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Because Her Grace Was Abounding

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I think I’ve mentioned it before, but Emily and I signed up for Disciple Bible study back in the fall. I remember that first week, as we debated between going to Disciple class or another option, Emily looked at me and said, “I’ve heard that Disciple classes are pretty intense… Are you sure you’re okay with this?” I nodded, and in we went with no idea what we were getting ourselves into.

As someone who grew up in the Catholic church, I’ve always considered myself to be fairly well versed in scripture. After all, the Lectionary is set up so that you read the entire Bible every three years (assuming you go to Mass every Sunday). I’ll be honest, though, this class has really made me look at everything in a very different way. And, in many ways, it’s made me question a lot of the beliefs I’ve held onto about Christianity and, even more so, myself.

This week, we discussed the Epistle to the Romans. Although I definitely had many thoughts and questions about the book as a whole, I really went down a rabbit hole in my mind when someone in class brought up the topic of grace. It’s a subject that, honestly, I’ve always struggled with, largely because much of modern Christian teachings specifically condemn multiple aspects of my identity as undeserving of God’s grace. And yet, as I drove home tonight and fought back tears, I could hear Emily’s voice clear as day, telling me to stop being so mean to myself… just like she did nearly every single day from 2018 to 2022.

She Showed Me Grace

Emily was one of the most kindhearted, giving people I’ve ever met. In fact, I often think of her when people ask for a definition or example of terms like abounding grace or altruism. She shared her gifts, her presence, and her love with others without hesitation and, oftentimes, without any consideration as to how it might affect her.

It always surprised me when I’d do something that I considered inconsiderate or harsh, and she’d still be there, ready to forgive me and accept me still. And, as I often told her, I didn’t understand how she did it because I felt so undeserving.

The Puppy Debate

There was that ridiculous puppy, Nova, that she fostered for a few days then decided to adopt. She was not only living in an apartment that didn’t allow pets, but she was working two jobs and enrolled in grad school. I watched this puppy for her a couple times, and I spent several nights talking to her on the phone or texting her as she struggled to deal with the dog because it was so young, untrained, and quite the handful.

Finally, I told her, “Emily, just take the damn dog back to the humane society and tell them that you just don’t have the time or space to deal with a puppy right now. It’s not that big of a deal.” She asked if I’d take the dog back for her, and I said, “No. I’ll drive you there, I’ll stand by you the whole time, but I will not do it for you. You are the one who adopted the dog, so you need to be the one to take it back. You’re an adult, and sometimes that means you have to do hard things.”

I know I was harsh. I know I made her cry. And, honestly, I spent the entire rest of that day feeling guilty about it and worrying if she was going to stop being my friend because of it. But, the next day, she reached out and thanked me for what I said and told me she didn’t think any less of me because of it. She never once yelled at me, told me I was a bad friend, or treated my any differently after that. (Oh, and she did take the dog back, too.)

Jealousy Over The Ex

Emily and I started dating about two weeks after she broke up with her ex. We didn’t plan it, and I definitely didn’t see it coming, but I definitely found myself floating on air that entire first week after that night at Hooters.

Then, on Friday night, she started texting me. She’d agreed to hang out with her ex and some mutual connections that evening. However, when she went to pick him up (he doesn’t drive), he had an entire suitcase with him because he decided they needed a “romantic weekend together.” And, because Emily hates confrontation even more than I do (and that’s saying something), she didn’t say no.

She was texting me to try to figure out what to do, but my emotions were all over the place. I stopped replying to her texts because I knew I was going to say something I’d regret, but then she started blowing up my phone because she interpreted my sudden silence as anger. I tried my best to explain to her that I was feeling jealous, hurt, and confused, but I wasn’t doing it well.

At one point, I told her I felt stupid for thinking that she’d actually be into me, and I’d rather her be honest than pretend to be into me. Of course, she responded by telling me that she definitely wanted to date me, but she was afraid of confrontation (which I already knew) and she didn’t want to hurt Julian’s feelings or give him a reason to lash out at her.

The entire time, she kept telling me that my feelings about the situation were valid and the last thing she wanted to do was hurt me. Looking back, I definitely didn’t handle the situation in a mature way, but she was still willing to love me anyway. And, ultimately, she did start setting some harsher boundaries with the ex — it just took a lot of time and effort.

Her Grace Knew No Limits

Obviously, those are very specific examples of me and Emily. However, I watched her show grace to countless other people, too.

She had this friend that, honestly, said some really harsh things to Emily at times. I remember multiple conversations with Emily crying over the things this friend had said about how Emily was “getting fat” and how she “wasn’t a good friend” because she was trying to get the friend to make recovery oriented decisions. And yet, it didn’t matter what Emily had going on in her life, anytime that friend needed help, Emily would drop everything and go. We once even had to turn our date night into sharing a fast food burger and fries outside the emergency room because the friend called her when she was on her way to meet me and needed medical attention.

The same ex I mentioned before? We once picked him up at 11:00pm and took him to the ER as well because his blood sugar was all sorts of out of whack and he called Emily because he didn’t have anyone else. After everything he had done to her (I’m eventually going to talk more about that), she looked at me that night and said, “I know he is a huge jerk, but he needs help and we can help him. Doesn’t everyone deserve that?”

Trying to Find My Emily-Like Grace

As I told people in my Disciple class tonight, I really feel like my job at this point is continuing Emily’s legacy. She never said that, but I feel like she made the world a better place, and I still want that for everyone.

But, like I said tonight: How do you show others grace when you yourself don’t feel deserving? And, even more so, are we supposed to offer abounding grace if we’re truly leaning into our call to be Christ-like?

I am going to talk to Emily about these things this weekend. And, even if I don’t get an answer, I know she’ll at least be willing to listen because she’s always been willing to do anything for me.

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Because I Got Her In Trouble

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Back in January, a dear friend of mine suggested I sign up for a grief support group. She even helped me find one specifically for spouses, so I decided to take a chance and sign up.

It’s funny, because group therapy used to be such a huge part of my life just five years ago. Yet, since I left the DBT group Emily and I met in, I have mostly sustained myself through weekly individual therapy sessions without much else in the way of therapeutic intervention. But, then again, I suppose the sudden and very much unexpected death of the woman you planned to grow old with is one of those life-changing events that requires a bit more support.

Although the circumstances are very different, I guess you could say that life today feels eerily similar to the year from hell that led me to group therapy before. Of course, this time I’m in therapy because Emily is gone, whereas before, the therapy is what brought Emily into my life.

When Strangers Become Friends

At Emily’s funeral, I very candidly shared the story of how we met. I still smile every time I think about the moment I saw Emily walk into that room. Although I won’t go so far as to say it was love at first sight, I definitely felt a sort of emotional shift inside of me that day. And, even if she only did it because I seemed like the least intimidating or crazy person in the room, I definitely felt a mixture of excitement and nervousness when she sat down next to me that day.

Between August and April, that first encounter became commonplace, as nearly the exact same situation unfolded each and every week. I quickly learned that I could anticipate exactly what Emily was coming to therapy that day based on three key Emily components: her hair and makeup, the beverage in her hand, and her eyes. But, I didn’t care if happy Emily, depressed Emily, or sleep-deprived Emily sat down next to me — because I enjoyed Emily’s company regardless of her mood.

Of course, one of my favorite parts about having Emily in group was the comments she would make. Like her, I have a bad habit of responding to pretty much every situation with a terrible joke or overly sarcastic comment. Fortunately, we had both learned how to mumble those comments in a way that usually people didn’t listen. Unfortunately, because we both did this, we picked up on when the other person was doing it, which meant we heard each other’s comments all the time and laugh about them.

