Roman's First Collapse

Near the spot where Roman lost consciousness and never awoke.
This time nobody saw him fall.

Triggers, or traumatic reminders of Roman's loss, are all around me. Most of the time when they emerge, I sit patiently with the memory until it leaves my mind - usually without much thought. Other times, the images from the past come at me with such force that they hit like a left hook to the jaw - leaving me disoriented, emotionally fractured, and unable to redirect my heartbroken response. That is what happened last week during an appointment I had for blood work related to the rapid heart rate issue I spoke of in my prior post.

I did not know it until I arrived at the location, but the lab I was sent to by my doctor is located next door to the hospital Roman was taken to by ambulance after his first collapse.

The memory of that night is not one that I conjure up often. Though the other day, as I became aware of where I was, it was immediately all I could think of. The memory repeating on infinite loop in my mind as my eyes streamed tears beyond my control. Mental snapshots of Roman's scraped and battered face were all I could see that morning as I approached the hospital parking lot. And as I sat waiting for my appointment to have my blood drawn, the imprint on my mind was inescapable.

The night of his first collapse in April 2004 did not pan out as usual. Always predictably routine, Roman called as he left work to let me know he would be going for a jog and he always got home around 7:30. I tried not over think it at first. I called his cell phone every half hour or so, but it consistently went straight to voice mail. So without a phone call or any word on his whereabouts, by 9:30 that night I was absolutely crazed with worry. Nonetheless, I did what I could to occupy myself that night; thinking that any minute, if I just stayed calm, he'd walk through the door with a logical explanation of where he had been. But as minutes turned to hours and the clock ticked away, so too did my imagination.  

I was sure he was out running around, losing track of time, because he was with some girl. Never before had I suspected him of cheating, but the later the evening carried on without word, thoughts of another girl seemed logical. Especially since I reasoned that if he were hurt, or in an accident, as his wife I'd surely be contacted. The phone had not rung at all though, so an accident seemed unlikely. That is until it finally rang sometime after 10:00 pm.

It was Roman's sister, Erica. She was calling to see if anyone had contacted me. Nobody had, so by that time I was nearing virulence with the running of my imagination. Still, through my angry confusion, I listened as Erica explained how Roman had been out for a jog after work in their mom's neighborhood. Somebody watched as he collapsed suddenly. They called 911 and he was taken by ambulance to the hospital for tests.

That is all Erica knew, though she assured "he's fine...I just thought you might be worried if nobody called you.." Apparently Roman called his mom to come pick him up from the hospital, which is how Erica knew what was going on and I did not.

At least I finally knew something, but by then I was so upset for not receiving a courtesy call from Roman, since apparently he was "fine," I was fully prepared to hand him his ass the second he got home. "You collapse and go to the hospital and instead of calling your wife, you call your mom?!?" "It never occurred to you to call during those tests?!?!" "And another thing..!" Oh, I was ready...It was on. Roman was going to hear about what he put me through that night. I was armed, loaded, and ready to fire. That is, until he walked through the door and I saw his battered face.

Roman had collapsed while running on the sidewalk. He landed face first on the concrete and the evidence was plain as the nose on his face. It was obvious that he was hurt, so right away all of my fury at his thoughtlessness gave way to concern.

I didn't have to say anything. Roman was ready to explain.

"I'm fine" he assured "Just low electrolytes...Doctor says to drink Gatoraide before I run..."

He said that all of the necessary tests had been done that night at the hospital. He was fine. He assured me of that many times over.

With no knowledge of his true state of being, his explanation made sense. I didn't suspect a need for more tests since he was at the hospital so long. I don't have any medical training. In retrospect it seems obvious that he should have followed up. And in fact, the ER doctor recommended additional tests. But Roman did not tell me that, so I did not nudge him to go. Had I known, I'd have made an issue of it, but I did not know. Nor did I have the slightest clue how close he had come to death that night.

Roman told me he had no memory of falling. All he recalled was running off of the street, onto a driveway, and heading toward the sidewalk - then waking in the back of an ambulance. When he questioned how he ended up there, the paramedic stated that someone saw him collapse and called 911. Roman claimed that he felt fine and just wanted to go home but had to undergo tests.

