in being amidst the flow of other pedestrians. Rather I find myself following close to the edges of the buildings, avoiding the crowds and paths of those around me. The liveliness of New York still flows around me, but I do not absorb it. It swirls past me as if I were an eddy on the sidewalk. Try as I might to keep my shoulders straight and chin up, I slump with my eyes fixed to the concrete in front of my feet. When I do look up, my gaze invariably lands on a couple or family happily going about their life. At that moment my grief is replaced with envy and jealousy. Envious because that was what I only recently had and jealous because it was all taken from me. The question infuses my mind - Why do they get to have that when I don’t anymore? There is no answer, but the thought brings back the heartache and sadness. I focus my eyes on the sidewalk again, pull my coat a bit tighter around myself, and angle closer to the building. None of this brings any comfort, and only helps to navigate the new world in which I find myself.
Despite the comfort of my apartment, I am reluctant to come back to it because I know Karen will not be waiting for me and never coming home again. This means that my walks can be long, sometimes several miles in length, providing me with hours of time to contemplate what has happened. What I return to again and again is that even with people all around me – family, friends and strangers a like – I am alone. There is no life for me to "get on with" so now I move from one day to the next with only the memory of the hopes, plans, and dreams I once held. My joie de vivre replaced by loneliness.
Not long ago, two months a two days to be precise, I felt happier then I ever thought I could. Indeed, there were times when I actually felt guilty because things were going so well in my life. I had a good job, nice apartment, and was healthy. Most importantly there was Karen. Each day with her was, quite literally, better than the previous and it would be impossible for me to put into words the woman she was or to describe what we had together. It was amazing and to become even better, if that were possible, with James. But all that is gone now.
Walking has always been something I enjoyed doing, it is one of the wonderful things about living in New York City. Often after work I would walk through the city, sometimes for up to an hour all the way to the bottom of Manhattan before getting on the subway. I used to move with the joyous, floating steps of a man in love and happy with his lot. I reveled in the sights and sounds of the city, taking in and adding to the surge of energy around me.
Now I walk with the heavy gait caused by grief and sadness. No longer do I delight in being amidst the flow of other pedestrians. Rather I find myself following close to the edges of the buildings, avoiding the crowds and paths of those around me. The liveliness of New York still flows around me, but I do not absorb it. It swirls past me as if I were an eddy on the sidewalk. Try as I might to keep my shoulders straight and chin up, I slump with my eyes fixed to the concrete in front of my feet. When I do look up, my gaze invariably lands on a couple or family happily going about their life. At that moment my grief is replaced with envy and jealousy. Envious because that was what I only recently had and jealous because it was all taken from me. The question infuses my mind - Why do they get to have that when I don’t anymore? There is no answer, but the thought brings back the heartache and sadness. I focus my eyes on the sidewalk again, pull my coat a bit tighter around myself, and angle closer to the building. None of this brings any comfort, and only helps to navigate the new world in which I find myself.
Despite the comfort of my apartment, I am reluctant to come back to it because I know Karen will not be waiting for me and never coming home again. This means that my walks can be long, sometimes several miles in length, providing me with hours of time to contemplate what has happened. What I return to again and again is that even with people all around me – family, friends and strangers a like – I am alone. There is no life for me to "get on with" so now I move from one day to the next with only the memory of the hopes, plans, and dreams I once held. My joie de vivre replaced by loneliness.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Two months
My god, has it already (only?) been two months since that horrible day? Some days it feels like it was just moments ago and others it seems like a whole different lifetime. I continue to try to make sense of what happened but am left with only more questions. Recently I have begun to experience sudden, unprovoked, and very disquietingly vibrant memories of that day.
At first I had wanted to try and remember all I could in an effort to recall each and every sensation of our last moments together. I tried to remember our exact words, precise actions, and every other specific instances of our final 24 hours together. I recalled my birthday the day before and all we did. How we went to bed, as we always did, in each other's arms after another amazing day spent together. I've often thought of the lazy morning we spent, having coffee, watching some TV, and lounging on the sofa before heading to my mom's for brunch. I've concentrated on the rest of the day, until the moment in the restaurant, to remember as many of the details as possible. In doing so, more details have come to me and each one is a treasure unto itself.
But the new memories, the ones about which I haven't consciously sought to think, deal with the moment in the restaurant and the agonizing hours that followed. I can see the light and life in Karen's eyes, which still brings a smile to my face, but then struggle to reconcile that with how it instantaneously went away. My mind lets loose a torrent of images, it floods me with the sights and sounds of my life crashing to pieces around. They do not come about from any discernible trigger, but rather out of nowhere and caused by nothing. (An experience I've heard described as "ambush grief," as if I needed any more.)
While the end of that day is blur to my thinking mind, my subconscious revives devastating facets of it. The loneliness of the waiting room at the hospital, despite having my entire family with me. The helplessness of not knowing what was happening, only to be replaced by the devastation of finding out. The unimaginable anguish of being brought to see Karen's body for the final time, followed later by unthinkable misery of holding James for the first and only time. The visions are disturbing in their clarity. Disturbing not because I want not to remember, but because when I see and recall them it brings me back to the utter incomprehensibility of what happened. In turn my emotions range from dispar, to anger, to numbness.
At some point during the week of the funeral I spoke with Rabbi Bachman, telling him that dispite my despondenence I sensed I had not yet reached my emotioal nadir. I was petrified at the contemplation of the days, months, and years to come. The resurgence of these memories and the emotions they produce confirm the fear I had, and yet I still feel I have not yet reached the bottom.
As I've said to so many in person and online, I continue to put one foot in front of the other and take it one day at a time...what other choice do I have? But I can not conceive of how to even do this without the continued love and support of my family and friends.