And, if you know me at all, you know that I do a terrible job of remaining still and quiet when I find something funny.

Emily and I got “in trouble” several times because of what became our little inside jokes. The therapist leading the group would glare in our direction, sigh heavily, and suddenly find a reason to call on one of us or ask if we were listening. It got to the point where sometimes we’d pick up on what the other was thinking or saying, and one time we even both started laughing during a mindfulness exercise because we’d just had a conversation previously about how much Emily hated that specific guided meditation.

Some weeks, the therapist would sit between us or near enough to us that we had to behave. Other weeks the therapist would catch us both hanging out in the parking lot an hour after group had ended, and she’d ask what we were talking about before she got in the car and drove away. She knew we’d become close.

Then, one week in late April of 2019, I said one thing, and it started a whole train reaction of events.

Emily and I were both also seeing the therapist who led the group for individual sessions. It’s sort of the protocol for dialectical behavior therapy, because the assumption is you’ll bring homework from the group to unpack during individual sessions, and the therapist can reinforce skills. We were also nearing the end of the final module in group, which meant I was nearing my second time through the entire program. If you do DBT “by the book,” most people either stop the group after two times through or, as recommended for people with BPD (which according to that therapist I had), you move into an advanced group.

At this point, I felt like I was doing well all things considered. I hadn’t been in the hospital for over a year, I was working at a church and a rehab facility, and I seemed to be on a good medication combo. So, during my individual session, I casually asked, “So what’s next once we finish this last module?”

The therapist gave me this confused look and asked what I meant, so I explained that this was my second time through everything, and I felt like I had a good grasp of the skills we’d covered and wasn’t sure that it made sense to do the same thing a third time. I then asked if she had any referrals for a place to go if I wanted to try an advanced group since she wasn’t offering one.

Without projecting too strong of a negative attitude towards this therapist, I’ll just say I left the session in tears and unsure of what was coming next. The next week, the therapist essentially told me she was going to be unable to continue working with me after we finished the last group session and I would need to find someone else to see individually. Of course, my individual session just happened to be right before group, so Emily knew the moment she saw me that day I wasn’t okay.

When I told her everything later, she couldn’t believe it. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have told her everything, but I trusted her and needed a friend. But, I told her, knowing that she was going to do a second round of the group sessions and still see the therapist individually.

Well, long story short, Emily did a whole worksheet about a situation where “a friend got kicked out of a group we’re both in” and how she felt about it (angry and upset). Suddenly, Emily said the therapist told her she needed to move back in with her parents because she wasn’t recovered enough to live alone. And, like me, she was left to find a new therapist.

In other words, my decision to be assertive about my own mental health care also messed up Emily’s care.

I Guess I’m Not Getting Her In Trouble Now

Okay, yes, I realize that what happened isn’t exclusively my fault. I’ve shared the story with my current therapist and, spoiler alert, she was a bit appalled about many things the aforementioned group therapist did. But, it does make for an interesting story and does make the fact that we remained friends even after our time in group therapy ended a bit more understandable.

But, between that and the fact that most people didn’t know Emily wasn’t straight until she started dating me, I feel like I got Emily in trouble a lot in the time we knew each other. But, every time I pointed this out to Emily, she’d smack me and talk about how I also was incredibly helpful to her, especially in regards to her ED recovery.

Because of me, Emily got in trouble. So, at least I’m no longer being a bad influence on her?

Because She Gives Me Strength

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Over the past four months, I’ve done a lot of things that, quite frankly, I can’t fully explain. Some of these things, like drinking an entire bottle of rum in a single day, were 100% a form of pain management. Others, like agreeing to be in a fashion show (more on that later), are definitely no-brainer decisions I’ve made on the premise that Emily would want me to do them.

Honestly, I can’t quite explain where the strength or knowledge that compels me to do these things comes from. However, I know that it’s been happening from the moment I walked out of Vanderbilt just over four months ago. And, although most people may think I’m crazy for saying this, I’m choosing to believe it’s some form of Emily with a side of the Holy Spirit leading me along.

Of course, if you don’t believe me, maybe you will once I finish this little story that’s been on my mind today.

Words Are My Thing

When we started the planning process for Emily’s funeral, I wasn’t sure what to expect. But, when her mom asked me if I’d like to speak, I just felt something inside of me saying, “Do it.” I guess it’s probably the fact that words are my thing, and I knew deep down Emily would want me to write something.

So, I did. In fact, this is what I wrote (and read):

“Every great love story starts with an adorable narrative of how the couple met. Sometimes they’re high school sweethearts or have a budding college romance. Other times they meet in places like work, through mutual friends, or at church. 

Of course, if you know Emily, then you know how much she “loved” fitting into the mold. So, it’s only fitting that we met in a way much like any other couple… we met in group therapy in 2018.

If you ask me, I say that our meeting was serendipitous. I was instantly drawn to her warmth, her smile, and her energy. I could just tell that there was something about Emily that made her extraordinary, and I wanted to learn what exactly that spark was all about. If you ask Emily, she’d say that she really only sat next to me because I was ‘less weird than everyone else in the room.’ 

Despite these less-than-conventional beginnings, Emily and I quickly bonded like any couple who is destined to be together. We often laughed at each other’s snarky comments during our therapy group’s weekly meetings and checked in with each other when we sensed something was “off” with the other person. Over time, our conversations moved out of the therapy room into the parking lot, then to text messages and phone calls, dinner rendezvous, and trips to McKay’s together. She accompanied my children and me on vacations, we celebrated a pandemic Thanksgiving together over Zoom, and we regularly indulged in our favorite guilty pleasure — Grey’s Anatomy — from the comfort of my couch.

For me, every moment we spent together was magical and meaningful and far beyond anything I’d ever experienced with another person in my entire life. Yet, somehow, it took us until April 2021 and a day-long adventure of couch shopping together to finally admit what was on our hearts: we were in love.

In some ways, I think the wait was a lesson in patience and learning to ‘trust the process.’ Of course, this lesson was just one of the many things Emily taught me during our time together.

Throughout our friendship and romantic relationship, Emily taught me so many things that I’m not sure I can even list them all. But, I’m going to try and share a few with everyone who is gathered here today.

Emily taught me what true joy and passion looked like. Every time Emily danced, played her oboe, sang, or played the piano, she did so wholeheartedly. You could see the joy these creative outlets brought her, and it made watching or listening to her that much more impactful. 

But she didn’t just express that joy through creative arts — it showed through in even the most mundane tasks. She found ways to sprinkle joy into activities like cooking, caring for pets, working on grad school assignments… pretty much anything you can imagine, Emily found a way to make it joyful and exciting (except cleaning, but we’ll just forget that).

Emily showed me what strength, courage, and determination can really do. In the time I knew her, I watched Emily push through eating disorder recovery. She’d set goals and challenges for herself, and crush them time and time again. She would reach out for support when she needed it, eat meals even when she admitted she didn’t want to or heard her eating disorder telling her to do the opposite. She faced fear foods, bought clothes for her changing body, and broke habits that had become commonplace — all for the sake of her own future. 

Because I watched her do all of this, I had the strength to face my own demons and work on myself as well. I made it through some exceptionally tough times, processed traumas that I’d buried away and shared with no one, and broke out of my own unhealthy habits — all because Emily taught me that I could.

Emily also taught me the true essence of living authentically. Day in and day out, she made the choice to show up and be real. She wasn’t afraid to share her struggles with others and speak candidly about her life. I know this transparency helped her connect with so many people, like her friends from eating disorder treatment, fellow transplant recipients, and even the hundreds of clients she served through her jobs in peer support and crisis stabilization. She was willing to be real with people, and I learned how to be my true self in her presence.

