The Widow

I am not a widow in the true sense but it is far simpler to use that term than explaining the cold, hard truth to those I encounter.

For me, my widowhood is a very real concept. I look into the eyes of the stranger before me; a man I know no better today than when he was first delivered by an ambulance crew to my doorstep some ten years ago; and that in spite of the daily mechanics of feeding, washing, applying creams and dressings and the handover of medicines strong enough to kill –





I have a very clear memory of the moment my husband died. It is as firmly etched in my mind as the moment he first held me in his arms; the first kiss; the first time we gave ourselves each to the other; our wedding day; the births of our two beautiful daughters. Yet this person before me has stolen that memory; stolen my grief; stolen the fatherhood of my children. Should I weep when this man leaves the earth, they will be tears for the unlived years; tears for a man I lost so long ago I can barely remember how he looked, the sound of his voice, his scent. I try so hard to remember. Memories are all I have left. Yet the harder I try the more I just see the cold, sterile, hollowed heart before me.


It was a beautiful day by all counts. The entire autumn had been a mild one, as I remember – or was it simply that I had spent it entirely imprisoned within the confines of a hospital? Regardless, this particular Thursday was warm, the autumn sunshine beaming directly through his window casting eerie shadows of the life-prolonging machines surrounding him across the floor beyond his own ICU bay, poking fun at the taped lines which were intended to hold back detritus to keep a clear thoroughfare.

When I close my eyes, I can picture the idyllically set church in the near distance. I had watched the sun rise over the building on this particular morning; seen the haze around the surrounding fields and trees, yet the church sat bathed in a peculiar clarity; an orange glow seeming to emanate from rather than illuminate the building.

I had pondered at the time over whether this was a sign. We had often discussed renewing our marriage vows for our upcoming tenth wedding anniversary; where would be more fitting as a symbol to our status as forever a couple than the building I spent so many hours staring upon and from which I felt the strength of a Being I held such faith in reach out to hold my hand whenever alarms sounded or bad news was handed to me.

Having the thought re-emerge in the front of my mind, I figured to speak out much as to solidify my intentions. Perhaps I wanted my God to hear, perhaps this was to be my prayer, maybe I was hoping the words would seep into his consciousness causing one of those romantic afternoon TV-movie ‘wake-up’ moments; in truth, I often spoke out just to break the rhythm of the various beeps and tones from the many pieces of equipment; sometimes because my words brought a nurse to the bedside allowing me to feel human for just a moment or two as they made polite conversation whilst performing checks on machines and body.

I opened my mouth and started to speak but much as to cut me off came a range of alarms. First was the breathing monitor, I knew that one; it tells us that for the third consecutive breath the machine had to perform the full action rather than just starting the breath for him; next the monitor alerting that his blood pressure was dangerously low; then his blood saturation level no longer registering; then another sound I’d not heard before. Having spent so many hours over the weeks watching machines, being fed stats and details I knew what the numbers meant and as I stared at the machine watching them all change, I knew exactly what we could expect. Glancing towards the nurse, I noticed she had spotted me tracking the data; she switched off the monitor: “It’s better that we all focus on what we are doing.” I knew what she really meant. It didn’t need saying.

I had watched the process so many times before. Four people would approach; two to grab the ‘bagging’ equipment, a rubber pouch connected to a facemask which was used both to get his body breathing again and to push some the used air back into his body to bring up levels of some of the chemicals he was expelling rather than absorbing; the other two to turn him to his side, rolling him almost onto his front whilst the reviving was being done before returning him to his back. No-one could say why, but this roll-over was becoming the only way to revive him quickly enough during these attacks. Usually as the team approached someone would suggest I head to the family room, that they would fetch me later. No-one did. I wondered whether knowing the drill I should just go, but I couldn’t; I just stood and watched. I had seen this many times already and had in fact assisted in using the bag on a couple of occasions when staff were too busy with the other patients so to stay here wasn’t a big deal. As I watched, though, I looked into his eyes and saw something I had longed to see over the last four weeks: a moment of clarity; of recognition; of, dare I use the word, consciousness: then emptiness. For a fleeting moment he had fully returned to me; but I knew it was only a passing gesture. Now even the traces of his soul which had lain beneath the glaze of eyes in the deepest of sleeps were gone.

The nurse apologised very humbly; “we would have taken you out, but there just wasn’t time.” I tried to explain that I was supposed to be there; that I had to have seen what I did to understand it but he simply couldn’t grasp what I was saying; he just smiled sympathetically and offered to fetch me a cup of tea and check my blood pressure to be sure I and the child within hadn’t been traumatised by the event. His knowledge of the condition, of the medications, of the medical status quo gave him the facts; there was no way there had been any moment of consciousness; no clarity; the eyes couldn't even have opened so I didn't explain everything I had seen for fear that he might think my mind was at risk from spending my days sitting at the bedside.


When left alone again I called out in a whisper; not so much to the body before me rather to the air around it. “Goodbye! Watch over the kids, won’t you!”


And the mechanics continued; machines pumping air, beating out a rhythm of drugs and nourishment inputting at a constant rate, imitating a deadening heart as it continued to beat out its intentions, feigning hope, life and a future.