I didn't get close enough

About 1 pm on the afternoon on February 3, I was in the apartment, minding my own business, having just put Michael down for a nap.

I think I had just put the finishing touches on a Legionary of Christ blog post, perhaps.

The phone rang. There was a woman's voice on the other end. I won't use her real name.

"My name is Jan," she said. "I am a nurse at _____ hospital. We have a patient brought in named Michael and we think there is an Amy associated with this patient, but we are not sure, and we want to know if it is you."

I hope not. I thought. Certainly not.

I said I didn't know. She didn't use last names. She told me they would like me to come in so I could ascertain that I was the Amy associated with this Michael. She wouldn't say what was wrong with him. She told me I really shouldn't bring my 4-year old.

"Is he alive?" I exploded.

"We just need you to come down here. Is there anyone who can come with you?"

No. We are relatively new here.  There's no one. I would have called the bishop, but he was out of town.

And so commenced the longest hour of my life, in which I had to wake Michael from his nap, drive to Katie's school, get her, try to explain to her what was going on, take them back to the apartment, then finally go to the hospital.

On the way, I called Christopher, my oldest who lives in Atlanta. He did not pick up, but I left a message telling him what was going on, what I feared and what I hoped, and told him to just start coming over.

(He did. He was here by 5)


During all of this time, I convinced myself that something, of course, had happened, but that Michael was alive. Because of privacy regulations and their uncertainty whether I was next of kin, they just couldn't tell me the details. I would go there - maybe he'd had a heart attack, maybe he was in serious condition, but he was certainly alive.

"He's alive" I kept repeating. "He's alive. He's alive. He's okay."

I parked, went in - all of which seemed to take hours as well, found the emergency room, got through...and then I knew.

I knew because there was no rush. There was no hurry. There was all the time in the world.

The nurse didn't want to tell me anything until the attending got there, but it was taking a long time, and I insisted, so, of course, she began.

"They did everything they could."

What does that feel like? I don't really know. It feels like nothing and it feels like everything.

The details of the next few minutes are not so important. People came in and explained things to me. I signed some things. Family calls would come later, when I was calmer and I could think through how to get the news to his parents in the most compassionate way possible, but I needed to call the bishop. He misunderstood me at first - he knew someone had died, but didn't understand who. Like everyone else, once he grasped it...shock.

(New readers are wondering why it took so long to find me, since he had collapsed around 8:30 at the YMCA. It's because he didn't have his identification with him in the exercise room, and he had just recently started working out there. They had to actually look at the security tape in the locker room to trace what locker he had gone to, but even then - he still had an Indiana driver's license...it took a long time for them to track me down.)

More explanations. More papers. All very kind and professional.



Then it was time to see him.

It was a big room. I assume where they had worked on him. Lots of space for machines and people to rush in and out.

And on the other end, about 15 feet away from where I stood at the door, there he was.

He looked as if he were sleeping, lightly covered by a blue sheet.

I could have sworn I saw the sheet move. He will wake up. We will joke about this. He will tell me all about whatever insanity and stupidity brought him here. We will go home.

But he didn't. He slept on.

And here's the thing.

I didn't get close to him.  I didn't go right up to him, touch him one last time, study him, say goodbye as I stood so near to him. I was in such a state - near hysteria - I refused. The nurse was so gently trying to encourage me to stay longer, to take my time, to get closer.

But I didn't. I was so scared. I think I thought - at whatever level I was thinking - that if I just got the hell out of there, it would all stop.

On another level, I was thinking, "I will see him again. In the funeral home." Not realizing, of course, that he would look completely different at that point.

And so I got no closer than 10 feet...incredulous...and left. Too soon, and from too much of a distance.

It is such a profound regret for me. Partly, I think, because my subconscious is playing tricks on me at this point. Because he did look like he was simply sleeping, I think that I am thinking he was actually still alive - although he had been declared gone for four hours by that time. But he did not look it, and I think I think that everything would have been different if I had just gone up and awakened him.

That maybe he needed me? And I could have helped him? But I didn't?

I am so, so, sorry.

But there is more, for this regret about this one moment has evolved into a metaphor for all kinds of other regrets.

For in a situation like this, no one is prepared to say good-bye. In any marriage, and especially in one in which two people get married in mid-life,which we did, with all kinds of history - there are petty irritations and frictions. When one of the parties (me) is an introverted only child, total spiritual and emotional intimacy with another person, no matter how deeply and fully you love, is a challenge.

And so in the weeks since, I have been overwhelmed with regrets. That I thought there would be time to continue to grow - and I was trying. I really was...but there wasn't that time.  That even as my walls were coming down,  I was getting more accepting, that the imagined irritations were getting less irritating...

Even so... I still didn't get close enough. I could have gotten closer. He was right there. But I held back. I was scared. I didn't know what would happen if I opened myself up beyond my comfort zone. I let pride and a need for control keep me from coming closer.

And now I am helpless to do anything about it. It is too freaking late.

I was at Mass the other day - daily Mass at the Cathedral - and it came to me, suddenly. "I need good news." I am desperate for Good News. The good news that even though I mess up, even though I hold back and close myself off and make a mess of the gift of life...all is not lost.  I need the Good News that in Jesus, it will - it is - all made right, that all are reconciled, that walls are broken, that I am forgiven by Michael and by God for the steps forward that I felt unable to take towards him on this earth, and  that in Christ now, Michael is living, perfectly known, accepted and loved in a way that neither I nor any other human being could know, accept or love him.  Perfectly.

- O Lord, make haste to help me