At first I had wanted to try and remember all I could in an effort to recall each and every sensation of our last moments together. I tried to remember our exact words, precise actions, and every other specific instances of our final 24 hours together. I recalled my birthday the day before and all we did. How we went to bed, as we always did, in each other's arms after another amazing day spent together. I've often thought of the lazy morning we spent, having coffee, watching some TV, and lounging on the sofa before heading to my mom's for brunch. I've concentrated on the rest of the day, until the moment in the restaurant, to remember as many of the details as possible. In doing so, more details have come to me and each one is a treasure unto itself.
But the new memories, the ones about which I haven't consciously sought to think, deal with the moment in the restaurant and the agonizing hours that followed. I can see the light and life in Karen's eyes, which still brings a smile to my face, but then struggle to reconcile that with how it instantaneously went away. My mind lets loose a torrent of images, it floods me with the sights and sounds of my life crashing to pieces around. They do not come about from any discernible trigger, but rather out of nowhere and caused by nothing. (An experience I've heard described as "ambush grief," as if I needed any more.)
While the end of that day is blur to my thinking mind, my subconscious revives devastating facets of it. The loneliness of the waiting room at the hospital, despite having my entire family with me. The helplessness of not knowing what was happening, only to be replaced by the devastation of finding out. The unimaginable anguish of being brought to see Karen's body for the final time, followed later by unthinkable misery of holding James for the first and only time. The visions are disturbing in their clarity. Disturbing not because I want not to remember, but because when I see and recall them it brings me back to the utter incomprehensibility of what happened. In turn my emotions range from dispar, to anger, to numbness.
At some point during the week of the funeral I spoke with Rabbi Bachman, telling him that dispite my despondenence I sensed I had not yet reached my emotioal nadir. I was petrified at the contemplation of the days, months, and years to come. The resurgence of these memories and the emotions they produce confirm the fear I had, and yet I still feel I have not yet reached the bottom.
As I've said to so many in person and online, I continue to put one foot in front of the other and take it one day at a time...what other choice do I have? But I can not conceive of how to even do this without the continued love and support of my family and friends.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
A Rejuvenative New Year
It has been a bit difficult for me to receive happy new year wishes over the last few days. More so I have rankled slightly every time someone adds something about how glad I must be for 2008 to have ended and that ahead in 2009 lies good things. Let me be clear, I know that each and everyone who says this does so with the absolute best intention and sincerity. The simple act of reaching out to me remains one of the most comforting things and I relish all such contact.
No doubt, 2008 was a roller coaster ride the likes of which I doubt many people ever see let alone live. Over the past 12 months I became a divorcee, engaged, remarried, and a widower. I also became an expectant father, only to bury my son with in my new wife's arms. On a more pedestrian level, I moved into a new apartment and changed jobs. I am not sure there are any other life events or stress causes that I could have experienced. Given the way the year ended it is easy to see why one would assume I am glad to see the calendar change. However, for me 2008 remains the undisputed BEST ten and half months of my life. Because it ended with the absolute worst month and half does not negate the majority of it. Nor can I let it.
The other part of the new year messages that I've been getting has been a hope that 2009 brings better times, peace, and happiness. Again a good and well meaning sentiment, but one that rings a bit hollow in my ears at times. As much as I appreciate the support intended in it, all I can think about is that the change of the calendar, much like any amount of grieving and progress through it, will never result in my having her or my son back again. It is, therefore, so very difficult at this point to imagine how happiness will come merely with a new year. Perhaps the pain and sadness will begin to subside some and I will even have good moments, but happiness? No. That is not something I can conceivably see on my 2009 horizon. Just as the life I knew is no longer and needs to be made anew, so too do I need to reestablish and rediscover what happiness means.
So what do I hope for in the new year? That it be a rejunetive one or more precisely that it continues the healing process. It is the best I feel I can look forward to. I recognize that I'm at the beginning of a long, long journey that I never imagined I would be embarking. However, just as I reflect back on the invisible hand that helped bring Karen and I together after nearly two decades, so is there forces beyond our comprehension that provide guidance during times of such overwhelming pain. Indeed it might be at just such times that it is most pronounced.
I hope that my comments here will in no way dissuade people from providing the messages of support that have helped me to this point. Despite the difficulties in hearing "happy new year" and other such words of affection, I remain very moved by them all. My only point of this was to let you know how I am feeling in as open and honest a way as possible.
So to you all I wish you a happy new year and a rejuvenative one for me.
* * *
I wanted to finish by passing along a song lyric that has been running through my mind quite a bit over the last few weeks. It sums up much of the feeling I've been having in the wake of Karen's and James' deaths. From Coldplay's "Viva La Vida," which roughly translates to "live the life":
One minute I held the key
Next the walls were closed on me
And I discovered that my castles stand
Upon pillars of salt and pillars of sand
No doubt, 2008 was a roller coaster ride the likes of which I doubt many people ever see let alone live. Over the past 12 months I became a divorcee, engaged, remarried, and a widower. I also became an expectant father, only to bury my son with in my new wife's arms. On a more pedestrian level, I moved into a new apartment and changed jobs. I am not sure there are any other life events or stress causes that I could have experienced. Given the way the year ended it is easy to see why one would assume I am glad to see the calendar change. However, for me 2008 remains the undisputed BEST ten and half months of my life. Because it ended with the absolute worst month and half does not negate the majority of it. Nor can I let it.
The other part of the new year messages that I've been getting has been a hope that 2009 brings better times, peace, and happiness. Again a good and well meaning sentiment, but one that rings a bit hollow in my ears at times. As much as I appreciate the support intended in it, all I can think about is that the change of the calendar, much like any amount of grieving and progress through it, will never result in my having her or my son back again. It is, therefore, so very difficult at this point to imagine how happiness will come merely with a new year. Perhaps the pain and sadness will begin to subside some and I will even have good moments, but happiness? No. That is not something I can conceivably see on my 2009 horizon. Just as the life I knew is no longer and needs to be made anew, so too do I need to reestablish and rediscover what happiness means.