Later he would often joke about the thought of being given mouth to mouth by the stranger who called for help. The prospect grossed him out, though he did not know for sure if the good samaritan even went that far above and beyond to help. Envisioning the exchange of secondhand breath from a complete stranger as Roman lay oblivious made for a few chuckles. But in truth, whatever that person did that night likely saved Roman's life and gave him a few more precious months on Earth. To this day, I do not know if Roman had any idea that his life was saved that night. I certainly didn't.

He stopped running for about a year after that incident and he began incorporating fish into his diet regularly after years of strict vegetarianism. He never followed up with a doctor and never mentioned to me that he was supposed to. On some level I think he had fears about what could have become of him that night, but ultimately denial won out.

Knowing that he had no memory of losing consciousness gives me comfort that he likely slipped away peacefully. He probably embraced the other side without resistance. It happened easily without his knowledge; he had no reason to fight death. It came up beside him during his jog and calmly escorted him in another direction. I don't think he had any idea he was dying.  That brings me comfort in moments when I am haunted my the image of his befallen face.

And now that night, which was chalked up as nothing at the time, represents my first hints of infidelity. Subtle whispers I dismissed in place of guilt for having the thought when he was so clearly hurt; I was concerned for his health, which immediately silenced my suspicions. That night also represents the first indication by the Universe that he was fallible and could be taken in an instant despite his misguided reassurance. It represents my first real brush with the consequences of his lies and my complete helplessness to change anything that was happening. Roman kept me compartmentalized in a small corner of his life. His first collapse was one of the most significant indications of that. And yet, at the time, in spite of his ongoing reassurance, I felt it. I knew something was "off" - nonetheless, I had no idea why. I felt crazy and insecure and stupid for feeling that way. But I was right. Things were off. I learned just how "off" they were about a year and a half later, when he confessed his marital indiscretion then died during a jog shortly thereafter.

The emotional trigger pulled by seeing the hospital elicited tears I was helpless to stop, much like the events that led him to that hospital in the first place. But the tears I cry when that part of my brain's circuitry is plucked are no ordinary whimpers. They are sobs. Heartbreak drives them like an engine independent of my will. They are always inconvenient, but the ones that surfaced the other day were also tinged with irony since my own heart has not beat quite the same ever since the day Roman's stopped.

Even with the unexpected emotional detour, I managed to pull myself together and have my blood work done that day. I fought the haunting memory and did my best to smile at the phlebotomist who kindly joked with me about Dancing with the Stars as he tried to take my mind off of the needle that was about to pierce my vein. I was hardly enthused about the needle, but really it was the least of my concerns at the moment, given the emotional trigger that had just been pulled and tended to moments before.

Eternal Sunshine

Image via Wikipedia

I mentioned in my bio that I chose the pen-name, Sunny, because it is symbolic. Now that I have finished telling about my loss, I decided that this is a good time to explain my choice of pseudonym. It comes from the film "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind." It's a movie I liked when it came out, but did not think much of, until I saw it again this summer. If you haven't seen it, here's IMDb's synopsis: (Sure, I could have written a summary of my own. But why reinvent the wheel?)

"A man, Joel Barish, heartbroken that his girlfriend Clementine underwent a procedure to erase him from her memory, decides to do the same. However, as he watches his memories of her fade away, he realizes that he still loves her, and may be too late to correct his mistake."

Watching it again this summer, I saw it in a whole new light and I became slightly captivated by the possibility of it. For a long time, I felt damaged by loss. I felt damaged by the constant reminders....damaged by the sting of my memories. I did my best to avoid them, but I never quite avoided enough of them. Then, I saw this movie again and thought, "what if...what if I could erase my memories from those three horrible weeks? Would I no longer feel damaged, burdened, and exhausted?" It seemed like a pipe dream come true.

And then, one day in the shower, I had an epiphany. (I often have creative ideas in the shower and in the car...I don't know why.) I needed to remove as many reminders as I could.

So with that idea, I finally donated the rest of Roman's clothes to a local thrift store, I donated his books to the local library, and I took down a framed print that he always liked. No surprise, it was not the answer I was searching for. I had already done similar rituals, so I don't know why I thought this would be the magical one that would finally set me free.

