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Catch-Up Post #2: Tragedy
Sep. 22nd, 2003 10:09 pmWhen I first met her, she was using her maiden name, Chris Connor. She was a year older than I was, in the same Verizon training class as me. In the five years that I knew her, she got married, had a daughter who was the light of her life, worked as a Union steward, cared about the people around her, became everyone's surrogate sister.
Several weeks ago, after a bout of feeling vaguely unwell, Chris (now with the last name Green) came out of the shower beet-red, and collapse without warning. She never regained consciousness. Her coma lasted for some time, with small signs of hope intermingled with great signs of despair. She stabilized enough at one point to be airlifted to Vermont, but that was good as it ever got. It was eventually determined that one of her heart valves had failed, depriving her of oxygen to the brain, but by that point it was pretty much a moot question. Finally, the decision was made to take her off of life support, with the faint hopes that it wouldn't necessarily be the end.
Sadly, it was. She was 33; she left behind a husband of a few years, and a daughter, Rachel, 18 months old.
I haven't the foggiest notion of how to deal with the death of someone close to me. I didn't lose anyone in my life until I was in my late 20's, when my Opa's body finally gave out; by that time I was only seeing him once a year at most, so it ended up feeling merely like an especially long wait between visits. This was different. Chris and I weren't especially close friends; we'd never socialized outside the office, although we did talk at work quite a bit. But it keeps dawning on me that, no, she won't be at work this week, or next week, or ever. I can't wrap my brain around this, not at all. I really don't understand loss, almost to the point that I refuse to accept it. I haven't cried even once during this; there's something about me that doesn't seem inclined to cry for such things. But I'm...bewildered.
I now hug my children more than I did a few weeks ago. I hope they never understand why.
Several weeks ago, after a bout of feeling vaguely unwell, Chris (now with the last name Green) came out of the shower beet-red, and collapse without warning. She never regained consciousness. Her coma lasted for some time, with small signs of hope intermingled with great signs of despair. She stabilized enough at one point to be airlifted to Vermont, but that was good as it ever got. It was eventually determined that one of her heart valves had failed, depriving her of oxygen to the brain, but by that point it was pretty much a moot question. Finally, the decision was made to take her off of life support, with the faint hopes that it wouldn't necessarily be the end.
Sadly, it was. She was 33; she left behind a husband of a few years, and a daughter, Rachel, 18 months old.
I haven't the foggiest notion of how to deal with the death of someone close to me. I didn't lose anyone in my life until I was in my late 20's, when my Opa's body finally gave out; by that time I was only seeing him once a year at most, so it ended up feeling merely like an especially long wait between visits. This was different. Chris and I weren't especially close friends; we'd never socialized outside the office, although we did talk at work quite a bit. But it keeps dawning on me that, no, she won't be at work this week, or next week, or ever. I can't wrap my brain around this, not at all. I really don't understand loss, almost to the point that I refuse to accept it. I haven't cried even once during this; there's something about me that doesn't seem inclined to cry for such things. But I'm...bewildered.
I now hug my children more than I did a few weeks ago. I hope they never understand why.