So what do I hope for in the new year? That it be a rejunetive one or more precisely that it continues the healing process. It is the best I feel I can look forward to. I recognize that I'm at the beginning of a long, long journey that I never imagined I would be embarking. However, just as I reflect back on the invisible hand that helped bring Karen and I together after nearly two decades, so is there forces beyond our comprehension that provide guidance during times of such overwhelming pain. Indeed it might be at just such times that it is most pronounced.
I hope that my comments here will in no way dissuade people from providing the messages of support that have helped me to this point. Despite the difficulties in hearing "happy new year" and other such words of affection, I remain very moved by them all. My only point of this was to let you know how I am feeling in as open and honest a way as possible.
So to you all I wish you a happy new year and a rejuvenative one for me.
* * *
I wanted to finish by passing along a song lyric that has been running through my mind quite a bit over the last few weeks. It sums up much of the feeling I've been having in the wake of Karen's and James' deaths. From Coldplay's "Viva La Vida," which roughly translates to "live the life":
One minute I held the key
Next the walls were closed on me
And I discovered that my castles stand
Upon pillars of salt and pillars of sand
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
What happened?
It is the question that I and everyone else have been asking out loud and in our minds over and over again. As I said in my first post, the metaphysical answer to the question will never be known. Now, however, we know what was the medical cause of Karen's death. She had an undiagnosed condition called idiopathic dilated cardiomyopathy, which is an enlarging of her heart, that likely caused an arrhythmia and sudden heart failure. Her condition is termed as idiopathic because the medical examiner could not determine the origin of the dilated cardiomyopathy. What is certain is that it was not a result or associated with the pregnancy. In very rare instances pregnancy can bring on peripartum cardiomyopathy, but this was conclusively ruled out.
I'm not a doctor, but in my journey to understand what happened I've spoken to friends of mine that are and did quite a bit of independent reading online about what the condition is, its symptoms, treatments, prognosis, etc. Based on this, in my layman's understanding of cardiomyopathy, I know that it is very difficult to detect unless the doctors are looking specifically for it. It doesn't show up on an EKG and can usually only be spotted by undergoing an echocardiogram, but sometimes requires a cardiac catheterization. Symptoms for cardiomyopathy are vague - fatigue, shortness of breath, flu-like symptoms - and aren't something that would necessarily raise a concern if they presented in someone 6 1/2 months pregnant and was an elementary school teacher. Simply put, there was nothing to suggest she should be checked for the condition and no doctor she saw ever even voiced a concern. She was in all outward aspects, in great health. Karen ate healthfully, exercised regularly, and generally took care of her self. (Of course this is one of the things that makes the suddenness of her death so difficult to comprehend.)
Even if something did suggest to doctors that they check and detected it, there was little that could have been done, especially while she was pregnant. There are two ways to treat cardiomyopathy and neither are curative. The first treatment is to prescribe a combination of drugs, including angiotensin-converting enzyme (ACE) inhibitors and beta blockers, to reduce the symptoms and prevent additional damage to the heart. These drugs, however, are not prescribed to people when they are pregnant and women who may already be on ACEs and beta blockers are taken off the drugs when they become pregnant. The other treatment is a heart transplant, which naturally presents a whole host of new potential health concerns, not to mention isn't a procedure that would be considered for a patient when they're pregnant.
Moreover, had the cardiomyopathy been detected and a treatment available to her while she was pregnant, the prognosis tends not to be favorable. Despite undergoing the available treatments, she could have experienced the same sudden and untimely death. The difference would have been that Karen would have had to live her life considerably different; eschewing foods and experiences that provided her such great pleasure, and existing with an ever present fear of death by the knowledge of the condition. Without knowing, Karen lived on her terms and extracted everything possible from each day, experience, and adventure.
The medical examiner's report also confirmed what I saw, Karen died instantly and painlessly. Based on conversations I've had with people who know about the condition, it is likely that she felt only a flutter or odd heart beat, which would explain why she looked up at me, and then it was over. There was also nothing that could have been done to save her, even had she been sitting in a hospital when the arrhythmia hit. Her heart was, as one doctor explained it, a ticking time bomb that was going to fail, it was simply a matter of when and where. It could have happened a week earlier when we were at my dad's cabin, where it would have take EMTs up to 45 minutes to arrive, or 24 hours later, when she would have been in front of her 3rd grade class and I at my office. It was, therefore, the best possible way for the most horrible thing to happen.
While knowing the medical reason does precious little to alleviate the pain and grief I continue to suffer, it is of some comfort to know her death was in the fates and not caused by something done or not done. By her not knowing of the condition that she in all likelihood could not have been able to correct, Karen lived her short life to the fullest and didn't suffer at the end. It was, as she said that morning, the way to go.
* * *
In addition to speaking with friends of mine who are doctors, the following websites have provided me with some useful information on cardiomyopathy:
http://www.merck.com/mmhe/sec03/ch026/ch026b.html
http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/dilated-cardiomyopathy/DS01029
I'm not a doctor, but in my journey to understand what happened I've spoken to friends of mine that are and did quite a bit of independent reading online about what the condition is, its symptoms, treatments, prognosis, etc. Based on this, in my layman's understanding of cardiomyopathy, I know that it is very difficult to detect unless the doctors are looking specifically for it. It doesn't show up on an EKG and can usually only be spotted by undergoing an echocardiogram, but sometimes requires a cardiac catheterization. Symptoms for cardiomyopathy are vague - fatigue, shortness of breath, flu-like symptoms - and aren't something that would necessarily raise a concern if they presented in someone 6 1/2 months pregnant and was an elementary school teacher. Simply put, there was nothing to suggest she should be checked for the condition and no doctor she saw ever even voiced a concern. She was in all outward aspects, in great health. Karen ate healthfully, exercised regularly, and generally took care of her self. (Of course this is one of the things that makes the suddenness of her death so difficult to comprehend.)
