life

Because I’m A Widow

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Before you read any of this post, I want to preface it all with a single statement: I feel so incredibly blessed to have some truly amazing friends. These friends have opened their homes to me, taken time out of their busy lives to be present with me, and listened to me say some very ridiculous and dark things over the past five months. Regardless of what I say in this post, I hope those friends (all of you know who you are) know that I’m truly thankful for your companionship and love, even in moments where I may not express it outwardly.

A Permanent Odd Man Out

Saturday was one of those days that felt wonderful and awful at the same time. The day was full of fun activities and time with others. And yet, there were several times when it took every bit of strength I had to not burst into tears or run away and close myself off from everyone.

Honestly, I feel like most days have become that way as I continue to straddle the growing divide between my current reality and the previous life I still long for. And unfortunately, one of the consistent trends I’ve noticed is that the hardest moments are ones where I’m with other people, especially groups of people made up of couples and families.

It makes sense when I look around a room and realize I’m the only person not there with my spouse. I’m the odd man out who carries around a perpetual feeling of being the odd man out because of other pieces of my identity. And even if no one says a word about it, the pervasive thoughts spread like wildfire inside my mind, and I assume that everyone else is also aware of this awkwardness.

But, unlike other times when people may make jokes about “third wheels” or singles in a group of married folks, I feel like my situation will forever be one of those elephants in the room that no one wants to touch, even with a 10-foot pole because I’m a widow.

“Mom, Are You a Widow?”

During those final few hours of Emily’s life, I ended up answering lots of questions her treatment team had as they tried their best to piece together what was happening so they could (hopefully) stabilize her. Everyone helping her knew I was her fiancé, and I was incredibly thankful that they were willing to communicate with me about what was going on.

The day after Emily’s death, I was left with a very difficult task — I had to explain the situation to my kids. Then, my oldest child asked a question that made me think even more. She said, “You and Emily were going to get married, so does this mean you are a widow now that she died?”

Before the child had posted that question, I hadn’t really thought about it much. The previous day had been filled with a combination of extreme emotions and numbness that caused me to completely lose track of time and space. So, I simply answered as best as I could.

“You know, I hadn’t really thought about that, but you’re right. I guess I am a widow.”

I Pledged Myself to Emily

If you asked me in 2020 whether I’d ever had married again, I would have laughed in your face, then followed that up with a, “Hell no!” I told my friends that I never planned to date another man again, and I felt fairly certain that I’d never find a person I could truly open up to and trust with my heart again.

Of course, if you’d asked that same version of me to tell you about Emily, you’d probably have responded with that noise that middle school girls make when they find out who their friends have crushes on.

As I watched her get ready to go to her brother’s graduation that morning after our first date, I knew with absolute certainty that she was the one.

She was worth breaking all the rules I’d with for myself. She was worth the risk of a shattered heart. She was worth it because, unlike any other person I’d been with before, she made me feel good about myself.

And so, I gave Emily my heart and asked her not to break it. I shared my hopes and dreams with her. We made plans together… Plans that involved us remaining together for the rest of our days.

I Accept My Fate

I know that people say things when their emotions are heightened, and later change their minds when the storm rolls out and they can see rationally again. However, I don’t think I’m purely speaking with grief brain when I say this: my time for love is over now.

We may not have made it down the aisle, but when I put that engagement ring on Emily’s finger, I made a promise to love her for the rest of my life. And, no matter what has happened since that night, I love her just as much now as I did then. Nothing will ever change that.

As I process my grief, I may share more stories about Emily’s flaws (my post about her inability to clean is a prime example of that). However, I firmly believe it’s possible to see someone as completely as I saw Emily and still love them the way I do.

Because of Emily, I finally got to experience love in a way that, honestly, I’m not sure everyone gets to. But, because of all that happened back in October, I now find myself in this position where I’m not even 40 yet, but I’m very much a widow.

We lived together. We relied on each other and confided in each other. We made plans with each other. We wanted to grow old with each other. We loved each other and accepted each other exactly as we are. In fact, we loved each other so much that even in those last hours we had together, we spent our time dreaming about the future and trying our best to care for each other in one of the scariest moments we’d ever faced together as a couple.

I watched the love of my life die. I’m a widow.

And, even though it really fucking sucks to stand on my own in a room full of couples, I am willing to accept my fate going forward because I can’t imagine a life in which I ever love anyone the way I loved Emily.

