So here we are, the 10 year death anniversary just over one week away, and still, after all these years, I am left with holes in my memory about the last few weeks of life with Don Shepherd in it. I still don’t know if that is just how trauma works. I dont know if I will ever get those memories back. I don’t know why I cant picture or remember, still, anything that went on in our life in the couple of weeks before he left for work, collapsed, and died. Pieces of THAT day are still a blur too, but that’s understandable, since it was the worst day of my life, and Im guessing my body will always be in some state of trauma over it.
However, not being able to recall any last words we said the night before going to sleep, what we ate for dinner, what we talked about, if he seemed extra tired or just normal, did I fall asleep first and then him later or did we go to bed together that last night, did he proudly announce his usual nightly round of: “One kitty … two kitty… and a boo … everyone is safe”, or did he skip it that night because he fell asleep.
The answer to all of these lingering questions remains, a decade later, a resounding I DON’T KNOW.
And, yet, somehow, what I DO remember with loud color and at full volume and what sticks in my head, is what happened on THIS day, about a week and a half before his sudden death. For those of you sitting in the cheap seats who have been reading my blog for years, my apologies for you having to sit through this story again and again as I work it through my mind and heart each year. Apparently, there are many parts of this loss that my heart has able to process and many parts where Ive been able to forgive myself – for for whatever reason, this one remains stuck on giving me an unsettled feeling.
It was 4th of July in 2011 – just nine days before my husband would be randomly and forever dead.
We lived in New Jersey, on the Hudson River, just six minutes outside NYC. Our view of NYC was gorgeous, breathtaking, and New Years Eve and July 4th each year, hundreds of people would gather on our street to blocked traffic, to come and see the fireworks display. The best view was had by us – all you had to do was walk outside and cross the street and stand in the park. (sidenote that has nothing to do with this story but its just incredibly cool: its also the same park where the famous Arron Burr / Alexander Hamilton duel took place where Hamiton was killed in 1804).
Most years, friends would come to our place to watch the fireworks, but this year, for reasons I dont remember, nobody came over. We had been invited to my best friends house on Long Island (about an hour away) for a cookout, and we also had an invite from Don’s tennis friends / neighbors down the street to watch the fireworks from their rooftop apartment building. But that day, Don seemed tired and not wasnt interested in going to either of those invitations. Normally, Don was up for whatever I wanted to do. He was a VERY laid back person and just sort of went with the flow on most things. But on this day, he seemed interested only in spending time with our cats, strumming his guitar, and taking off and on naps. He was working two jobs, and I just assumed he was tired.
What I didnt think of in those days, in my naivete, was that maybe Don, an Air Force veteran who served in war time and almost never talked about it, just didnt like fireworks because maybe they were traumatic. Over the years, he had made a few off-handed comments about “not caring much” about fireworks, or expressing disinterest in them. When we would watch them with our friends, he seemed okay enough, but looking back now he was maybe a bit distant during the display or would find his way to the nearest dog of some stranger and put his focus on petting the dog during the fireworks. I remember one year in the giant crowd on our street, there was a young couple with a dog that looked terrified during the fireworks display. As I watched the display in the sky above with our friends, I looked over just a hundred feet away and there was Don, comforting the dog and speaking to the animal in a comforting and calming voice. Perhaps he was also comforting himself.
Whatever the case, in 2011, Don had little interest in seeing fireworks with me, and when I asked him if he wanted to attend either of the two invitations from friends we had received, he said with a shrug: “Nah, Boo. I’m kind of tired. I think I just wanna sit home and play some guitar tonight.” I was mildly upset, because I wanted to hang out with our friends, and I definitely wanted to go out and see fireworks. He said I should still go to Sarahs house, and he would be fine staying home alone. I half-heartedly agreed, but didnt feel right about going without him. Then, before I left, we had a conversation that went on way too long about how he didnt want to go outside and watch the fireworks with me. Instead of being understanding and letting it go, I persisted: “Really? You really wont walk across the street and look up at the sky with your wife at some fireworks? Thats too much to ask?” I was kind of a bitch about it. I had NO IDEA that his non-interest could have been due to PTSD, no idea about how some military and Veterans are affected by fireworks, no idea about any of that. Or maybe he was just really tired because maybe his heart was not working right and he didnt know he was just nine days away from a massive heart attack. Maybe this, maybe that. But whatever the case, I was not very compassionate that night, and I was acting selfish, and I still cant forgive myself. Don ALWAYS did whatever I wanted to do, and he was always up for anything, even if he didnt much care for it – if I wanted to do it, he was there. WHY didnt I recognize that in order for him to be saying no to going out and watching fireworks, that maybe something was wrong. Maybe something was off. Instead, I left things awkwardly that night, put one last nail in the coffin about “I cant believe you wont literally walk across the street with me and stare at the sky”, and drove over to Sarahs house , leaving him alone for the evening.
I should have stayed with him. I should have spent that time with him. I should have asked him what was really going on, and if there was anything I could do. I should have been a better wife, a better friend, a better human. Yes, Im beating myself up for it still, after all this time, but I cant help it. I think the reason this is my last memory of us before his death – is because I still cant forgive myself for how I acted. I want to go back and do better, but I cant, and it hurts like hell.
Don taught me about kindness and patience and empathy.
No matter what, he was always kind, patient, empathetic. Even that night, when I was not being very nice to him, he remained soft and understanding and again said gently but firmly: “Boo, Im just really not up for fireworks this year. Ive never been crazy about them, and I think this one time Id like to just stay home and play my music.”
Looking back, I think he was wanting to drown out the noise of the fireworks with his Aerosmith and his Steely Dan and his Zeppelin playing. But I was so stuck on the idea that he should watch the fireworks with me “because Im your wife and I want to watch them and you should take 20 minutes to come outside and watch them with me”, that I couldnt see his pain or his exhausted nature.
He did SO MUCH for me, all the time. The ONE time he asked me to be understanding for him, I just couldnt do it.
The next day and the next week, Im sure things were fine again and Im sure that we got along great and he had probably not even been upset about it, maybe. But I dont remember. I dont remember anything after that night. All I remember is having that argument/awkward dialogue, me leaving without him, and when I got back, he was asleep in bed. The next day after that are still a blur, even now, and then nine days later, he would be dead.
In my mind, I guess Im thinking that if my brain wont allow me to remember that we were okay when he died – that he didnt leave this earth thinking Im this giant bitch wife – that that must mean that my lack of empathy toward him was still in the air and lingering when he died. Because if it wasnt, then WHY THE HELL CANT I REMEMBER ANYTHING ELSE AFTER THAT NIGHT?
I dont know what to make of this, and I dont know how to end this post on a bright note with some reflectiveness and lessons learned. Sometimes, things just suck, and you cant go backwards and change them, and all you can do is try and be better moving forward. These days, I have received a much better education about Veteran PTSD, in large thanks to my husband Nick, also a Veteran who DOES talk openly about these things and makes me aware of them. I do my absolute best on the days when he is struggling, to be a better wife – a better friend – a better human.
I just wish with all my heart and soul that I could go backwards in time and be that better version of myself for Don. He deserved that from me, and he deserved so much more than what I was able to give.