Emily showed me what gratitude looked like, too. Even before she learned about her organ donor, she constantly shared how thankful she was for the precious gift of life she received from another person’s selfless act. After she learned about Victor, she looked for ways to thank him and memorialize him in every step of her journey. She included him on her graduation cap and she fervently shared his story. We’d even discussed ways to show our gratitude to Victor in our life going forward, both through a memorial table at our wedding and by naming the child we hoped to have together after him.

Emily taught me so much more about compassion than I ever knew was possible. No matter what people did or said to her, she still found a way to care about them and help them as much as she could. She would give anyone the shirt off her back or drive them halfway across the country if it would help them in some way. She never asked for anything in return, and she was never resentful or mean — she simply paid it forward to anyone who crossed her path.

Most of all, Emily showed me what true unconditional love looked and felt like. From our first kiss until just a few hours before she passed, Emily constantly let me know how much she cared about me with her words, and more importantly, her actions. It didn’t matter how tired she was or what I had or hadn’t done for her — she loved me completely, without hesitation. I had never experienced the type of love that Emily showed me, and I will carry every compliment, every hug, and every moment we spent together in my heart for the rest of my time on Earth.

As many of you know, I had just proposed to Emily a little less than a month ago. Although we had just started planning our wedding, I was looking forward to writing my vows and making countless promises to her as we started our lives together as a married couple. 

Unfortunately, most of those promises I would have made are now null and void since they required her to also be here on Earth with me. I’ll admit, I’m a little salty she went first, because that’s exactly what I told her not to do. But, I have decided that one of the ways I can keep Emily’s spirit alive is by making some slightly different promises to her today with all of you here as my witness.

So, Emily, even though the life we dreamed of together is going to look a bit different from here on out:

  • I promise you I will find ways to spread joy to others through music and my various spiritual gifts. I may even find a way to spread joy throughout all 50 states since I know you wanted us to visit them all together.
  • I promise I will continue to pay it forward to others by sharing my own recovery journey and helping those who are struggling. If I can, I will even find a way to make that treatment center we dreamed of opening together a reality.
  • I promise I will share Victor’s story and yours in any way I can. I will honor you both by being an organ donor myself and encouraging others to share the gift of life.
  • Finally, I promise you I will continue to live my life authentically and learn to love myself the way you loved me, unconditionally and without hesitation.

I know that, if you’re here today, Emily touched your life just like she touched mine. I also know that even though Emily has left this Earth, her story isn’t over because we all carry pieces of Emily with us in our memories and in our hearts. As long as we’re all willing to cling to those pieces of Emily that we each carry, find joy in simple moments, and live our lives wholeheartedly, Emily will always be here with us.“

She Gave Me Strength

A couple of weeks ago, a friend of mine brought up the funeral. She talked about how she just remembered me making it through my entire speech, and then I just sat down and completely collapsed.

And she wasn’t wrong, I fell into the chair and just started sobbing. It’s like I was somehow protected from the weight of my emotions as I read, and then it all hit me at once as soon as I was done. And, given everything that’s happened to me since, I firmly believe that Emily was there with me that day, giving me the strength to pull through.

Looking back, I don’t even fully remember reading the speech. But I know I made it through.

It’s funny, because when Emily was alive, she was a major source of strength and determination for me, too.

For example, Emily was one of the first people I told about the divorce and many of the details behind it. As I spent several months in the trenches of negotiations and talks with lawyers, Emily was there. When I felt like giving up, she reminded me what I deserve. When I panicked about the future, Emily told me she knew I’d make it through. And when I was really bad, she sat and drank with me until I felt ready to take on the world again.

And it was exactly the same after the divorce was finalized and I decided to do some intense trauma work with my therapist. It was the same when I applied for jobs or took on a new freelance client. It was the same when other friends would completely knock me down. And, funny enough, it was the same when I agreed to ride a water slide that seemed absolutely terrifying. No matter what I faced, Emily gave me the strength to go for it and stand tall. She was my security blanket and the medal to give me courage all wrapped up in a cute, fun-size package. She was the one who helped me through everything.

She’s Still Giving Me Strength

I know that I should be getting over my loss and moving on with life, but I’ll be honest, it’s hard. I told someone the other day that these past 4 months have been harder than anything else I’ve faced in my life, and I meant it. Harder than the semester I got sent to alternative school, harder than the college semester I almost didn’t finish, harder than miscarriage, divorce, and everything else that’s ever happened to me.

Each morning I wake up and spend a solid five minutes convincing myself to get up. Then I have to fight the urge to vomit and cry as I start moving around. There’s usually at least one point where I cry, and I’m still sleeping on the couch.

But, somehow, I get dressed and get the kids ready for school. I get my work done, I prepare dinner, I get the kids ready for bed. I’m holding steady with my freelance work, I’m somehow keeping my head above water with the household chores. And, most importantly, I’m still alive, even though I’ve been incredibly close to trying to change that.

At the end of almost every day, as I lay on the couch curled up in one of Emily’s favorite blankets, I ask myself how I made it through another day. And, nearly every day, there’s only one explanation that comes to mind: her.

I don’t know why I’m still here, but I know that every breath I take is because of Emily. From the first day I met her, she gave me strength. And, I feel so lucky that she’s still giving me strength right now, because today hasn’t been a great day. I just hope that, someday when the time is right, she won’t have to give me strength anymore and can just give my a hug instead.

Because I’m Still Heartbroken

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Last weekend I made the trip from Murfreesboro to Knoxville. I’ve made the trip so many times lately that it’s really become commonplace. Yet, just two years ago, I’d only ever stopped in Knoxville if I needed gas or something on the way to or from Gatlinburg. But, because of Emily, I started making that trip quite frequently in 2021 and 2022. She loved going home any chance she got, and I can’t say I blame her. There’s just something about visiting that town that feels welcoming and calm.

Over the past 4 months, that three-hour drive and my weekends in Knoxville have become one of the things I look forward to the most. I think it’s because it offers just the right mixture of comfort and catharsis. She’s everywhere I look when I’m in Knoxville, so I feel connected with her when I’m there. Yet, at the same time, the heartache washes over me at the most random times while I’m there — and I’ve simply learned to embrace it.

Short Time, Long Story

I won’t go into details now, but I will say that much of my life before Emily wasn’t great. Because of the signals I received during critical points in my life, I repressed a lot and placed much blame for every horrible event in my life upon myself. But, thanks to months of trauma therapy and Emily’s love, I’d reached a point while we were together where life was good. So, naturally, one of my first fears, when Emily died, was whether or not I was about to fall right back down the mountain I’d worked so hard to climb.

I really don’t remember much from October 19. My memory from that day is a blur, with random snapshots of single moments or items I can recall, almost like polaroids. But, one of the things I do remember doing was texting my therapist from the table at First Watch. I told her, “Emily died. I know I have a session scheduled for tomorrow, but I could really use support before that.” And, as soon as I met with her that afternoon and shared all that had happened in those last 48 hours, I told my therapist that I had no idea how I was going to work through this, but I knew that if I didn’t start doing something right away, I was going to fall all the way down the mountain and I probably would never make it back up again.

So, for the past few months, I have been working through The Grief Recovery Handbook (or “the purple book” as my therapist calls it). It’s different than any other workbook or therapeutic modality I’ve ever encountered, and yet I’ve found it incredibly beneficial.

Anyway, the final three activities involve a lot of memory recall as you essentially map out every single loss you’ve experienced in your life (the loss history graph), then make a timeline about your relationship with one of the losses you selected from your loss history graph (the relationship graph). And, I’ll admit, I’m a bit of an overachiever when it comes to therapy homework, but doing so with these activities really helped me see a lot about my life and, more specifically, the years where Emily’s life intersected with mine.

