Widow's Voice

Trauma

| Posted by:

Isn’t it weird and incredible what we can do if we have no other choice? Our traumatic experiences, before they happened, seemed foreign and impossible. They seemed like things we would not be able to survive. And we definitely never thought we could not only survive but function and do the “tasks” of grief. But then they happened to us. And we did a lot after it happened. I am convinced that many of the things I did in the hours, days, and weeks following Boris’s death were only possible because I was in shock. I was reminded of one of those things this week and wanted to share. 

The night Boris died, I was in my living room with my mom. Just sitting on the couch in silence. Still reeling. Nauseous and numb. The phone rang around maybe 2 a.m. It was someone calling about organ donation. They wanted to know if he was an organ donor. I wondered why they needed to ask me this because it was on his driver’s license. I don’t really remember why they said that was not sufficient, all I know is that they asked me what felt like one million questions and then told me they still had to speak with his mom because she was next of kin. I dreaded that for her, but I knew that this is what Boris would want–he would want to donate what he could. 

The questions felt so bizarre at the time. And very intimate. I remember feeling so glad that his mom would not have to answer all of them, but instead, just confirm that he would want to donate. They asked about any drug use, tattoos, and his sex life (I mean, I’d known him since he was 14 and was pretty sure he hadn’t had sex with a man, but I mean, do I really know that?!) Weirdly, one of the subjects that stayed with me was about his eyes. They told me he would be eligible to donate parts of his eyes, so they asked about surgeries or diseases related to his eyes. I kept saying, “his eyesight was VERY bad…I mean so bad!” and went on about how he could NOT see without his contacts or glasses, which were incredibly thick. Looking back, I realize that this was irrelevant. I said all of that as if they were going to take his eyeballs, put them in someone else’s eye sockets and the person would see out of them. I am sure the person on the other end was like what is wrong with this person?

But, then I look back now and I am like, wait how did I even do that? How did I answer questions about Boris knowing that the reason was so they could take skin and eye tissue from his lifeless body? This was only hours after I found his body in his car that I thought somehow could be revived. Hours after a doctor came in the ER waiting room and told me he’d likely died hours before he arrived at the ER. Hours after my entire life was upended and my future was shattered. Hours after I’d lost the best friend I’d ever had. And I was able to talk to someone about donating his body parts. What?! I mean, it happens every day to people, this experience is not unique. But, if you really stop and think about it, that is incredibly traumatic and, honestly, terrible.

The aftermath of a death, and particularly sudden death, is full of extra trauma as if you haven’t experienced enough already. And, there I was, just doing it. I discussed donating his organs at 2 a.m. and arranged his cremation a couple of days later. Though painful and difficult to revisit, it is sometimes good to remember that I did all of these incredibly hard things because it reminds me to give myself grace when I am feeling overwhelmed or exhausted related to my grief even now. It has almost been 4 years, so sometimes I think it shouldn’t feel so traumatic anymore or at least less raw. But sometimes I do still feel that trauma response. And, when I think about how much trauma I experienced packed into such a short amount of time, I am in awe that I was able to do it all. It is enough to make me exhausted for the rest of my life. I may not have done it all perfectly, but I got through it. Even though it sounds impossible even now.

About Victoria Helmly

My love story began in 2005 and though my love is no longer physically here with me, our story has not ended. I met Boris when we were 14, but it was not until our junior and senior year of high school that we became more than friends (he was my first kiss!). We went to the same college and although our relationship was a bit rocky through our early 20s, we made it through. He was my person. Our relationship grew stronger as we matured and learned about one another more as adults. I was certain that he was my forever. We talked about the future a lot and we knew we would get married, but we did not want to rush—he was still finishing graduate school and I was just starting my first full-time job. We did not realize how little time we had left together.

In the summer of 2017, Boris was hospitalized three times for active suicidal ideation. This was a heartbreaking, exhausting, and life-changing experience. After 10 months of therapy, medication, and support groups, Boris died by suicide on April 7, 2018. My life now has two parts: the one before April 7, 2018 and the one after. My very best friend, my person was now gone.

If you were to ask how I am doing now, 2.5 years later, I would say I am okay. I am living. My world continues to spin, and I continue to move forward. However, I still carry deep sorrow and loneliness. I have struggled with PTSD, anxiety, and depression. Sometimes I still cannot believe that he is actually gone. I still feel him with me, and I know that I will never stop loving and missing him.

I am currently in school for my Ph.D. and live just outside of Atlanta with our cat, Kitty Cat (Boris is responsible for the creative name). I work as a graduate research assistant currently, but I worked for three years with our State Unit on Aging prior to going back to school. I love movies, my friends and family, long walks, and traveling.