Then, in October, I had another epiphany. No wonder it didn't work...I am a trigger...I live with constant triggers...as long as I am living and breathing, I will always come face to face with triggers. They cannot be eliminated. All I can do is learn to live with them so that I can take more control to diminish their power over me.

Then I got to thinking again about the movie...maybe those memories can be used to transform others and me alike. Maybe, by embracing my past, I can help others somehow. Maybe. What if, by releasing my memories to the world, I can give a gift to someone else? Something they can take with them, to help them deal with their own struggles. What if I can shed some light on this nightmare of grief, which like it or not, I am involved with intimately.

From those questions, Sunny was born. Sunny started singing the blues in an effort to acknowledge the past, learn from it, and turn it into something useful; something "plucky." Like a flower that people can pick and take home and put in water for it to bring something beautiful into their lives. Hopefully, I have given that to some of you. For me, the name Sunny represents my own plucky bloom, owning my experiences, and transforming them into something meaningful. Sunny represents the rebirth that can come from grief - if it is allowed to bloom.

 Related articles

• Is "Eternal Sunshine" on the horizon? (holykaw.alltop.com)
• Would You Delete a Memory? Eternal Sunshine Could Be a Reality (blisstree.com)
• Eternal Sunshine: Scientists Say They Can Erase Bad Memories (newsfeed.time.com)

Grief Part 6: The Summation Of A Life Cut Short

The photo placed before Roman's ashes at his memorial.
Taken in August 2005 in Encinada Mexico.

It was important to me that Roman’s mom be included in the decision making process, so she and I spent time together in the days after his death coming up with a plan for his funeral.  Neither of us had really spoken to Roman about his wishes, so at best we made educated guesses.  The only time Roman and I even came close to talking about it was when Terri Schiavo was in the news.  For those of you who do not remember, she was a woman who collapsed and suffered massive brain damage that essentially left her catatonic. The exact cause of her collapse was never determined conclusively, so I wondered how a healthy woman could just collapse like that.  Her husband wanted to take her off life support because he said that she would not have wanted to live like that.  Her family on the other hand, disagreed and fought to keep her alive.  The husband’s point of view made sense to me, but it also struck me as insensitive to her family, who obviously were suffering.  I mean, if the woman was essentially brain dead, maybe she would not care about her own wishes; maybe she would instead want to spare her family further suffering.  I don't know.

The question vexed me though, as I tried to related it to my own life.  At the time I remember thinking that given his openly maligned attitude toward people, I could see Roman being emotionally callous to my family should anything unforeseen ever happen to me.  So I made a point of telling him that I wanted him to be good to my family if anything like that ever happened to me, regardless of what he though I would want.  Without acknowledging my request Roman replied, "Ah, yeah…well, pull the plug…I don't want to be a vegetable."  Noted: Roman does not want to be a vegetable.  I hardly felt reassured.  His comment ended the discussion cold.  We never talked about anything of the sort again.

After collaborating with Roman’s mom, we finally decided on a place to hold the memorial service.  We did not know much about Roman’s final wishes, but we knew for sure that he wanted to be cremated.  With that piece in place, we planned Roman’s farewell service. The location of the memorial was tacky.  The cigarette-stenched curator was subtly rude and notably impatient.  He was one of the owners of the establishment.  I remember he was dressed like Al Bundy from Married With Children; wearing a short-sleeved dress shirt, polyester pants, and cheap dress shoes.  Surely his was not a job I would want, but I suppose I expected more professionalism from one of the owners. It was clear that he was a man who had become numb to the pain and grief experienced by the clients supporting his income.  Maybe I’ve seen too many episodes of Six Feet Under, but my experience there was not comforting.  Though, given our state of mind at the time, Roman’s mom and I were hardly in the mood to shop around, so we made the best of things.

Upon arranging the service, the tobacco stenched curator asked if I wanted Roman embalmed for a viewing before cremation.  His mom and I discussed it and quickly agreed that Roman would not want swarms of people looming over his lifeless, make-up painted body.  That choice was easy, but when asked if I wanted him embalmed so that I personally could see him one last time, I was much slower to decide - much to Mr. Impatient Curator's chagrin. I reflected briefly and thought back to the moment I last saw him, when he grabbed for the doorknob and said bye.  It was a good memory.  Did I want that to remain my last memory of Roman?