I often feel like people judge me a bit when I say that Emily and I only knew each other for 4.5 years and then call her the love of my life. But here’s the thing: when you look at all that happened in our lives in the time period between when we met and Emily died, it’s as much as some people experience in a decade or more.

In less than 5 years, Emily and I went from being strangers who sat next to each other in a room for a couple hours each week to the person we wanted holding our hand in our final moments. We took a half dozen vacation-type trips together, plus went on even more weekend road trips. We watched each other make major life changes, land new jobs, buy cars, and earn a master’s degree (at least Emily did). We spent late nights confiding in each other, and spent many mornings sipping coffee together with no pants on. We hugged, we kissed, we had sex, we lived together, we got engaged… I could name all the things we did for hours without even starting on all the plans we made for our future together.

I know people say that when you find the right person, time often ceases to exist. However, I think the reasoning behind the way Emily and I lived our lives together is even deeper than that.

I think that Emily approached everything in life with the mentality of “live every day like it’s your last” and “you only get one life, so make the most of it.” And, I guess that’s how most people would approach life if they’d almost died and received a life-changing miracle. She never once took a single breath for granted, and she was determined to do as much as she could with whatever time she had here on Earth.

Meanwhile, I think my approach to life became focused on finally having the self-worth and tools I needed to build a life that made me happy. In a way, I felt like I had 30+ years of playing catch-up to do. But also, I just didn’t care about what other people think anymore, and I wanted to carve out the life I’d always dreamed of.

Together, I think our approaches to life in general created a perfect storm the moment we both looked at each other from across the table at Hooters. We both had “lightbulb moments” simultaneously, and we just knew without even saying a word that we both wanted a “happily ever after” together.

The Aftermath of an Unexpected Storm

I knew going into it that this week would be hard. Our Week 2 task for the grief group I joined was for each of us to share the story of how our partner died. Then, as if it was perfectly planned to coincide, my homework for individual therapy was to write a letter to Emily about anything possibly left unsaid between the two of us (with specific parameters outlined in the book).

With both tasks, I couldn’t help but focus on the suddenness of her death. It was so unexpected and completely unpredictable. And yet, it happened. It’s like a tornado that fell from the sky without warning or a hurricane that changed course in the 11th hour, leaving people with no way to prepare. We were planning a wedding, we were going to have a child together and be a family of 5 with a dog and an adorable house with a backyard that had trees for Emily to climb or hang a hammock up while the kids and the dog ran around. We were going to open a treatment center together, then eventually retire to the beach and spend our days making music together and collecting sea shells.

But, that’s not what happened at all. and I am stuck in the devastation without any sign of rescue… or so it feels at times.

And I think that, although Emily and I were not at all on bad terms or holding onto any type of resentment, the suddenness of it all left me with a lot of unsaid words.

So, when I sat with Emily at the cemetery on Saturday afternoon, I talked to her about it all… a lot. In fact, I told her about the letter my therapist had assigned me to write, and I actually wrote it while I sat there on a blanket in the grass right next to her. A lot of it, as you can imagine, was filled with apologies and regrets. I was sorry for not telling her how I felt about her sooner, I was sorry for getting her kicked out of DBT group (remind me to write a post about this), and I was sorry for not protecting her when she dated Julian (another post for the future). But, at the same time, almost half of the letter was me thanking her and acknowledging all that she did. I thanked her for taking a chance by sitting next to me in DBT group on the first day, I appreciated how she loved me and my kids, and I was so proud and awestruck by her willingness to risk a lot by simply coming out.

When I finished the letter on Saturday, I read it to her, word for word. And, just like when I read the speech I’d prepared for her funeral, I completely broke down as soon as I read the last sentence. But, instead of melting into the arms of a dear friend like I did as soon as I walked away from the pulpit at the funeral, the only thing I had to melt into on Saturday was the ground. And boy, did I wish for a moment that I could melt down into the ground with my sweet Emily.

It’s funny, though, because this week has felt much different than anything that’s come before it. As I told my therapist before I read the letter to her today, it almost felt as if I left some of the wreckage of this disaster there in the grass on Saturday afternoon without even realizing it.

I’ll Always Be Broken, But Not Beyond Repair

Don’t mistake my words in this post. I am a heartbroken human who will probably never understand why everything happened the way it did with Emily. In many ways, I saw her as my redemption arc, my opportunity to love and be loved the way I always wanted to love someone and deserve from another. But, I think this week, and especially writing that letter to Emily directly, has helped me see that there’s a difference between broken and unfixable.

Because of Emily, I not only learned what true, unconditional love from another person felt like, but I also started to see that I deserved such a thing. What’s more, I learned that I could, in fact, tolerate or even like myself. And, by sharing with her the pain points of our time together, especially those thing I’d wished I’d done differently (even if none of them were things I could have done anything about), I think I finally let go of at least a portion of the burden I’ve felt every single day since October 19.

I don’t know that I’ll ever even think about dating again, and I know that my heart will always be held together with superglue and duct tape because it completely broke in those early morning hours of that October day. But, thanks to Emily’s love and our time together, I now know that I never have been, nor ever will be, broken beyond repair. And, anytime I need a reminder of that or need to recenter myself, I know exactly where to go — Knoxville.

Because She Ran on Coffee

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My sleep has significantly improved over the past few weeks. However, I still experience mornings that are harder than others. Last Thursday was such a day, and boy was it a doozy. But I had a busy day ahead, so I pulled into the Starbucks drive thru after I took the kids to school.

At first, it was all ordinary. I ordered my “usuals.” Then, the woman said, “And what else?” A normal question. But just hearing that made me think back to all the times I had stopped and ordered coffee for the both of us.

My voice cracked as I said, “No, that’s all.” I felt the tears begin as the woman handed me my iced chai. And by the time I pulled out of the parking lot, I was full-blown sobbing. It may have been a bit dramatic, but I couldn’t help it because coffee always makes me think of Emily.

She Always Had Coffee

When Emily and I were in DBT group together, I quickly noticed a pattern with how she’d enter the building each week — always a coffee in hand. Sometimes it was in a travel mug from home, sometimes it was from Dunkin’ or Starbucks, and sometimes it was from a gas station. But, no matter where it came from, it was always coffee.

As Emily and I became friends, I learned that coffee was literally Emily’s fuel. It didn’t matter if it was 8:00 in the morning or 4:00 in the afternoon. She’d have a coffee in her hand or gladly accept one if it was offered.

However, her fatal flaw was not that she drank a bunch of coffee, but rather how long it took her to drink it. I would sometimes see her nurse the same cup of coffee for four or more hours. My favorite moments were the ones where she’d end up with two coffees for this reason.

Coffee Mug Mornings

I remember the first time Emily spent the night. I remember it because the next morning, we sat at the table, sipping coffee and smiling. I kept looking at her and grinning from ear to ear because I still couldn’t believe she was actually interested in me. Yet, there she was, smiling right back at me.

Throughout our relationship, we spent many mornings drinking coffee together. Sometimes, like on the Saturday mornings the kids were at their dad’s, we’d sit on the couch in our pajamas (which meant Emily was usually just in one of my t-shirts) and sip coffee while we watched a television show or just talked. There were other days when we’d grab coffee together through a drive thru or I’d make her coffee to go as she headed out the door for work.

On Sundays, Emily would never finish her coffee before it was time to leave for church. So she’d take her coffee mug into my car and continue drinking it while I drove. Of course, this meant that the coffee mugs would pile up in the floorboard until I took them inside, but it made me laugh nonetheless.

