Most of us have never experienced a real loss. May

be a lost watch or phone, and the occasional family

member. But most of us pull through and go on living.

Some of us, pretend we pulled through and pretend that

we moved on. Some of us think that we moved on, and

hold our heads up high, knowing a single event that

day can send us crashing back into the harsh reality

that we haven't moved on and accepted that death is a

part of life; and some of us, just continue on. Living

day, after day, after day in a monotonous, dull,

routine because that routine is all we know. So we

continue living a soul-less, joy-less, depressed,

cold, and dim existence hoping that it would soon end.

The months surrounding Henry's death were as

soul-less, joy-less, depressed, cold, and dim as they

come. Yet the memory of how he died and my efforts to

bring him back were forever seared in my mind. One

would never expect such a tragedy to occur in a

seemingly ordinary day:

The sounds of sirens resonated through the halls

of the emergency room; But I wasn't affected. 3 years

in this hell of a hospital and you learn to get used

to the piercing sound of sirens, patients and frazzled

doctors. I was calmly attending to Mrs. Mueller's I.V.

drip when paramedics crashed through the emergency

room crying, "WE'VE GOT A CODE BLUE!". I immediately

dropped the I.V. in my hand and dashed to the

stretcher. When I got there I stood in horror when the

image of my bleeding, unconcious boyfriend was finally

processed. "Jack!", Dr. Helen Bauman cried. Coming out

of my trance, I immeditely detached myself and started

conecting him to the ECG. "He's in shock!", the

paramedic said. "He needs a transfusion!", I cry to

the nurse. Suddenly, the dreaded, high-pitched tone

came from the monitor. "Oh no!", I thought, "this

can't be happening!" Tears stream from my eyes as I

administer CPR while waiting for the defibrillator

pads to charge. "One, two, three, four, five, six,

seven", I count. "Please! You can't do this to me!", I

plead, "God PLEASE!"

*BLEEP* The defibrillator pads are charged. I detach

myself from Henry, forcing myself to think that he's

just an ordinary patient, I enter my doctor's


"CLEAR!", I shout. *THUMP* No response. "CLEAR!", I

shout again. *THUMP* Still no response! I continue.

But to no avail. I switch to administering


After an eternity of CPR, I accepted the grotesque

and horrifying reality: Henry was dead. He died in my

prescence. No goodbyes. Nothing. The doctor in me was

saying, "There was nothing you could have done. His

pupils were dilated; even if his condition stabilized,

he would have been in a coma. No amount of CPR and

electric jolts could bring his heart beating again.

You tried your best. Right now, that's all that could


I remember just sitting outside the emergency

room. Weeping. Helen got me to go home and rest. I lay

down on the bed; Our bed, and slept. I hoped that I

would just wake up from this dream and Henry would be

there soothing me and holding me in his strong, warm

embrace. I woke up, and Henry wasn't there. He would

never be there again.

The next days were nothing but a blur. Funeral

arrangements were made and that was it. During the

wake, I just smiled at the guests saying, "Thank you

for coming. We appreciate you being here at this

troubling time". I had no idea who "we" was, my

parents disowned me in a flash when I told them I was

gay. I had no one to really turn to except Helen. But

she wasn't here yet. I sat down and looked at the

casket. Henry was there lying down in his exquisite

lack suit, looking as if he was just taking a

well-deserved nap. I couldn't bear it-the sight of him

dead, the smell of flowers in the air, the looks of

pity I was getting from the guests and most

especially, I can't stand reality. I left the room and

walked to the park. I don't know how long I was

sitting there, staring at the maple trees, reminiscing

about the time when Henry and I just met. Helen came,

shook me of my trance and whispred, "Jack, it's time".

The funeral was hell. A serene, rainy, depressing

Hell. I listened as the priest administered the last

rites and everyone started leaving. I remained.

Sitting in the rain, two roses in my hand; one red,

one white, I stood and walked to Henry's coffin.

Kneeling in front of the casket, I couldn't bear

leaving him. I wept. Not the bawling out kind, but the

one with the tears just falling down your face. The

kind of weeping that comes from the depths of your

heart due to your soul gnawing at your insides in

sorrow. The kind that just keeps on going until you

fall into a state of absolute sadness that there's

nothing to do but stop.

I lie down on the wet grass.

The rain falls on my face.

With the roses in my hands, I weep. A part of me died,

a portion of my heart was gone. But my soul was still

in me. Clawing at my insides, grinding it's teeth, and

wailing how could I have not saved him.

I thought the funeral was hell. I obviously didn't

know what my life was going to be like in the next

seven months.




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