Even if something did suggest to doctors that they check and detected it, there was little that could have been done, especially while she was pregnant. There are two ways to treat cardiomyopathy and neither are curative. The first treatment is to prescribe a combination of drugs, including angiotensin-converting enzyme (ACE) inhibitors and beta blockers, to reduce the symptoms and prevent additional damage to the heart. These drugs, however, are not prescribed to people when they are pregnant and women who may already be on ACEs and beta blockers are taken off the drugs when they become pregnant. The other treatment is a heart transplant, which naturally presents a whole host of new potential health concerns, not to mention isn't a procedure that would be considered for a patient when they're pregnant.
Moreover, had the cardiomyopathy been detected and a treatment available to her while she was pregnant, the prognosis tends not to be favorable. Despite undergoing the available treatments, she could have experienced the same sudden and untimely death. The difference would have been that Karen would have had to live her life considerably different; eschewing foods and experiences that provided her such great pleasure, and existing with an ever present fear of death by the knowledge of the condition. Without knowing, Karen lived on her terms and extracted everything possible from each day, experience, and adventure.
The medical examiner's report also confirmed what I saw, Karen died instantly and painlessly. Based on conversations I've had with people who know about the condition, it is likely that she felt only a flutter or odd heart beat, which would explain why she looked up at me, and then it was over. There was also nothing that could have been done to save her, even had she been sitting in a hospital when the arrhythmia hit. Her heart was, as one doctor explained it, a ticking time bomb that was going to fail, it was simply a matter of when and where. It could have happened a week earlier when we were at my dad's cabin, where it would have take EMTs up to 45 minutes to arrive, or 24 hours later, when she would have been in front of her 3rd grade class and I at my office. It was, therefore, the best possible way for the most horrible thing to happen.
While knowing the medical reason does precious little to alleviate the pain and grief I continue to suffer, it is of some comfort to know her death was in the fates and not caused by something done or not done. By her not knowing of the condition that she in all likelihood could not have been able to correct, Karen lived her short life to the fullest and didn't suffer at the end. It was, as she said that morning, the way to go.
* * *
In addition to speaking with friends of mine who are doctors, the following websites have provided me with some useful information on cardiomyopathy:
http://www.merck.com/mmhe/sec03/ch026/ch026b.html
http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/dilated-cardiomyopathy/DS01029
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Happy birthday my love
Today is Karen's birthday. She would have been 37. It was one of the many dates I dreaded when looking forward on the calendar - there are still many to come. We only had the chance to celebrate one birthday each, my 37th this year and her 36th last year (I shared by 36th birthday with the KLM in-flight crew on my way to The Hague) . Far far too few, as with everything else about our lives together.
Rather than try and put into words the sadness of this day without her, I thought I would recount her birthday last year....
When December 23, 2007, rolled around Karen and I had been dating only for a couple of months. Everything was still so new and I wanted to do something special for her. There is a restaurant in Park Slope called Al Di La that gets written up consistently as being exceptional Italian food. Karen was a maven for Italian and had been wanting to try it. Indeed she had mentioned it several times as being on the list of places for us to go. I knew that Al Di La doesn't take reservations (nor does it take credit cards, fyi) so did not bother calling. My thought was that we'd wander down there and get on line with everyone else.
Well, imagine my surprise, and unhappiness, when we got to the corner of Carroll and 5th avenue only to discover that Al Di La goes dark for the week around Christmas. Sure, great thing for the staff to be able to spend the holiday season with their families, but at the time all I could think of was "Shit! Now what do I do?"
Here I was, still in the early stages of wooing Karen, the "it" girl from high school who I've somehow managed to get a second (or first) chance with, and we're standing on the corner in front of a closed restaurant on the night of her birthday. What a way to impress Mr. Fried.
Luckily just down the street is Blue Ribbon, another entry on Karen's list of places to go, although not as high up as Al Di La. Blue Ribbon is certainly a good place to eat, but I would not consider it a place for a "special" dinner such as this. However, beggars can't be choosers, and Karen was getting hungry. Off to Blue Ribbon it was, where we had an enjoyable meal.
That was what our relationship was about in a nutshell; living by improvisation and embracing the notion of carpe deim. So when the planned (albeit, not appropriately so) restaurant fell through we just smiled, laughed, and went elsewhere. It wasn't the place that mattered, it was that we were there together. We had the same amount of joy whether we were driving to Tadoussac on our honeymoon or driving to Home Depot on a Saturday. It was that we were sitting next to each other, sharing the moment as one.
Such was how we celebrated her 36th birthday, together and that was all that mattered.
(It is worth noting that we later did go to Al Di La and Karen was underwhelmed by the food. She said it was good, but not worthy of the accolades in her opinion. I have to agree, it has been off the mark on the last times I've been and, while a solid meal, Brooklyn's restaurant scene has many more great places now.)
Rather than try and put into words the sadness of this day without her, I thought I would recount her birthday last year....
When December 23, 2007, rolled around Karen and I had been dating only for a couple of months. Everything was still so new and I wanted to do something special for her. There is a restaurant in Park Slope called Al Di La that gets written up consistently as being exceptional Italian food. Karen was a maven for Italian and had been wanting to try it. Indeed she had mentioned it several times as being on the list of places for us to go. I knew that Al Di La doesn't take reservations (nor does it take credit cards, fyi) so did not bother calling. My thought was that we'd wander down there and get on line with everyone else.
Well, imagine my surprise, and unhappiness, when we got to the corner of Carroll and 5th avenue only to discover that Al Di La goes dark for the week around Christmas. Sure, great thing for the staff to be able to spend the holiday season with their families, but at the time all I could think of was "Shit! Now what do I do?"
Here I was, still in the early stages of wooing Karen, the "it" girl from high school who I've somehow managed to get a second (or first) chance with, and we're standing on the corner in front of a closed restaurant on the night of her birthday. What a way to impress Mr. Fried.
Luckily just down the street is Blue Ribbon, another entry on Karen's list of places to go, although not as high up as Al Di La. Blue Ribbon is certainly a good place to eat, but I would not consider it a place for a "special" dinner such as this. However, beggars can't be choosers, and Karen was getting hungry. Off to Blue Ribbon it was, where we had an enjoyable meal.