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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 Lived For Medical Shows

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I know by now I’ve mentioned that one of the first things Emily and I bonded over was our mutual love of Grey’s Anatomy. It was very much a focal point of our friendship and provided us with an abundance of memes, quotes, and memories to share. By the time 2020 rolled around, we frequently hung out on Thursday nights so we could watch the show together, and once we moved in together we relished our time together after the kids went to bed when we could curl up with our favorite snacks and watch the show together. In fact, this show was such a huge part of our story that we actually debated having a Grey’s-themed wedding or, at the very least, a Grey’s-themed joint bachelorette party.

My love for this show is a bit odd, because I’m not usually one for anything that includes a lot of blood, guts, and needles. Of course, if you knew Emily at all, then you knew her love of Grey’s Anatomy was about so much more than the characters or the drama — it was the medical aspects of the show that really appealed to her.

More Than Just Grey’s Anatomy

For reasons I’ll never fully understand, Emily lived for any television show with a medical component. In the time I knew her, she made me watch Private Practice, 9-1-1, and another fictitious medical show I can’t remember. I know she watched other shows too, like Chicago Med, but somehow we hadn’t gotten around to any others just yet.

She absolutely loved watching these shows. Yet, at the same time, they always pissed her off because of her extensive medical knowledge. So, for me, watching her watch the shows was entertainment in itself.

She’d sit and speculate what was wrong with a patient or make guesses about what would happen during surgery. She’d get mad anytime the doctors would casually call up UNOS because “that’s not how getting an organ works,” and she’d constantly correct how certain procedures or tests were done. It was hilarious.

Of course, my favorites were the episodes that also involved a psych component, because then I also got to see social worker Emily come out and yell at the television set even more. She hated pretty much every single social worker, therapist, or psychiatrist any of these shows ever cast, and she’d get mad at how ridiculous some portrayals of diagnoses appeared (example: Dr. Bailey’s OCD).

No matter how inaccurate the shows were, though, she continued to watch them. And I loved seeing this side of Emily come out.

Don’t Forget The Real-Life Medical Shows

Although I would have been content with our mediocre fictional medical dramas, Emily’s love of medicine + TV didn’t stop there. She also loved many real-life medical shows, and she made me watch them all when we had access to Discovery+.

My personal favorite was Sex Sent Me To The ER because no one died or had a serious medical condition, they were usually just stupid and needed medical attention to fix their stupidity. Also, they often had people reenact what happened in an overly dramatized way, which made me laugh to no end.

We watched several other shows, too. Some memorable ones include Untold Stories of the ER, Mystery ER, Mystery Diagnosis, Life or Death, and Surgery Saved My Life. Many of the shows had questions throughout, and Emily always knew the answers. She also frequently guessed the diagnosis before the doctors even figured it out fully, which impressed me. But, sometimes I had to just not watch for a bit, because I don’t do well with blood and other gross stuff.

Of course, Emily’s favorite show was without a doubt Dr. G Medical Examiner. As the name implies, a medical examiner named Dr. G would investigate unexplainable deaths and find answers for the families. Sometimes Dr. G would discover something rare, whereas other times she’d merely find that the cause of death given wasn’t the full story. Each episode included plot twists, and Emily lived for the thrill of the final answer.

She’s Her Own Medical Mystery Now

Looking back, I wish I’d had enough grasp over my thoughts during those last few hours with Emily to joke about how she was becoming her own version of her favorite medical mystery television shows. Emily’s brother did joke about it in his speech at the funeral, which I appreciated. Because I know that, deep down, she would have laughed and screamed over the irony all at once.

But, alas, here we are over four months after her death, and we still have no idea what caused Emily to die. The autopsy results still haven’t come to fruition (at least to my knowledge), and not a single person I’ve talked to that has any sort of background in medicine has any idea for me.

I know that Emily would want to know what happened, and the not knowing often keeps me up at night. I can’t help but wonder if taking her to the ER sooner would have helped. I keep thinking about those last 48 hours and ask myself each day if I made a misstep along the way or if something her treatment team did could have gone awry. I’ve even wondered if the pieces of my orange chicken from the cafeteria that she stole from me to supplement her bland dinner could have been the culprit.

Unfortunately for now, her death is just as much a mystery as any of the aliments people dealt with on her favorite television shows, and it’s sad, frustrating, and excruciatingly painful to live in the unknown.

Because Emily loved medical mysteries, I suspect the answers we eventually get will either be something incredibly rare and fascinating or so unclear that she’ll become a medical mystery for the ages. But, because I also love her, I am just glad to know she’s not in pain anymore and have to assume that the damage that occurred in those last few hours was so extensive that God didn’t see any other way to take care of her but to call her home.