Next, my mind switched to another memory, like the shifting of images from a child’s View-Master toy. I remembered the last time I saw my  grandmother before she died of cancer.  Barely lucid from medication, she writhed in pain in her bed, cover-less, wearing only an adult diaper and a night-shirt.  My uncle sat beside the bed playing guitar and singing to her.  I have no idea if she was aware of my presence.  Of all the grandkids in my family, I had the pleasure of getting to know my grandmother.  She was kind, funny, hip, and spry.  She was a red Camaro driving granny into her 60's.  A far cry from the person lain before me, in pain, in a diaper.  No, the lady I saw in the bed that day, was not my grandmother.  And I hate that that was my final memory of her.  Truth be told, I wish I had not gone to see her that day.

Recalling those last moments at my grandmother’s bedside, made my decision easier.  I did not want to see Roman's lifeless body. My last memory of him was pristine. I wanted to keep it that way.  And knowing Roman, he would want the same. He liked to keep things jovial or intellectual; never sad or emotional.  To this day, I am confident that I made the right choice by both of us.Instead of seeing Roman embalmed, I decided to say goodbye to him in my own way.  A way that I felt was a more meaningful, yet symbolic, farewell.

Never the fashion plate, Roman had difficulty picking out clothes that did not consist of shorts, a T-shirt, and sneakers.  Anytime Roman accompanied me to a social event, he could not choose acceptable attire on his own without looking like a three year old who bravely dressed himself.  Roman was a smart person; he knew enough to know that fashion was not his strength, but was instead mine.  Accordingly, he always consulted with me when getting dressed to go somewhere, "Should I wear the black shoes or the brown ones…the blue shirt or black…cords or jeans?”  I thought it was sweet and I loved being his personal stylist.

Therefore, as my send off, I chose a few pieces of Roman’s ‘dressed up casual’ attire for his body’s transformation. I picked jeans that were brand new - still with tags - purchased on a shopping spree before he dropped the bomb on me about his indiscretion. Also I chose a button up, long sleeved, blue striped dress shirt from J Crew, black old school mesh puma sneakers, a gray canvas pull tab belt, and socks and underwear. This was my final style contribution that would become one with the ashes of his body; all for an extra $200 fee.

He would have though it ridiculous to spend that much money, but I did not care.  It was important to me. Plus, I figured in lieu of the cost of embalming, it was not a huge expense.

There were some reservations on my part, however, because the curator was so rude and creepy.  I started to cry as I handed Roman's clothes to him.  He snapped impatiently, “It’ll be fine,” as he grabbed them from my hands.  His grouchiness bugged me and I actually wondered if they would truly dress Roman as I asked. Although, when I got his ashes back, I was pleasantly reassured, as I could see scattered flecks of blue and black pigment from the clothes, which put my doubts to rest.

Receiving my Graduate Of The Year award.
I picked Roman's outfit.

*****

The service was held on Monday November 13, 2006, one week after his unexpected passing.  Roman’s mother asked if we could have a cross at the service, near his photo and ashes. I allowed the cross, though Roman would not have approved, being a staunch atheist.  But his mom wanted it and she was heartbroken over her loss. The cross did not bother me, and Roman was not there to protest, so I let her have it. I decided that since she was alive and Roman was not, the memorial also had to be an honor of his life, but also a healing ceremony for the living.

Further, I reasoned that we were doing plenty to honor Roman’s life. His mom could have the cross if it gave her comfort. Though I suspect two of his siblings were bothered by my decision as it was a direct affront to Roman’s values. But at that point, part of me was still angry over his infidelity, so I really did not feel inclined to honor his ‘values’ any more than I already had; Especially if doing so meant denying his mother something meaningful. Hopefully, wherever he was at that point, he would understand and appreciate my willingness to honor his mother’s wishes.  And if not, I reasoned, he was not here to say anything about it either way.  So the cross stayed.

As part of  the service, I made a compilation cd, which played while guests were being seated.  I rented a projector from a place in the Midwest and had it shipped out in time for the service. It was used to present a photo memorial that I made of images spanning his entire life.  Doing my best to put hurt feelings aside, I also wrote and spoke these words at the service.  I saved them, tucked away in a book.