That was what our relationship was about in a nutshell; living by improvisation and embracing the notion of carpe deim. So when the planned (albeit, not appropriately so) restaurant fell through we just smiled, laughed, and went elsewhere. It wasn't the place that mattered, it was that we were there together. We had the same amount of joy whether we were driving to Tadoussac on our honeymoon or driving to Home Depot on a Saturday. It was that we were sitting next to each other, sharing the moment as one.
Such was how we celebrated her 36th birthday, together and that was all that mattered.
(It is worth noting that we later did go to Al Di La and Karen was underwhelmed by the food. She said it was good, but not worthy of the accolades in her opinion. I have to agree, it has been off the mark on the last times I've been and, while a solid meal, Brooklyn's restaurant scene has many more great places now.)
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Angels in the Architecture
Karen is still with me, around me, accompanying me, watching me. I know it sounds strange, maybe a little too mystical, but I’m convinced of it. I’m not necessarily talking in the Whoppie Goldberg and Patrick Swayze type of presence, but she’s with me. Let me try to explain by just telling you of the things I’ve experienced since she died…
Karen’s funeral was on November 19. The outpouring of love for Karen and support for me, my family, and Karen’s family was evident by the number of people who can to remember her. The best estimate was around 700 people in attendance, a truly amazing image.
After the funeral we went to the cemetery. The burial was a blur of cold, Kaddish, tears, shovels, grass, and more tears. Toward the end, as Jeffery, Karen’s brother, and others completed filling in the grave, I wandered away from the crowd, the first moment in three days that I was awake and without a friend or family member in immediate contact with me. Where Karen is buried there are no headstones, only plaques in the ground, giving the area a feeling of a park rather than a cemetery. If such a place where a loved one is buried far, far too early could ever have a positive feeling, it comes as close as I can imagine.
About 50 yards from her grave (she is buried with her maternal grandparents), I was moved to sit on the ground. In a half lotus I closed my eyes, slowed my breathing and began thinking. My thoughts turned to words and I found myself speaking to her out loud. It was cold, indeed I was only moments earlier shivering, but as I sat there thinking and talking to her I felt a warmness wash over me. I removed my winter cap and nearly took off my jacket – I was actually that warm – until something, someone reminded me that it was still borderline-hypothermic temperatures.
After some time I stood with my palms at heart center, and felt more and more calm. The only sounds around me was the hum of the traffic in the distance and the faint scraping of shovels filling the last of the earth into her grave, there wasn’t a single animal or other sound of nature the entire time we were there or during the whole day up until then. I said that this place was beautiful, that is was serene, that she would be at peace her and asked if she was. At that very moment, from out of no where, an enormous flock of geese flew directly over me, honking as they flew south. As quickly as they appeared, they disappeared over the trees and the area once more returned to silence broken only by the sounds of man in the distance, not another single bird or other sign of nature. I had the answer to my question.
That was one event, but there would be more.
Two days later, Friday, I went for a walk in Prospect Park with my brother and sister-in-law. We wandered for some time talking about all aspects of what had happened. The conversation turned to what my plans might be for the future. I was explaining how I thought it was now time for me to reevaluate and reconsider what I was doing, and how part of that process might need me to be away from my current job for a little while. I was saying how I needed to do this not just for me but for Karen’s memory because it was something we had spoken about on occasion, and was about to say that this decision couldn’t be dependant on money since I was convinced that would find a way to take care of itself. At that moment, I looked down on the ground and directly at my feel was a twenty dollar bill. The only person we had seen anywhere near the area was a bicyclist who was riding on the opposite side of the road. Literally there was no one around.
I bent down and picked up the bill and looked to both my brother and sister-in-law. Before either of us could say anything, I noticed another twenty several feet past the first. As I picked that one up I saw another bill, then another, then another, then another. In all there were six twenties in a line laid out before me on the Prospect Park drive. We all had chills, and not because of the weather. When I got back to my mother’s house I mentioned the money to my mother’s friend who immediately said “120 is a good number in Judaism.” I had not idea why so she explained to me that Moses lived for 120 years and it is widely said as a wish for one’s good luck that someone should “live to the age of 120.” The chills returned.
Finally, that night we all went to Shabbat services. As we walked in the ushers were handing out prayer books from the several stacks at the front door. I took the one handed to me and headed for the pew. I sat and opened the book, many of which have a dedication sticker affixed to the inside cover. On this book I read the sticker, re-read it, and read it once more. The sticker said…
“This book is dedicated in honor of Jonathan Fried and Andrew Fried by their mother Janice Cimberg.’
I froze. There must be 700 or 800 prayer books at Congregation Beth Elohim and, on the first Shabbat after burying my wife, my true love, and my soul mate, I’m handed the one dedicated by my mother to me? In stunned silence I showed it to all my family and friends with me. We all looked at each other with the same look. Karen was with me.
Three examples, there have been more, but these three were the ones I keep coming back to again and again. Sure there are some who will say people going through what I am look for and often find the proverbial Angels in the architecture. If it was just a single event I would likely agree. But these were just too poignant for me to ignore as that. No, these events portend something else to me. They say that Karen is indeed with me, she is following me, and she is watching out for me. And her presence gives me some comfort.
Karen’s funeral was on November 19. The outpouring of love for Karen and support for me, my family, and Karen’s family was evident by the number of people who can to remember her. The best estimate was around 700 people in attendance, a truly amazing image.
After the funeral we went to the cemetery. The burial was a blur of cold, Kaddish, tears, shovels, grass, and more tears. Toward the end, as Jeffery, Karen’s brother, and others completed filling in the grave, I wandered away from the crowd, the first moment in three days that I was awake and without a friend or family member in immediate contact with me. Where Karen is buried there are no headstones, only plaques in the ground, giving the area a feeling of a park rather than a cemetery. If such a place where a loved one is buried far, far too early could ever have a positive feeling, it comes as close as I can imagine.