Because We Love Target

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I only got four hours of sleep Monday night. Emily has been on my mind so much lately, and I can’t help but feel like she (and everyone really) is annoyed and disappointed with me. By the time the work day ended on Tuesday, I was in a headspace where I just really needed out of the house. I texted a few folks, but no one answered. So, I closed my eyes and thought, “Where would Emily go right now?”

And that’s how I ended up at Target.

I needed some pens and highlighters, so it seemed like the perfect option. Yet, as soon as I walked in the door and heard two people chatting in the One Spot, I felt the tears. I spent a while just wandering the aisles and reliving memories because, as the title says, we loved going to Target.

Target Is A Magical Place

I don’t know what it is about Target, but I swear just walking around in the store cures everyone. You don’t even have to buy anything, either. You can just walk through the aisles, point out interesting items, then leave hours later.

Over the years, Emily and I spent a lot of time in Target. Sometimes we’d go into the store with a specific mission in mind, while other times we’d just go for the serotonin boost only that red bullseye can provide.

Inevitably, we’d always leave with items we didn’t even know we needed. According to Emily, though, we did need the items. She’d always say, “Target always tells you what you need.” Which, in Emily speak, that meant we had to walk through every single section of the store every single time we went to Target, even if we only went in for something towards the front of the store, like a gift bag or pens.

A Target Date Night

Although I have many fond memories of Target, I think my absolute favorite experience was the time Emily and I planned a Target Date Night. We’d just started dating, and we were looking for something fun to do on a weeknight that wouldn’t require us to be out late. So, we went to the Super Target in Smyrna with this list, and told each other we’d meet back at the front of the store at a specific time.

Of course, we ran into each other several times during the shopping experience. We’d wave, blow each other a kiss, or say, “How many more do you need?” then part ways again. It was fairly hilarious, and felt like a game in many ways. Once we finished, we each checked out, then went to Emily’s apartment to share what we picked out for each other.

Among the most hilarious items were the mascara Emily bought for me as the thing she’d like me to try (I pretty much never wear any makeup), and the fact that I got both coffee and alcohol for her favorite drink. We also each picked out something pride-themed for each other, which was both comical and cute.

Goth Target

As I’ve mentioned before, Emily had a knack for planning trips. The trip we took to Chicago for my birthday in 2021 was no exception. But, of course, she found a way to work both Starbucks and Target into the trip.

If you haven’t heard about Goth Target, you should definitely look it up. Basically, it’s a Target in Downtown Chicago that has goth architecture. Inside, it’s a mostly normal Target (albeit multi-story). However, the exterior alone is enough reason to visit, because it’s really cool.

Anyway, we went into that Target just because, and still left with a ton of random things. Emily was excited about the abundance of winter weather gear, so she got a hat and some gloves. I’d realized when we arrived the night before that I’d forgotten to pack pajamas, so I grabbed those. We got snacks, a few other items, and wandered a bit before heading to the checkout.

Needless to say, I’m glad that was our last stop for the afternoon.

I’ll Listen to Target

Because of Emily, I’ve somewhat adopted the notion that Target tells you what you need. For example, I saw a snow globe in the store shortly after she died, and I just had to buy it. Sure, I didn’t need to spend money. And sure, it could have waited. But it was staring me in the face and I could just feel something inside of me saying, “Buy it!”

I’ll admit, it’s not easy to go into places that hold so many memories. However, I also know that I’ve remembered things related to Emily about pretty much every single store or restaurant I’ve thought about walking into since October 19, so I can’t let that stop me from enjoying Target.

But, because of Emily, I might start leaving the store with at least one impulsive buy every time I visit. I know she won’t mind.

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 She Was Always Cold

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Some friends invited the kids and I over for dinner last night. After we ate, all four of the kids (my two + their two) ran upstairs to play. As my friends and I sat in their living room and chatted, one asked the other, “Will you sit on my feet? They’re cold.”

I immediately started laughing, which left my friends wondering what was so funny. I then explained that Emily would often say and do similar things because, no matter what the weather was or what she was wearing, Emily was cold most of the time.

She Owned Dozens of Cardigans

It didn’t matter if it was July or December. If Emily was indoors, she was probably cold. Because of this, she owned over a dozen cardigans in various colors and thicknesses. She usually kept at least one at work, at least one in her car, and the rest lived in various places.

Although she had so many, it never seemed to be enough. She’d frequently “forget” where she put them (they were usually just buried under the other junk in her car), and I’d go online and order her more. I often laughed at how many cardigans she had, but she’d just rebuttal with a statement about them being part of her “future therapist uniform” and move on.

Needless to say, I found at least a few of these cardigans in her car when I cleaned it out after her death.