Even when we traveled, we made time for coffee. I remember when we went to Chicago, we grabbed coffee the first morning we were there and sat to drink it as we looked out at Lake Michigan. When we went to Melbourne, Florida, we grabbed coffee from a local place and sipped it as we walked along the beach and sat to watch the waves roll in and out.

Every moment seemed so simple, yet so perfect all at once. And they all involved coffee.

I Think of Her When I Drink Coffee

I know that it’s probably just the fact that her death is so fresh, but I am continuously shocked by all the seemingly minor things that make me think of Emily. It’s probably ridiculous that I can’t drink or even smell coffee without thinking of her, but that’s where I’m at. It’s just one of many things I strongly associate with her and probably always will.

I don’t go through coffee nearly as quickly now, because Emily isn’t here drinking it. But I’d give anything to sit and drink coffee with her again. Here’s to hoping there’s coffee in Heaven? I’d love to sit and watch the sun rise with a cup of coffee in one hand while my other hand holds on to Emily.

Because We Wanted To Help People

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Earlier this week, I looked over a friend’s graduate school application essays and provided some edit suggestions. Honestly, I loved reading the essays because it gave me such a clear perspective on why they’re applying to grad school and what they hope to accomplish with their MSW. It’s just inspiring to hear the why behind people’s dreams.

Of course, reading the essays also made me think about Emily for multiple reasons. First and foremost, this friend was actually one of Emily’s closest friends and someone Emily really admired. They worked together for a while, and they bonded over life experience and their shared desire to make the world a better place.

However, it wasn’t just that shared connection that made me think of Emily — it was the content of the essays themselves. Just as this other person has a whole vision of what they’d like to do once they obtain their master’s degree, Emily had a vision of what she wanted to do as well. And, honestly, it was a vision Emily and I shared.

It Started With DBT

I know I’ve already rambled on about how Emily and I met. However, I always find it funny when I think back to our time in group therapy together because so many things came out of that single shared experience. Obviously, our relationship was my favorite outcome from those hours we spent together, learning about wise mind. But, I think the inspiration we both took from it is a close second.

Before our paths crossed, Emily and I both had a desire to help people. And, despite all of the shortcomings of the therapist herself, we both grew a lot from our exposure to dialectical behavior therapy. Because of that, we both walked away from our time in DBT group with a dream to utilize the modality in some shape or form in our futures.

Of course, no single form of therapy is one-size-fits-all. Usually, most modalities are designed as a response to something specific the therapist who developed it was trying to address. In Marsha Linehan’s case, she wanted to help highly sensitive individuals who experienced chronic suicidal ideation (meaning lots of people with borderline personality disorder and similar conditions). As it became more mainstream, clinicians discovered that DBT is also beneficial for clients with disordered eating habits, those who deal with substance misuse, and many other populations.

In other words, it can help the exact populations of people Emily and I have always wanted to work with.

Even after we moved on from our DBT group as patients, Emily and I frequently talked about the modality. We discussed its benefits, its shortcomings, and our personal frustrations. We also discussed adaptations a clinician could possibly make to fit specific types of clients (like those with a trauma history).

Correcting What Went Wrong

I think one of the reasons mental health professionals with lived experience do their jobs so well is because they’ve seen what doesn’t work. That’s definitely the case for Emily and I both, and it was definitely one of the biggest motivators in our quest to help others.

I remember the first time Emily and I talked about our “dream treatment center” together. We were on our way to Knoxville, so we had several hours of time together in the car. We were talking about another one of Emily’s friends who has really struggled to find a treatment approach that works for her because of the combination of ED and trauma.

As Emily mentioned at that time, many residential facilities focus on weight restoration and meal compliance, but they don’t always spend as much time breaking down the function of ED. Also, as I saw during my time working in addiction treatment, not a lot of time is spent in small group or individual settings to really let people process underlying issues. And, unfortunately, that’s a huge part of the issue because substance use and disordered eating are almost always behaviors that stem from something much larger.

So, we talked about how our hypothetical treatment center would correct what went wrong in other places. We wanted to provide trauma-informed care, ensure that everyone felt safe, and make sure we didn’t care for one specific type (or stereotype) of client. And, we wanted to make sure that marginalized groups didn’t get lost in the shuffle, meaning we wanted to offer care for those in larger bodies, those in ethnic groups that may have a harder time accessing care (or finding places who were accepting of their upbringing), and those within the LGBTQ+ community.

Oh, and then there’s the other part about eating disorder treatment that makes it inaccessible for so many: the cost. So, Emily wanted to offer scholarships and look for grants or other funding sources so we could dedicate at least a few spots in our facility for those who were uninsured or underinsured. We also wanted to find ways to subsidize care for those whose insurance tried to boot them out before they were truly ready to go it alone.

Treating The Whole Person

Of course, healing isn’t just about learning how to eat carbs or sitting in a chair while a therapist asks you about your childhood trauma. People are complex beings, and we need a variety of things to feel fulfilled.

Emily and I wanted to find ways to work various arts into our treatment approach. We both agreed that music, visual art, and dance can be incredibly powerful forms of expression, and we wanted to explore what those components would look like in the context of treating people who live with ED. Of course, it would have required additional training and education, but we were more than willing to do that because we knew it would benefit the people we served.

We also wanted to find a balance in how much we focused on eating disorder recovery and how much we focused on other aspects of mental health treatment. We thought some specific small groups based on other conditions or needs would be helpful, since each person has unique needs. Some may need things like grief recovery, while others may need something specific for OCD.

In other words, we’d individualize treatment to the best of our abilities.

A Distant Dream or No Longer A Possibility?

Before Emily died, we knew our hypothetical treatment center was a solid decade down the line. Our plan was to get her established with her LMSW so she could start working towards her LCSW, go through the IVF process to have our child together, and then I’d look into going back to school. Once Emily had her LCSW and I had whatever degree I decided was best for our goals, we’d look into the next steps.

But now, she’s gone, and I’m a little torn on how to proceed.

Part of me wants to find a way to open this dream treatment center regardless, and name it after Emily. It would be the ultimate way to honor her, and I’d find ways to give as much credit back to her as I could.

But then, part of me feels like it’s an impossible task. I don’t have any formal training in anything related to therapy or social work. I know almost nothing about running a business, let alone one in a healthcare environment. And, although my finances are on the up trend, I’m still recovering from a rather rough final few months of 2022.

And, of course, the whole idea came about because of her… And I’m not sure how I’d ever live out her dreams without her by my side. But, then again, it’s because I love her and I loved her passion for helping others that I even wanted to do this to begin with…

What’s a grieving woman to do?

Because We Had Our Own Language

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As I drove to pick the kids up from school on Thursday afternoon, I experienced something new: a moment of laughter mixed with grief. I shared the experience over TikTok, but essentially a fire truck started it all.

As I laughed over the memory, I felt this dissonance within my heart. I love Emily and I know she’d like to see me smiling and laughing over the memories we shared. Yet, as I think about the silly ways in which Emily and I talked to each other over the years, I can’t help but also feel my heart breaking all over again.

We Called Them “Wee Woos”

If you watched the TikTok, then you already know this. But, basically, Emily and I started calling emergency vehicles “wee woos” at some point, and the name stuck.

However, we eventually took it a step further and gave each “flavor” of vehicle an adjective to distinguish it. So, fire trucks were “spicy wee woos.” As you can guess, ambulances were “medical wee woos.” And, I think police cars were “criminal wee woos.” (We talked about that one the least often.)