About 50 yards from her grave (she is buried with her maternal grandparents), I was moved to sit on the ground. In a half lotus I closed my eyes, slowed my breathing and began thinking. My thoughts turned to words and I found myself speaking to her out loud. It was cold, indeed I was only moments earlier shivering, but as I sat there thinking and talking to her I felt a warmness wash over me. I removed my winter cap and nearly took off my jacket – I was actually that warm – until something, someone reminded me that it was still borderline-hypothermic temperatures.
After some time I stood with my palms at heart center, and felt more and more calm. The only sounds around me was the hum of the traffic in the distance and the faint scraping of shovels filling the last of the earth into her grave, there wasn’t a single animal or other sound of nature the entire time we were there or during the whole day up until then. I said that this place was beautiful, that is was serene, that she would be at peace her and asked if she was. At that very moment, from out of no where, an enormous flock of geese flew directly over me, honking as they flew south. As quickly as they appeared, they disappeared over the trees and the area once more returned to silence broken only by the sounds of man in the distance, not another single bird or other sign of nature. I had the answer to my question.
That was one event, but there would be more.
Two days later, Friday, I went for a walk in Prospect Park with my brother and sister-in-law. We wandered for some time talking about all aspects of what had happened. The conversation turned to what my plans might be for the future. I was explaining how I thought it was now time for me to reevaluate and reconsider what I was doing, and how part of that process might need me to be away from my current job for a little while. I was saying how I needed to do this not just for me but for Karen’s memory because it was something we had spoken about on occasion, and was about to say that this decision couldn’t be dependant on money since I was convinced that would find a way to take care of itself. At that moment, I looked down on the ground and directly at my feel was a twenty dollar bill. The only person we had seen anywhere near the area was a bicyclist who was riding on the opposite side of the road. Literally there was no one around.
I bent down and picked up the bill and looked to both my brother and sister-in-law. Before either of us could say anything, I noticed another twenty several feet past the first. As I picked that one up I saw another bill, then another, then another, then another. In all there were six twenties in a line laid out before me on the Prospect Park drive. We all had chills, and not because of the weather. When I got back to my mother’s house I mentioned the money to my mother’s friend who immediately said “120 is a good number in Judaism.” I had not idea why so she explained to me that Moses lived for 120 years and it is widely said as a wish for one’s good luck that someone should “live to the age of 120.” The chills returned.
Finally, that night we all went to Shabbat services. As we walked in the ushers were handing out prayer books from the several stacks at the front door. I took the one handed to me and headed for the pew. I sat and opened the book, many of which have a dedication sticker affixed to the inside cover. On this book I read the sticker, re-read it, and read it once more. The sticker said…
“This book is dedicated in honor of Jonathan Fried and Andrew Fried by their mother Janice Cimberg.’
I froze. There must be 700 or 800 prayer books at Congregation Beth Elohim and, on the first Shabbat after burying my wife, my true love, and my soul mate, I’m handed the one dedicated by my mother to me? In stunned silence I showed it to all my family and friends with me. We all looked at each other with the same look. Karen was with me.
Three examples, there have been more, but these three were the ones I keep coming back to again and again. Sure there are some who will say people going through what I am look for and often find the proverbial Angels in the architecture. If it was just a single event I would likely agree. But these were just too poignant for me to ignore as that. No, these events portend something else to me. They say that Karen is indeed with me, she is following me, and she is watching out for me. And her presence gives me some comfort.
Monday, December 1, 2008
The life I knew and its shattering
Many of you know most of this story already, but for those of you who may not or may not know everything about my relationship with Karen - how we met, got engaged, lived, etc. - I wanted to put it all out there, as well as what happened that tragic day two and a half weeks ago, so that those who might not have met her or only met her briefly can know. (Sorry in advance for the length....)
Karen and I met in 8th grade back in 1984. It was a private school in Brooklyn that went from pre-K through high school and we were friendly through high school, as most of us were given the size of the school and our class, but we never dated. Although I did have a crush on her and even volunteered to help with the girls varsity basketball team because she was on it, we never dated.
We graduated in 1989 and went off to college; her to Tulane and me to the University of Arizona. We all but lost touch with each other, although our paths crossed momentarily after three years of college when I dropped out and moved to New Orleans for a few months. Neither of us remember seeing each other while I was there (she was in her senior year), but I somehow had her phone number in my address book from that time. That was around 1993 and we had no other contact after until last year.
One day last Spring I decided to search MySpace for people from my high school class. I found five old friends, Karen was one of them, and emailed them all. She and I exchanged a few brief emails, as you might expect from two people who knew each other a bit but had fallen completely out of touch for nearly two decades, but nothing more for several months. Then, in late September, we made plans to meet for a drink after work. The drink turned into an evening of talking, reminiscing, laughing (something I hadn't done much of recently due to my previous marriage ending in divorce), wandering around the neighborhood, enjoying each other's company, and starting to fall in love with each other. The night ended with us kissing goodbye. There was no "wait a few days before calling" and we started seeing each other all the time. She too had a first marriage end in divorce, but there were so many other things that caused our instant connection. My friends and family soon started remarking how the Andrew they "used to know" was back, laughing, smiling, and enjoying life.
In May of this year we went back to our high school for the annual alumni luncheon. It was our 19th reunion, nothing so special, but we both had friends in the class year above and wanted to see them. We had an amazing time and people were wowed by us as a couple. That night, early morning of May 4, we were at a club in the city with some friends when, without a ring or otherwise preparing, I knelt on the floor in front of her and asked her to marry me. She agreed immediately.
That week, we discussed wanting children and decided - because we were both 36 and have friends who are have had/are having difficulties getting pregnant - to start trying. To our surprise and joy, she was pregnant almost immediately. We held the news as long as we could, but almost everyone we knew that she was about three months pregnant when she walked down the aisle at our wedding on August 17.