Cuddles for Warmth

As most people know, I live in a larger body. While this sometimes frustrates me, Emily had dozens of reasons why she loved it. Among those reasons, one was the warmth I provided.

In the evenings, Emily would frequently cuddle up on the couch with a blanket, then proceed to either stick her cold feet somewhere on my body or scooch her entire self as close to me as possible. She’d always say, “You’re so warm!” and I’d laugh.

I remember at least a few occasions in the fall and winter when we’d be walking somewhere in Nashville at night and, of course, she’d be cold. I’d usually cuddle up close to her to either shield her from the wind or wrap her up in whatever jacket I was wearing and try my best to keep her nice and toasty. It may sound silly, but it actually made me happy that I could provide comfort and warmth for her in those moments.

Sometimes as we nestled into bed for the night, Emily would scoot close to me. Again, she’d say the same, “Oh, babe, you’re so warm!” and smile. The only time I hated this was when she’d stick her hands inside my shirt because they were so cold!

Emily The Clothing Thief

Obviously, there was a significant size difference between Emily and I. She wore clothes so small that she could share items with my oldest child, while I have to shop in the plus size section. Although this didn’t work to my advantage, it most certainly worked in Emily’s favor because she could simply steal my clothes if she wanted something baggy and warm.

She’d frequently use my t-shirts as night gowns in the warmer months. In the winter, she’d immediately snatch up a sweatshirt when I took it off to put on pajamas, and she’d often sleep in them at night. The few times I pointed out that I’d worn said sweatshirt the entire day, she’d say, “It’s soft and warm and smells like you — I love it!”

Again, probably sounds silly, but seeing her in my clothes always made me smile. Yes, they looked huge and silly on her, but I knew that it made her happy and it made my heart happy to see her so comfortable and content.

More Things About Her That I Miss

It’s funny, I don’t think I really thought much of all these silly little things as they happened. But now? These simple stories mean the world to me. They were things that you see play out in silly romantic comedies or comic strips about the realities of marriage. So, when you put that spin on it, I think they mean so much to me because it’s just more undeniable proof that our relationship was exactly what I’d always dreamed of finding.

Because Emily was always cold, I have many happy, hilarious memories of keeping her warm that put a smile on my face more times than I can count. But now that she’s gone, I miss these simple moments more than anything.

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 of a Second-Hand Heart

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A few weeks ago, I made a video on TikTok about the story of how Emily and I went from being friends to getting engaged and then included a final bit about our last day together. I saw other people making similar “friends to more than friends” videos, and I just really wanted to make one of my own. I didn’t expect anyone to watch it, yet the post ended up getting millions of views.

A lot of people commented that they were sorry for my loss and how unfair it was that I didn’t get more time with her. However, several people made comments about the irony of our love story playing out after her heart transplant. Some people even went so far as to say that it almost seemed like God’s plan all along was to give her that extra time so she could experience love from me.

Although I definitely agree that divine intervention was at play in our entire relationship, I think Emily’s transplant gave her the opportunity to do many things. She got a second chance at life, and boy, she lived it to the fullest. It only seems fitting that today, a day that would have been her five-year heartiversary (yes, I’m going to keep using that word), we talk about all the things Emily did with those final years of her life.

Emily Hardin, MSW

Emily had dreams of helping others, and she planned to do that by becoming a social worker. Her plan was very detailed: she was going to obtain her bachelor’s degree, enroll in graduate school, earn her MSW, then set out to help the world. She was determined, and nothing was going to get in her way. She had just two semesters left when her heart made life extra complicated.

When Emily went into heart failure, she continued her studies. People would visit the hospital and find her writing papers, studying, or taking exams. She finished that fall semester even though she was incredibly sick. It was quite an accomplishment.

After the transplant, she had to take a semester off, but she went back to school full force that summer and worked hard to wrap up her degree. And, in December 2018, Emily walked across the stage and earned her bachelor’s degree.

It took time to take the GRE and apply for grad school. However, she didn’t let setbacks or challenges stop her. Eventually, she got into the MSW program at the University of Kentucky and started the program in the fall of 2020.

I had a front row seat the entire time she was in grad school. I watched her work so hard on every assignment while also working full-time (and at some points holding down two jobs). There were nights where she had to stay up until nearly midnight to collaborate with classmates on video assignments. There were nights where we sat on the couch and I edited one of her papers while she typed up another. And, there were times where she worked on assignments from her phone because she still wanted us to be able to go out.

