A Natalie Observed

Tag: mentalhealth

  • MuirWood

    Jeffrey’s last name is Muir, and mine is Wood. We were MuirWood. I loved and still love that. For his birthday in 2022, I bought Jeffrey a custom blue neon sign that said Muir Wood. It hangs now in our living room on a gallery wall of artwork we both collected. We talked about eloping in Muir Woods as a way to commemorate our pairing in a space that, while we had never been there together, would feel so natural to who we both were. Redwoods, clean air, warm spring. A beginning marked with the hope of a season blossoming and the wisdom of nature. I do not know what I will do with the MuirWood sign at the end of this month when I make it back to my apartment to pack and move. Where does one put a sign that represents all your dreams disappearing? Under a bed? In the back of a closet? The trash? Hanging it feels impossible, a painful reminder of what will never be. Not keeping it feels like a betrayal.

    When Jeffrey entered the hospital, I started a group text with his sister, his brother, and his father. I called it “MuirsWood” because there are three of them and only one of me. It felt poetic and honoring while also being accurate. Today, Jeffrey’s father reminded us it has been two months since we handed Jeffrey over to the organ retrieval team. With the reminder, I wanted to remember what happened in those few days. I do this a lot since I have been back in Chico – I go read every post I made from that week so I can revisit what I experienced. Every time I go back to remember or attempt to document the timeline of what happened in the hours and days after finding Jeffrey, I get stuck as I uncover a new piece to process. Today is no different. As I read the Facebook posts now, I am struck by the time lapse of what was happening before Jeffrey died.

    For context, if you were to look at my Facebook timeline (which is private), you would see the two updates below, one after the other.

    I do not understand how I could go from such a relief for surviving Election week as a therapist, to finding Jeffrey on the floor and everything I am dealing with since. The juxtaposition of those two experiences existing in the same 20 hours, let alone the same universe feels astonishing.

    It also strikes me as I look at these posts that I thought on Saturday, November 9th, I would potentially have weeks with Jeffrey. The news I last had is there is going to be a lot of waiting in the weeks ahead. I know that is because the neurologist team told me on Saturday morning we had to keep waiting to see, that miracles happen, that we do not know enough about what the brain is capable of. I also know I could not believe what my instinct knew was true because it was too inconceivable. His last words flash in my brain again. I love you cutie.

    I have talked about knowing in my body Jeffrey was gone when I found him, and I do still trust I knew that. But I could not listen to my instinct in the aftermath of finding Jeffrey. Experts were the 9-1-1 operators talking me through CPR for the 8 minutes it took the first responders to arrive. Experts were the paramedics who spent 5 minutes alternating between CPR and defibrillation in an attempt to bring back a asystole pulse. Experts were the ER nurses who pumped him full of medicines to stabilize his body. Experts were the ER doctors who cooled his body down to 91 degrees (or was it 89?) to minimize the stress as Jeffrey’s brain tried to stop swelling and connect to his heart. What do my instincts know about what science and medicine can do for our bodies? Absolutely nothing.

    I do not know how it has been two months since we gave Jeffrey to the organ donation team. I just spent two hours trying to explain in this post that I do not understand how on a Thursday night, I was a therapist who survived Election Week and 20 hours later I was a fiancé performing CPR on her partner. 20 hours separate before and after as documented on social media. I will end this post as I suspect I will be ending many posts:

    What the fuck?

  • A Bike Ride

    Somewhere in the twilight where awake meets sleep, I dreamt of planning a bike ride with you. I imagined talking to you about it being 70 degrees on Thursday and how we should take advantage of that and go for a bike ride to the park. We could bring Dottie in the backpack and some snacks from PCC. As quickly as I envisioned the warmth of the sun and the cool feeling of the earth beneath us, I realized you were not here to actually go on the ride. That it will be 70 degrees in Chico, not in Seattle. That I am now in a totally different world than I was. The sense memory of crisp air on my face as we rode bikes down the Burke and the look of serenity in your smile as you pedaled down the path faded. My eyes jolted open, and I immediately pulled Dottie closer. Tears did not fall as I lay contemplating how silly it felt to plan a day with you when you are not here anymore. I checked the time. 12:23am. Great – it was going to be a long night if this was how it started.

    As I reflect on this now, I find it interesting tears did not and are not falling. Why is that? Tears shed from my body with any sort of focus on how much I miss you, a river forcing itself through the damn. But not now with the sense-memory of planning a day with you? I think I feel relief to still know you are there somewhere. That I can feel you even though you left me. Whether planned or not, a detail I can never know, you did leave me. That part, the leaving, feels so clear.

    This is the first time I have felt like writing to you or telling you how I feel about what is happening in my life. I wish you were here, and I am furious that you are not. I am so angry you could not manage your life more effectively, that trauma, neurodivergence, mental illness and a society that closes doors to discomfort prevented you from learning to manage your life. You, the smartest man I will ever know, could not see a pathway out. I am devastated I cannot talk to you about it. That you cannot reassure me yourself you did not drink as much as you did on purpose. I cannot live in the story where you killed yourself because that story is too fucking sad. You promised me you would not leave me in that way, that you would not end your life and, even if you had to break that promise, I just do not think you would have drunk yourself to death on purpose. That feels too messy and sloppy. I do not think you would have let me find you in that position, aspirated on your vomit and not breathing. You would not want to burden me that way. I know if love were enough, you would still be here. I know this is not my fault. Yet, knowing this does not change the shape of my anger and that you are not here. The only person I want reassurance from cannot provide it. Sitting in that reality is what causes tears to fall. They are falling now in hot globs down my face. I need your hug, your hands on my face, your words. Your beautiful words.

    I found you on our dining room floor 61 days ago. My body knew when I found you that the text you sent that morning was the last time you would speak to me. “I love you cutie.” For the past few weeks, my entire body aches all the time. I am storing grief in my hips and the pain leads to restless sleep. I wake up a lot and wish I could reach across the expanse of our bed and grab your hand as I used to. Instead, I hit play on another round of Gilmore Girls or How I Met Your Mother and avoid wondering about when I will sleep again. As if there is any way to know.