Our life was going amazingly, like a dream come true. We spent days together and never argued. We kissed constantly and couldn't spend enough time with each other. We laughed, loved, and talked about our future, including our expectant child. With each visit to the doctor we saw out son grow, even watching him yawn at one sonogram appointment, and Karen was absolutely LOVING being pregnant.
On November 15, my 37th birthday, Karen took me to a matinée of Speed the Plow and then dinner at Aquvit in Manhattan. It was a perfect evening. The next morning began as a normal Sunday. We relaxed for a little while, read the newspaper, and then went to my mother's apartment to meet up with the family and say hi. We had a little brunch and then went for a walk in our neighborhood. We had dinner reservations for later that evening with my mother, brother, and sister-in-law, but at around 2 we decided to grab a bite because Karen needed to eat regularly through the day due to the pregnancy. There is a little Columbian restaurant we'd passed many times and always wanted to try. We decided this was the day for it. We shared a few small dishes and it was wonderful. Karen enjoyed eating, whether it was haute cuisine, like the night before, or just really great down home cooking, like Cafe Bogota. At the end of the meal, when the waiter brought the check, he also brought a comment/mailing list card. Karen remarked how much she liked the meal - rating it a 10 - and asked the waiter for a pen to filling out the card. This is when my life went from a dream to an unimaginable nightmare.
Karen had just begun writing when she suddenly stopped, sat bolt-upright, and looked at me with wide open eyes. I thought she was goofing around and asked what was wrong. She said nothing, but kept her eyes fixed straight ahead and slumped forward onto the table. I immediately knew something was wrong and got up and went to her side. I took her head from the table and pulled her to me. Her eyes were still wide open and unresponsive as she slide lower into the chair. I began to scream for help as she fell against me, out of her chair, and onto the floor with me. I continued to yell for help as people came to assist and began dialing 9-1-1. She was not breathing, nor was she struggling or moving at all as she lay on the floor. The first police officers arrived within a matter of minutes, with fire fighters and EMTs immediately following. I was ushered out of the restaurant by the police officers as I heard someone call for a defibrillator. My world was tumbling out of control.
Time stood still and accelerated all at once. I sat on the sidewalk with two of the police officers as the EMTs continued working inside and was asked questions intermittently - was she on any medication, any medical history, etc. - but could not get any information in return. This was obviously frustrating at the time, but in hindsight I understand that the attention was on rendering aide to Karen and not to answering my questions. I was then led to a police car and driven to the hospital. The ensuing minutes/hours are a blur. I was ushered into a quiet room with my entire family, who had been called by a bystander who took my cellphone and asked if there was anyone she could contact for me. Doctors initially came in to say Karen was being worked on still and that James, our son, had been delivered by emergency cesarean section and taken to the NICU. They had no word on either one's condition.
A short time later the doctors returned, accompanied by the hospital chaplain, and told me that Karen could not be revived, never regained consciousness, and was dead. My life shattered as those words were spoke. I fell to the floor in agony. Every muscle and fiber of my body crying out in pain. Even now I can feel my chest constrict from the memory as I type.
My nadir was yet to be reached. After a little more time passed the doctors came once more to tell me that although they were able to get a pulse from James (with the aide of medication), he could not be saved and died as well. The world's collapse around me was complete.
My family, each one feeling their own devastating grief, surrounded and supported me. They had all found such happiness and joy in Karen, as an individual and not just the woman who meant everything to me, and she had become an immediate and adored member of my family.
I was then taken to see Karen one last time and then upstairs to see and hold my son for the first and only time - I never held him while he was alive. As many of you I am sure know, to try and put into words what I was feeling is an impossibility. It is a devastation that literally transcends comprehension.
It is still impossible for me to believe what has happened; the horror of the day plays over again and again in my head. An autopsy revealed no evident cause of death, i.e., it was not a brain aneurysm, blood clot, etc. The medical examiner is continuing its evaluation, but it could be weeks until more is known, if ever. Indeed I am accepting the very real possibility that a medical explanation for what happened might never be known, just as there is no knowing what the metaphysical explanation is. This reality is bearable only because I was with her when it happened and can assuage my pain with what I saw for myself in that horrible moment. I am 100% certain that she died instantly at the moment she looked at me and before slumping to the table. She didn't struggle for breath or show other signs that she was in pain. It was, as she said as recently as that morning when we saw the end of the Godfather where Marlon Brando has a heart attack while playing with his grandson, the way to go -- quickly and doing something you loved. In this case, Karen was with me, across the table from me, having just finished a meal that she rated a 10 and described as "sublime."
It took 19 years for Karen and I to find each other again, we had 14 months together, three months of marriage, and an entire lifetime of plans. Two weeks ago today was the worst day of my life.
My joy - http://query.nytimes.com/gst/fullpage.html?res=9C00E6DB133DF934A2575BC0A96E9C8B63
My pain - http://www.legacy.com/NYTimes/DeathNotices.asp?Page=LifeStory&PersonID=120369709
Karen and I met in 8th grade back in 1984. It was a private school in Brooklyn that went from pre-K through high school and we were friendly through high school, as most of us were given the size of the school and our class, but we never dated. Although I did have a crush on her and even volunteered to help with the girls varsity basketball team because she was on it, we never dated.
We graduated in 1989 and went off to college; her to Tulane and me to the University of Arizona. We all but lost touch with each other, although our paths crossed momentarily after three years of college when I dropped out and moved to New Orleans for a few months. Neither of us remember seeing each other while I was there (she was in her senior year), but I somehow had her phone number in my address book from that time. That was around 1993 and we had no other contact after until last year.
One day last Spring I decided to search MySpace for people from my high school class. I found five old friends, Karen was one of them, and emailed them all. She and I exchanged a few brief emails, as you might expect from two people who knew each other a bit but had fallen completely out of touch for nearly two decades, but nothing more for several months. Then, in late September, we made plans to meet for a drink after work. The drink turned into an evening of talking, reminiscing, laughing (something I hadn't done much of recently due to my previous marriage ending in divorce), wandering around the neighborhood, enjoying each other's company, and starting to fall in love with each other. The night ended with us kissing goodbye. There was no "wait a few days before calling" and we started seeing each other all the time. She too had a first marriage end in divorce, but there were so many other things that caused our instant connection. My friends and family soon started remarking how the Andrew they "used to know" was back, laughing, smiling, and enjoying life.