I don’t know if I just haven’t paid attention to my thoughts as much lately or if Thursday was simply the first time I’ve consciously thought about those terms since Emily died. Regardless, I laughed as soon as the phrase popped into my head. I even looked over to the passenger seat while laughing, and for a moment I imagined her laughing there beside me. It didn’t last long, but it was nice while it did.

Babe Language

Wee woos weren’t the only silly words for things we had going on. Sometimes, it almost felt like Emily and I had our own little language. In certain instances, it was to keep the kids from figuring out what we were saying. But, most of the time, it was just things that started with a single silly moment that became an ongoing thing we shared.

For example, we started calling each other “babe” fairly soon after we started dating. When the kids said it was too confusing for us to both be “babe,” I started calling Emily “pint-size babe” and she started calling me “musical babe.” It was cute.

To go along with that, we had statements that probably sounded completely ridiculous to anyone else, but we knew what they meant.

  • “Babe is love?” meant the person who said it needed reassurance. The other person would usually respond with, “I love my babe!” and the person who asked the question would say, “Yay! Babe is love!”
  • “Skinny desires” was a term Emily used when her eating disorder thoughts were being extra loud.
  • “Spicy thoughts” were code for trauma flashbacks or thoughts related to a past trauma, which we both had many of.
  • “Babe is want?” was usually Emily’s way of asking if I wanted to have sex.
  • “Does babe need medicine?” or “Can I have some medicine?” was usually a sneaky way to discuss edibles. (We learned early on that saying “gummies” did not work.)
  • “Gentle cuddles” was a term Emily used when she wanted me to hold her or cuddle up with her, but not in a sexual way. Usually it meant she was sad or having a hard day and just needed me to wrap my arms around her.
  • “Toaster bath thoughts” was our way of letting the other know that we were not doing well mental health wise.
  • “Grippy sock jail” was code for the psych hospital.
  • “Babe is WAP” can probably be inferred if you know the Cardi B song. Usually one of us said it to the other when they put on an especially attractive outfit.
  • “I be a blob” meant the person who said it wanted to curl up and relax. This usually involved a blanket and, in Emily’s case, meant she was going to scroll TikTok.
  • “Bad babe!” usually meant one of us did something we weren’t supposed to, but it was usually said in a playful way.
  • “Mommy juice” was alcohol.
  • “I pop babe!” meant Emily was about to pop some sort of pimple on me. (I could write a whole post just about this.)

Song Lyrics Became Sentences

I’ve discussed how much Emily and I loved music in multiple posts at this point. However, this meant that we both would randomly burst into song. I think Emily was one of the first people in my life who matched my love of turning what people say into song lyrics, and it makes my heart happy.

Some favorites in the house included:

  • I Knew You Were Trouble by Taylor Swift (usually in reference to the cat Trouble)
  • Booty by J Lo and Iggy Azalea (if you saw Emily’s butt, you understand)
  • Chasing Cars by Snow Patrol because of Grey’s Anatomy
  • Good As Hell by Lizzo (usually when we’d ask how the other was doing)
  • I Kissed A Girl by Katy Perry for obvious reasons
  • Tempo by Lizzo (often me dancing in the kitchen)

I Miss Our Special Communication

I’ll admit, there are so many things that are hard about life right now. But really, it’s little things like our ridiculous made up language that make this especially painful. You just can’t replace that level of connection with someone, and sometimes it takes longer to explain the word or phrase than it’s worth. It’s like that language we shared is just… gone.

Because of Emily, I had someone who I connected with on a level that we could communicate in so many silly ways and still get each other. And, much like our inside jokes, I miss those little conversations of lingo and lyrics more than ever.

Because It Didn’t Feel Like Her Last Day

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On the Monday after Thanksgiving, a three-hour car ride home from Knoxville turned into a complete breakdown for me. When I discussed this with my therapist after the fact, she mentioned that music could be a partial trigger. So, she recommended I find some podcasts to listen to during car rides for the next several weeks, and see if that helps.

The next time I got in the car without the kids, I did exactly what my therapist recommended. I started with a grief-related episode of I Weigh with Jameela Jamil, then moved to Last Day, a podcast Emily’s mom had mentioned while we were on vacation in August.

Last Day is a podcast two sisters started after they each lost a sibling to accidental overdose related to opioid misuse. I realize the topic of the podcast (issues that are killing people in America) has nothing to do with Emily’s death. Yet as I listened to one of the episodes about how normal one brother’s last day was, I couldn’t help but think about how much that same sentiment applied to Emily’s final 24 (or really 36) hours.

A Final Mundane Monday

I’ve mentioned this in other posts, but I will say it again: I’ve replayed the footage on those final two days of Emily’s life over and over again. I keep thinking that I’ll pick up on some clue, recall a moment that I missed, or finally piece together what I could have done differently to save her.

None of that has happened yet. Instead, all I’ve pieced together is that it never really seemed like the end until it was.

Monday, October 17 mostly started like any other Monday. Emily’s schedule meant she was almost always off work on Mondays, and the kids go to their dad’s after school, so it was our day to enjoy together.

I took the kids to school. I texted Emily as I left the school to see if she needed anything. I let Emily sleep in while I started my work day. When Emily came downstairs, she mentioned her abdominal pain, but insisted it wasn’t too bad. She also mentioned that she just had to make it through Monday, as she had an ultrasound appointment scheduled for the next morning and was hopeful they’d take one look at her gallbladder and schedule the surgery.

So, Emily went through her usual motions for a Monday. She had a monthly appointment with her dietician over Zoom, and she had an in-person therapy appointment that afternoon. She was drinking a little bit of water, but was having a hard time eating. Both her dietician and therapist asked her about going to the hospital, which she declined because she said the pain wasn’t that bad.

Once she returned home from her therapy session, I could tell she wasn’t feeling well. We cuddled up on the couch and started watching 9-1-1. As the clock approached dinner time, I told Emily I’d make literally anything she was willing to eat. She asked for the tater tots from the restaurant in our apartment complex, but I think she only took two bites of one before she felt worse. I looked at her and said, “Give me just a minute to pack a bag, and then we’re going to the ER.” She didn’t fight it — she just nodded.

The Waiting Game

If you’ve needed any type of emergency medical care since March 2020, you know what a shit show it is. Most hospitals are understaffed, over capacity, and fighting an uphill battle. Needless to say, we knew we were in for a long wait when we walked into the waiting room at our local ER that Monday night.

We arrived right around 7:00 pm. Because of Emily’s history, they called her back for an EKG right away. That looked fine, so they sent us back out to the waiting room. They called her back for labs about two hours later, and then sent her back out to the waiting room again.

As the hours ticked by, I could tell Emily felt frustrated. She kept saying, “Clearly I’m fine since they don’t seem to be in any rush to call me back,” and, “I’m probably just being a big baby and we shouldn’t even be here.” I tried my best to remain calm and validate her feelings while also reminding her that the long wait didn’t mean she was blowing things out of proportion.

Finally, they called her back sometime after 3:00 am. Since every other room was full, they put us in what they called the “fast pass” room, which was normally for quick treatments. However, they assured us that they weren’t going to send her home immediately, and they would do what they could to figure everything out. They performed an ultrasound, gave her some IV fluids and an antibiotic, and had her take some sort of cocktail for her nausea and abdominal pain. By 6:00 am, they had determined her gallbladder was the issue, but some of her labs also looked concerning enough that they wanted to transport her to Vanderbilt (where she had her transplant).

So, after an entire night in the local ER, we boarded an ambulance to transfer. Perhaps I should have taken her directly to Vanderbilt instead of going to the ER 5 minutes from our home? I’m not sure.

