Page 4 of Love Resurrected
I’ve failed her so completely. In our relationship, in life, and now near death. I promised her a cabin in the snow with a hot tub. Just for a weekend. I never delivered. She's never been in a hot tub in the snow. And she loves hot tubs. There is no better hot tub experience than one in the snow. I promised her that experience at the beginning of the year. Now here we are, in February, and she's dying, and I have yet to deliver. What kind of an asshole am I?
I never married her. Why the fuck did I never marry her? I never gave her that. It would have been so simple. I don’t know why we didn’t. All her friends did. We’d done everything else—joint accounts, shared responsibility, power of attorney, medical advocate.
She wore my ring. I wore hers. She was my wife in every way but the one that mattered. On paper. Never have I felt that loss more than now, when she is near passing.
* * *
I just want one more day. That’s all I ask. One day of clarity, to hold and kiss her. Hell, I don’t even have to kiss her. Just one day to hold her and talk to her and have her answer back. Just one more day. Please. It’s such a small request in the big scheme of things. I’ll settle for five minutes. Just let her open her fucking eyes and remember me. Look at me with recognition. I don’t even need a smile. Just one more moment to know I’m here. To give me a connection. I’m not ready. I can’t be without her yet. My life doesn’t work that way.
* * *
Thursday
It’s funny how you can know someone will die, and think you're prepared, then have it all go to shit when it happens. I prepped for today so many times in my mind. I planned exactly how it would go. What I would do. How I would react. Things I would say. Because I knew it was coming. I’ve known for years. Over four years.
Four years, two months, and five days.
One thousand, five hundred, and twenty-six days.
Thirty-six thousand, six hundred and twenty-four hours.
Two million one hundred and ninety-seven thousand four hundred and forty minutes.
One hundred and thirty-one million, eight hundred and forty-six thousand and four hundred seconds.
All to ready myself for the unthinkable. It’s a lot of fucking time. Filled with immeasurable options. And I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t ready. I failed again.
My only hope is if some sort of afterlife exists—whether that be heaven, paradise, Mecca—she’ll make fast friends, she always has. I can only hope that her body rejuvenates, and her brain forgets. May she never know the pain her passing brings me. God, please don’t let her know that I am destroyed. Or that I don’t think I can ever put myself back together again.
Every piece of me that ever lived has died along with her. Never to be resurrected again.
1
Brad
THREE YEARS LATER
“Where your kids?” Brianna asks.
“I don’t have any,” I say as I dig another post hole for Chance to fill with cement. I’m helping him build a swing set in the backyard for his three kids—the gruesome three-some, as Kat had called them. They were just under a year old when she passed. She wouldn’t even recognize the kids if she could see them now.
“Why?” Brianna asks.
“Because my baby mama died.”
“I sorry,” she says, patting me on the thigh. It’s kind of fucking cute. “Turtle died,” she continues.
“You had a turtle?” I ask.
“No.” She giggles.
“Oh.”
“Turtle is fish. Daddy flushed him like poo.”
“Oh.” That surprises me, though I’m not sure why other than I thought flushing fish was always some big parental secret kids were never to know about.
“Did you flush your baby’s mama?”