In May of this year we went back to our high school for the annual alumni luncheon. It was our 19th reunion, nothing so special, but we both had friends in the class year above and wanted to see them. We had an amazing time and people were wowed by us as a couple. That night, early morning of May 4, we were at a club in the city with some friends when, without a ring or otherwise preparing, I knelt on the floor in front of her and asked her to marry me. She agreed immediately.
That week, we discussed wanting children and decided - because we were both 36 and have friends who are have had/are having difficulties getting pregnant - to start trying. To our surprise and joy, she was pregnant almost immediately. We held the news as long as we could, but almost everyone we knew that she was about three months pregnant when she walked down the aisle at our wedding on August 17.
Our life was going amazingly, like a dream come true. We spent days together and never argued. We kissed constantly and couldn't spend enough time with each other. We laughed, loved, and talked about our future, including our expectant child. With each visit to the doctor we saw out son grow, even watching him yawn at one sonogram appointment, and Karen was absolutely LOVING being pregnant.
On November 15, my 37th birthday, Karen took me to a matinée of Speed the Plow and then dinner at Aquvit in Manhattan. It was a perfect evening. The next morning began as a normal Sunday. We relaxed for a little while, read the newspaper, and then went to my mother's apartment to meet up with the family and say hi. We had a little brunch and then went for a walk in our neighborhood. We had dinner reservations for later that evening with my mother, brother, and sister-in-law, but at around 2 we decided to grab a bite because Karen needed to eat regularly through the day due to the pregnancy. There is a little Columbian restaurant we'd passed many times and always wanted to try. We decided this was the day for it. We shared a few small dishes and it was wonderful. Karen enjoyed eating, whether it was haute cuisine, like the night before, or just really great down home cooking, like Cafe Bogota. At the end of the meal, when the waiter brought the check, he also brought a comment/mailing list card. Karen remarked how much she liked the meal - rating it a 10 - and asked the waiter for a pen to filling out the card. This is when my life went from a dream to an unimaginable nightmare.
Karen had just begun writing when she suddenly stopped, sat bolt-upright, and looked at me with wide open eyes. I thought she was goofing around and asked what was wrong. She said nothing, but kept her eyes fixed straight ahead and slumped forward onto the table. I immediately knew something was wrong and got up and went to her side. I took her head from the table and pulled her to me. Her eyes were still wide open and unresponsive as she slide lower into the chair. I began to scream for help as she fell against me, out of her chair, and onto the floor with me. I continued to yell for help as people came to assist and began dialing 9-1-1. She was not breathing, nor was she struggling or moving at all as she lay on the floor. The first police officers arrived within a matter of minutes, with fire fighters and EMTs immediately following. I was ushered out of the restaurant by the police officers as I heard someone call for a defibrillator. My world was tumbling out of control.
Time stood still and accelerated all at once. I sat on the sidewalk with two of the police officers as the EMTs continued working inside and was asked questions intermittently - was she on any medication, any medical history, etc. - but could not get any information in return. This was obviously frustrating at the time, but in hindsight I understand that the attention was on rendering aide to Karen and not to answering my questions. I was then led to a police car and driven to the hospital. The ensuing minutes/hours are a blur. I was ushered into a quiet room with my entire family, who had been called by a bystander who took my cellphone and asked if there was anyone she could contact for me. Doctors initially came in to say Karen was being worked on still and that James, our son, had been delivered by emergency cesarean section and taken to the NICU. They had no word on either one's condition.
A short time later the doctors returned, accompanied by the hospital chaplain, and told me that Karen could not be revived, never regained consciousness, and was dead. My life shattered as those words were spoke. I fell to the floor in agony. Every muscle and fiber of my body crying out in pain. Even now I can feel my chest constrict from the memory as I type.
My nadir was yet to be reached. After a little more time passed the doctors came once more to tell me that although they were able to get a pulse from James (with the aide of medication), he could not be saved and died as well. The world's collapse around me was complete.
My family, each one feeling their own devastating grief, surrounded and supported me. They had all found such happiness and joy in Karen, as an individual and not just the woman who meant everything to me, and she had become an immediate and adored member of my family.
I was then taken to see Karen one last time and then upstairs to see and hold my son for the first and only time - I never held him while he was alive. As many of you I am sure know, to try and put into words what I was feeling is an impossibility. It is a devastation that literally transcends comprehension.
It is still impossible for me to believe what has happened; the horror of the day plays over again and again in my head. An autopsy revealed no evident cause of death, i.e., it was not a brain aneurysm, blood clot, etc. The medical examiner is continuing its evaluation, but it could be weeks until more is known, if ever. Indeed I am accepting the very real possibility that a medical explanation for what happened might never be known, just as there is no knowing what the metaphysical explanation is. This reality is bearable only because I was with her when it happened and can assuage my pain with what I saw for myself in that horrible moment. I am 100% certain that she died instantly at the moment she looked at me and before slumping to the table. She didn't struggle for breath or show other signs that she was in pain. It was, as she said as recently as that morning when we saw the end of the Godfather where Marlon Brando has a heart attack while playing with his grandson, the way to go -- quickly and doing something you loved. In this case, Karen was with me, across the table from me, having just finished a meal that she rated a 10 and described as "sublime."
It took 19 years for Karen and I to find each other again, we had 14 months together, three months of marriage, and an entire lifetime of plans. Two weeks ago today was the worst day of my life.
My joy - http://query.nytimes.com/gst/fullpage.html?res=9C00E6DB133DF934A2575BC0A96E9C8B63
My pain - http://www.legacy.com/NYTimes/DeathNotices.asp?Page=LifeStory&PersonID=120369709
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