It has been exactly a year since Chris was flown from our local hospital to Cooper. 64 miles by helicopter to the tune of $36,450.
He was still in the hospital when I received the bill.
“How much do you think your helicopter ride cost?” I texted him.
“$80,000.”
“You do not win the showcase,” I replied. He had developed a routine of morning game shows; The Price is Right was a favorite.
In April, during a particularly awful few days, I said to a friend, “I wish he had died in the helicopter.”
It was an intense statement to say to aloud, let alone to another person. There was no guilt in my declaration, but guilt that I had no guilt. It sounded grotesque nonetheless.
Not because I wanted him to die, to leave me and the life we were constantly building, but I didn’t want him suffering. I sat and watched him suffer for two weeks and would do so for two more. It was needless agony as his body rapidly declined. I watched him wrestle with the inevitable, another thing he had to do on his own. I could only offer comfort.
I’ve had several discussions in the last 6-9 months regarding guilt vs remorse. I’ve been carrying a backpack full of guilt, straining my neck and breaking my back, as heavy as the bag of now-solid Quikrete in my garage.
“Try to understand the difference, Barbara. You did nothing wrong,” Grief Guy suggested in July. “And maybe start saying ‘late husband’ over ‘dead husband’”.
I was unable to make the distinction between guilt and remorse, as every emotion was strung to the next. But I did change my words regarding Chris, most of the time.
There was nothing I could have done to save him. My guilt was pointless and a waste of energy but an essential step for grieving.
Recently I emptied the backpack, finally understanding what’s mine (or not) to carry.