It All Seemed Fine… Until It Wasn’t

Although there was a bit of initial confusion when we arrived at Vanderbilt, everything seemed in order once they got Emily into a room. The team confirmed that she needed her gallbladder removed, and a general surgeon came to talk to us about the procedure. He said they’d likely schedule the surgery for the next day (Wednesday), assuming cardiology signed off.

Emily had an ultrasound and a cardiac echo. They ran some labs. All in all, though, she was mostly free to get out of bed, use the bathroom on her own, and hang out.

Later that afternoon, someone from the transplant team came by. They made the same comment as St. Thomas about her troponin levels, but didn’t seem overly concerned. As a precaution, they scheduled a right cath for Wednesday morning, and said they’d start Emily on IV steroids that evening to counteract any potential rejection.

I think I was the only person who seemed even mildly worried. Emily seemed more concerned about my feelings than anything the doctors told her. The doctors seemed calm and collected, and they continuously reassured us that Emily would be fine.

They served her a ridiculously bland dinner. I grabbed Chinese from the cafeteria, and of course Emily stole several pieces of my orange chicken. She wasn’t in pain, she was carrying on conversation as usual, and was texting folks with updates.

At some point, I asked her if she wanted to stream something on my laptop, and she said yes. We got into a minor disagreement because I mentioned climbing in the bed with her and she insisted there was not enough room for both of us in the hospital bed. In true us fashion, we spent the next 5 minutes apologizing to each other, then I slid a chair next to her bed and set up the laptop so we could watch 9-1-1.

Part of the way through the episode, Emily started to fall asleep. I wasn’t surprised since we’d essentially been awake for over 24 hours at that point. So I turned off the show (insert more checking in that no one was mad), and she slept in the bed while I positioned the reclining chair as close to her as I could.

At some point, I think it was 9:00 or so, Emily got up to use the bathroom. I asked her if she needed help, she said no. But when she stood up to get off the toilet, her knee decided to sublux (very common issue for her), and she fell. I pushed the call button for the nurse, then asked her what I could do to help. The nurse came and got her back into bed, asked if she wanted ice for her knee, and told her to not get out of bed unless someone was helping her. Then we went back to sleep.

The Final Hours

You know that feeling when you’re in the middle of a detailed dream and your alarm clock goes off and wakes you up in a panic? Well, that’s exactly what happened to me. I woke to machines beeping and immediately panicked and looked at Emily. She looked awake, but wasn’t alert or responsive to me. A whole team of people rushed in, and asked me what was happening. I just looked at them, horrified, and said, “We were asleep. I don’t know. Everything just started beeping and she isn’t responding when I talk to her.”

Within a minute or so, she was fine again. When they asked her if she knew what happened, she said, “I woke up because I needed to go to the bathroom and my partner was asleep, and now all of you are in here.” To her, that entire period of time with the beeping machines and me trying to talk to her didn’t happen.

More labs were ordered, and the doctors asked us both questions about her medical history and health. They asked her a lot of questions to confirm she was cognitively fine, and all the nurses looked at me and said, “Aw! How romantic!” when Emily told them the proposal story.

Finally, people started leaving the room. One of the doctors told us she’d look over all the labs and let us know what they found out. Again, no one seemed overly alarmed yet, mostly just perplexed.

Emily jokingly said, “Well, I’m awake now… Let’s talk about the wedding!” We briefly discussed our plans for what we wanted the wedding party to wear (we both agreed we wanted people to pick outfits that made them feel comfortable and confident, as long as they matched the colors of purple for her side and green for mine). We also joked that we’d offer our brothers the option to wear dresses but knew all too well that none of them would.

I don’t know for sure, but I think about an hour had passed since the initial episode when, mid conversation, the same thing happened again. I couldn’t even think enough to find the damn call button, so I just shouted, “Help!”

I said her name a few times and tried touching her before the nurse ran in. He looked at her, and then immediately asked me if I would help him flip her on her side since it looked like a seizure. As we did, the same group of people from the first episode rushed in again. I stood out of the way, crying and panicking, as everyone rushed around to care for her.

It took a bit longer this time, but Emily started responding again after a couple minutes. More labs, a chest x-ray, and an ultrasound, all done in the room. They kept asking me if she’s had seizures before, had any issues like diabetes, and more. I kept telling them no, all of this was new. Somewhere during this time I texted Emily’s mom, and she called me.

At this point, Emily was responsive and still firing off sassy comments, but she was visibly unwell. She told me she didn’t feel well, and I stroked her hair. I stayed by her side while the doctors talked. She started feeling nauseated, so I grabbed one of the “puke tubs” (my term) and held it for her. I know she apologized at one point, and I just kept telling her it was okay, I wasn’t upset. I also told her I was not going to leave her side.

No one knew what was going on, so they decided to move her to the ICU so they could keep a closer eye on her. One of the doctors looked at me and said, “We’re going to figure this out. We’ve got her.” But it didn’t matter, I still fought tears the entire time I walked beside her bed as we made our way to the cardiac ICU.

We made it into the ICU room. I sat our bags down in a chair. Then I stood beside her bed as they started getting her all settled and hooked up to monitors. She looked at me and said, “Babe, I’m feeling weird. I think it’s about to happen again.” I said, “It’s going to be okay, I’ll tell them. Just sit tight.” And that’s it. That’s the last thing I said to her.

As I turned to get someone’s attention (there were 3 people in the room), the same thing happened again, only this time she completely coded. They started CPR and were all talking to each other before a nurse realized I was standing there crying. He made me leave the room and assured me someone would come update me soon.

I don’t know how much time passed as I paced the waiting room. It felt like forever. I prayed, I cried, I emailed all of our pastors to ask for prayers. I ran to the bathroom and threw up. I cried some more. I forced myself to drink water and tried every mindfulness exercise I could remember from our DBT group. I kept grabbing my phone to text or call someone, but then realized it wasn’t even 5:00am yet so everyone would be asleep.

When a doctor came out to update me, I was sitting in a chair staring at the ceiling. She told me they’d put her on ECMO, and I completely lost it. I swear Chasing Cars should have been playing in the background, because it felt exactly like a scene from Grey’s Anatomy.

And then, not even 30 minutes later, the same doctor came out to tell me ECMO wasn’t working and she was dead.

Nobody Knows

I know that most people don’t wake up in the morning and think, “Today is my last day of life.” In fact, I think most of us would say that our lives unfold much like the lyrics of Cosy in the Rocket (the Grey’s Anatomy theme song): Nobody knows where they might end up.

Emily and I certainly didn’t know how those final two days would play out. But then again, Emily did make a comment when a friend of ours visited Tuesday morning that it “felt a lot like 2017,” so maybe she knew something we didn’t? It’s hard to say.

All I know is it never really felt like the end until the end was already there, and by that moment, all I could think about was that I was too late.

There’s a lot I’m grateful for when it comes to Emily. But I think that part of me will always carry regrets. And because of that, I will never be the same.

Because She Loved Cheese

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Tonight I made spaghetti for dinner. As I served up everyone, I asked Meredith if she wanted any parmesan cheese on top of hers. She looked at me and said, “No, I’m good.” I then asked if she wanted a different type of cheese. She laughed and said, “Mom, I’m not Emily or Eleanor. I don’t need cheese on everything.”

I chuckled because she was right: Emily loved cheese on pretty much anything.

A Girl Who Loved Cheese

Emily loved cheese. It didn’t matter what the time was or what kind of cheese, Emily would eat it. (Well, unless it was Swiss… Then it was a hard pass.)

She loved cheese so much that she’d buy it at Costco. There’s this multipack of 4 different kinds of sliced cheese, and she’d get one every time we went. She’d also buy the giant bags of shredded cheese there, and we sometimes got string cheese there too. There was never a shortage of cheese in our fridge, I’ll put it that way.

