Roses Falling in the Rain

by Johann

27 Jul 2007 1076 readers Score 8.8 (15 votes) PDF Mobi ePub Txt


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 state-of-mind.

"CLEAR!", I shout. *THUMP* No response. "CLEAR!", I shout again. *THUMP* Still no response! I continue.

But to no avail. I switch to administering mouth-to-mouth.

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 matter"

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.