However, I think the culminating moment of her entire time in grad school was when she hosted a workshop on how to help people who live with eating disorders. She spent weeks preparing — she wanted everything to be perfect. When the day finally came for her to host the workshop, I sat in one room to attend the workshop while she set up in another. I loved seeing her talk about one of her passions, and she provided amazing information. She did an incredible job, and I was so proud of her.

Finally, graduation day came in May. We made our way to Lexington, and she walked across the stage. Finally, one of her dreams came true — she was Emily Hardin, MSW.

One Inch At A Time

As I’ve mentioned in other posts and in some of the TikTok videos I’ve made since her death, Emily also loved dance. She loved it so much, in fact, that she decided to minor in dance while at MTSU earning her bachelor’s degree.

Although studying an art like dance while also earning a degree in social work is an accomplishment within itself, I still find it mind-blowing that Emily was able to completely choreograph and perform a solo dance less than a year after her transplant. The dance, which she titled “One Inch At A Time,” was all about eating disorder recovery (are you seeing how passionate she was about this topic?).

I wrote about the dance in a post about her love of dance, but this dance was such a huge part of her story after the transplant that I needed to mention it again.

Recovery and Growth

I know the transplant was a very emotional experience for Emily. When we first met the fall after, she was still working through a lot of it. Her relationship with her body was already complicated before the transplant, and for a while after, her eating disorder became quite loud. She also dealt with anxiety, depression, and very unmanaged OCD. Yet, there she was, in the same group therapy as me, trying to do the work.

From 2018 to 2022, I not only watched Emily make strides in her eating disorder recovery but actually learn to tune Karen (her eating disorder) out completely. It took several rounds at Renfrew and lots of hard work, but she did it. By the summer of 2022, she was down to just seeing her dietician once a month (and was actually discussing discharging completely at the end of the year), and she had moved into doing some pretty serious body image work with her outpatient therapist. I know she still experienced “bad body image days,” but she was very open about it with me, and she was always willing to challenge those thoughts — which was something she had previously struggled to do.

I loved seeing this version of Emily. We could go out to dinner without fear stopping her. She let go of her “sick clothes” and bought clothes that made her feel good. She confidently wore lingerie. Her eating disorder no longer controlled her life. She seemed genuinely happy.

However, she hadn’t just made strides in her eating disorder recovery — she’d also done tons of work related to her OCD as well. None of this hard work would have been possible without the transplant, and I know Emily was thankful that she could use her second chance at life to make it into the life she wanted, a life filled with joy.

My Favorite Love Story

Of course, I wouldn’t be writing any of this if Emily hadn’t received the transplant because, without that, Emily and I would have never met.

Obviously, Emily and I hit it off right away when we met in 2018. It took time for us to move from friendship into more than friends, but as soon as we did, things progressed quickly. I think part of that was because we already felt so comfortable with each other, but I think the other part of it can’t really be explained with words.

I know we all see those fairytale romance stories play out in movies and television shows or read about them in books. But really, the relationship Emily and I shared was its own version of that. It’s something that completely transcends everyday life and can’t be easily described. Yet, it’s my favorite love story because it’s everything I ever wanted and more.

Emily and I saw each other in a way very few people do. We accepted each other completely. We loved each other, flaws and all. We cheered each other on, we picked each other up, and we never left the other person’s side, no matter how dark and twisty life got. I’ve already talked a lot about our relationship, and I will continue to do so. But for today, I am just so thankful that our love story got to play out. I guess it was meant to be.

It Was All Thanks To Victor

Emily did so much in the almost five years she lived after the transplant. While all of that was 100% Emily, none of it would have been possible without another person’s selfless gift. Emily was able to earn a master’s degree, kick her eating disorder in the butt, and build an incredible life all because of a man named Victor and his family.

It’s funny, because from what we’ve learned about Victor, there are many parallels between him and Emily. I think that makes sense though, because you have to be a pretty incredible person if you’re willing to donate your organs and tissue to other people. It’s an act of courage. It requires you to look beyond yourself and say, “I want to help a total stranger if I can.” That’s not something everyone is willing to do, especially in our modern world.

I know that Emily remained thankful for Victor every single day of her life from December 23, 2017 until her final breath in the early hours of October 19, 2022. She looked for ways to thank Victor and honor him in everything she did. She cherished a scrapbook about him that his mother made. She carried him with her on both of her graduation caps. She maintained contact with his mom. She wanted to make sure we found a symbolic way to include Victor in our wedding and other major life events.

Because of Victor, Emily got to live out many of her dreams. And because of Victor, I had the honor of meeting Emily and building a beautiful life with her.

I will be thinking a lot about Emily today. But, I will also be thinking about Victor, because without that “second-hand heart” (Emily’s words, not mine), none of this would be possible.