The Eulogy

Many of you knew Roman in your own way.  I want to honor Roman today and share what his life meant to me.  Roman and I met in college, in a primate behavior class.  We both had been absent on the day that we chose groups for the final project; leaving Roman, another girl, and myself to form a group by default.  As part of the group project, we were required to make a trip to the zoo to study chimps.  Roman and I carpooled and realized that we had an instant connection as soon as we started talking.  We talked nonstop.  We had the same sense of humor and we both annoyed the other girl who was in our group.  At the zoo, she asked if we already knew each other, but we had just formally met that day.Roman was the source of constant entertainment.  He was fearless and would go to any length to get a laugh – including giving a presentation to the class with a tissue jammed up his nose.  I dared him to do it for $2.00.  He was always testing the boundaries and was never afraid of seeming inappropriate or saving face. Roman and I continued our friendship after our class ended and we eventually went on to get married in Hawaii. During our marriage, Roman was always making me laugh. 

Honolulu 2002, Self Portrait.

He loved to laugh.  He loved life and he was a genius. He had an IQ in the 99^th percentile (for those of you school psychologists here today). I always used to tell him that someday I would put him through astronaut school, like he had done for my graduate schooling, because he was smart enough to be anything he wanted to be – even an astronaut.  I used to say, “you could be a doctor or a lawyer if you wanted.”  And Roman would reply, “Ah, I don’t want to be a doctor.  And you don’t have to be smart to be a lawyer.” (Sorry to any lawyers here today, but those were his words.) Things came easily to Roman.  He used to ask me why I loved him and I would always say, “because you’re smart, and funny, and you make me laugh, and you’re good natured, and you have pretty blue eyes..”  Roman took good care of me and was wise beyond his years.  I do not know how I would have gotten through graduate school without him. My professor once told me that Roman should have received an honorary “Graduate of the Year” award when I received mine last year.  He probably should have.  There are so many good memories, just to name a few: Roman loved animals and would never kill a bug.  Roman loved to complain…about a lot of things…especially bad drivers.  But I looked forward to his calls as he drove home from work and gave me the play by play of driver havoc.  Roman enabled my clothes habit and I in turn enabled his videogame and anime habits.  Roman loved to sing and would make up funny songs. One of his favorites was called, “Roman’s So Cool.”  It went, “Roman’s so cool…Roman’s so cool…everyone loves Roman.  Roman’s the best…better than the rest..” And that’s just one of many that he wrote. And he loved to sing in falsetto.  He loved to try to hit the high notes.  He really thought he nailed them, but he didn’t.  He also was not afraid to break out into song when he heard E.L.O. in the grocery store, which would embarrass me completely. 

Knotts Berry Farm, 2002

Sometimes at night when we would lie in bed, Roman would say, “Tell me a story.”  I would usually just recite what he had told me his day consisted of – with a thinly veiled name change to the main character – like Herman, or Kermit, or something like that.  And I would tell how he had worked really hard that day on his KP’s or his PB’s or whatever they were called, and tell how he came home and ate dinner, etc.  I usually could not think of a way to finish the story, so I would always stop in the middle and say “anyway…the end.”  Roman would laugh and tell me that I didn’t finish the story.  It makes my heart break now because with Roman leaving us so soon, he did not get to finish his story. The day before Roman died, he and I went for an extra long walk and had a really nice talk.  I am fortunate that I got the chance to say many things that I wanted to say.  But one thing that I did not get to say is “thank you.”  Thank you for making me laugh, thank you for supporting me through school, thank you for being my best friend, thank you for encouraging me to pursue my interests, thank you for your love and companionship.  And thank you for being one of a kind.  Thank you for being you.  There will never be another one just like you.

The entire service only lasted about thirty minutes. Those who spoke after me included Stu, Roman's eldest brother Don, Roman's boss, his co-worker, and my dad.  That's it. Nobody else in his family was comfortable enough to speak, and he had no other friends or acquaintances there who knew him well enough to speak about him.  Most of the guests were supporters of mine and his brother, Don's. To this day, I don't know if Roman’s ‘fling’ was in attendance.  That was the last time I wore my wedding ring.