What’s more, her love of cheese only intensified with marijuana use. She often reminded me of Maggie in Season 14, Episode 20 of Grey’s Anatomy (the “weed cookie” episode) because she’d talk about her love of cheese while eating cheese while I’d just sit and laugh at her.

We often watched TV together after the kids went to bed, and sometimes we’d have snacks and wine or other alcohol. More than once when I asked her if she wanted a snack during our TV time, she said, “Oh, do we still have cheese? I want that!” I don’t know why it always made me look at her funny, but it was just so random.

However, I think my favorite story about Emily’s love of cheese came with her ridiculous double decker cheese snack. We were sitting on the couch, and out of nowhere, Emily asks me if we still have Cheez-Its. Then she says, “I wonder what it would be like to put cheese in between two Cheez-Its like a sandwich.” So, naturally, she tried it. Although she wasn’t overly impressed with the end result, we laughed about it for a while and I often mentioned it as a snack option going forward.

Cheese Makes Everything Better

Emily’s love of cheese wasn’t restricted to eating it by itself for a snack. She also used cheese as a secret ingredient in many things that I’d never tried cheese on before. And, I will say, most of them were very good!

For example, Emily added cheese into her deviled eggs. She’d mix shredded cheddar (and sometimes parmesan) into the “filling” for the eggs. It was a trick she learned from her dad, and it made her deviled eggs a hit anywhere we took them.

Emily also taught me to put cheese on my Sloppy Joes, on vegetables like broccoli and asparagus, and countless other things I can’t even think of at the moment. She loved when I’d add cheese to my mashed potatoes, and she’d really only eat scrambled eggs if I put cheese in them too.

Cheese Will Always Remind Me of Emily

As I drove through Wisconsin last week, I knew I needed to stop at at least one “cheesy” destination. The state is known for its cheese, so it only makes sense to sample some. However, for me, the cheese was more about adding a quintessential Emily thing into the itinerary.

As I stood in the shop and stared and hundreds of types of cheeses, I started to cry. I could just see Emily standing there next to me, reading the labels on the different options, asking me which ones I thought we should try. She also probably would have started quoting Maggie from the aforementioned Grey’s Anatomy episode or started texting her best friend Candace memes from that scene.

Because Emily loved cheese, I will always think about her as I stand in that aisle of the grocery store or encounter shops like the one in Wisconsin. And, although that means I may cry over Gouda for a while, it also means I’m going to spend the rest of my life laughing, too. Because, really, that woman’s love of cheese was quite comical.

Because A Bomb Went Off

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Like many other people around Middle Tennessee, the kids and I woke up to no power this morning. Due to the unusually cold temperatures, electricity usage was exceeding what TVA could provide, so they mandated rolling blackouts. Unfortunately, our local power company wasn’t prepared to turn the generators back on, so we were without power for at least an hour (could be longer but we weren’t awake yet).

As we waited for the power to come back on, Meredith said, “This is almost like Christmas a couple years ago when the bomb broke the internet!” I laughed, and then I sat in my thoughts, replaying that entire Christmas day and the days after. It was an interesting Christmas, and funnily enough, it involved Emily in an unexpected way.

Such a Strange Christmas

I remember Christmas 2020 very well. The kids woke me up early that morning, excited over all the gifts under the tree. We opened presents, then started cinnamon rolls in the oven. We would only have the morning together, since their dad would be over to pick them up by lunchtime and they’d be spending the next week with them. Needless to say, I was trying to make the most of it.

Right before 8:00am, Emily texted me pictures of her parents’ yard. Knoxville got quite a bit of snow, and I was jealous of the beautiful view. I wished her a merry white Christmas, but she didn’t respond and I assumed she was busy with family.

But then, around 30 minutes later, she says, “Are y’all okay?” When I ask her if I missed something, she says, “Uh, yeah,” and includes a link to the news about the Nashville bombing. When I asked her if she was aware of the distance between Nashville and Murfreesboro, she told me to shut up because she has an anxiety disorder and panicked.

Within a few hours of that text exchange, I had no cell service, no home internet, and no one else in the house. It was a very lonely Christmas Day.

The next morning, Emily sent me a message on Facebook (so I could read it when I found public WiFi) letting me know she’d be back home from Knoxville later that day and I could crash at her place if I at least wanted the internet and someone to talk to since she had Comcast internet and used Verizon for cell service. She also mentioned that she was a little scared to be home alone since they still hadn’t located the bomber and they suspected someone who lived near her apartment complex. So I said yes.

After she mentioned her heat wasn’t working well, we decided to just split a hotel room if we could find one with working WiFi. This worked well because we’d have company, internet, and Emily would be close to her weekend job. It took some calling around on Emily’s part (I didn’t have a way to make phone calls), but we found a hotel and I used Panera’s WiFi to book a room.

It ended up being a pretty fun weekend, despite the cold weather and the lack of cell service. We talked for hours about everything and nothing, I worked on freelance writing while Emily went to her weekend job as a home health aid, and we are at Five Guys at one point. The hotel was cute, and Emily definitely mentioned we should stay there again sometime. For me, her company was what really made it an exceptional weekend.

Yet Another Moment of Missed Indications

Throughout the weekend, each of us took turns making jokes about the two of us dating or somehow being involved with each other. At Five Guys, I held the door open for her, and offered to pay for us both. She laughed and mentioned how I was a better gentleman than her boyfriend, and I told her to dump him for me. At the hotel, we cracked a joke about the sleeping situation. There were just little moments of playfulness, and it made me laugh.

It all seemed pretty on brand for us, and it definitely wasn’t the first time we’d made jokes like that. When she tagged along on the fall break trip to Gatlinburg with me and the kids that October, we had some similar banter. When I was starting the divorce process, she joked about us getting a place together and I said that might make us look like a couple, but we both laughed. So many little moments like that, going all the way back to 2019… yet neither of us picked up on the others underlying feelings.

Looking back, I wish I’d made my move much sooner. I knew for certain how I felt about her the night I drove home from that Lizzo concert, but I worried she wouldn’t reciprocate those feelings. And she told me several times that she stuffed down her feelings about me because she felt unsure about her sexuality.

Which, I guess at most it would have given us another year or so, but given how quickly things moved, that extra year would have gotten her the wedding of her dreams and let her avoid the dumpster that was the ex right before me. But I guess that’s yet another regret I get to add to my list of things I wish I’d done a better job of with her.

Picking Up The Rubble

This Christmas is going to resemble the Christmas from two years ago in many ways. The kids will leave sometime after the morning to be with their dad for a week. I’m going to leave my apartment and go stay in a hotel (well, a bed and breakfast for a few nights, then a couple different hotels). I’ll probably do some freelance work on someone else’s WiFi.

But, this time, instead of waiting for someone else to pick up the rubble and restore AT&T internet and cell service, I’m going to be dealing with my own shards to pick up: my broken heart.

I’m not going to lie, I’m somewhat using the next week to run away. I know it will only provide relief from some of the pain. I’ll get to take a break from living in a house full of her stuff and memories I made with her. I can leave behind a town where all I see are moments we shared together. I can ignore the people who try to talk to me but don’t understand, or I can even ignore everyone who knows me as Emily’s other half.

Unfortunately, there’s nothing that can make me the way I was before I watched the love of my life die, and that’s a hard pill to swallow.

Just like the bomb went off and destroyed a whole section of downtown Nashville, a wrecking ball called death obliterated the beautiful life I’d built with the most incredible woman I’ve ever met. And that isn’t something that can be repaired.

Because of Emily, I had someone to be with in the aftermath of an explosion. But because she’s gone, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to put myself back together again.