A World Without Annie: Year 1
Trigger warning: I describe Annie’s last day below, not in detail, but it is about her death.
I always knew I’d write this one, even as much as I can’t fathom it’s time to do it. When I look back at the last 365 days, I have no idea how I moved through them.
I’m writing on the day—the anniversary—on purpose. When I began writing my caregiving book, I felt it was important to record the feelings and emotions as they happened, to capture them “in situ.” My writer’s brain tells me this is good for authenticity, truth. And one of those truths is I don’t ever want to forget this day.
As it arrived, I churned through my memories, reliving each “last year on this day.” I was all over the place—as scattered as I’ve been anyway, the last week has been even more so. And then it came to me: when I posted on Facebook about Annie’s death last year, I referred to her as my north star. And that’s it--my north star is gone. Today, when I got the email that my book had not won a contest I entered, and of course it came today, I felt like Annie was the only one who would get it. I could hear her say, “Awww, Mom. That sucks.” Above all, Annie was the one person I checked in with for almost everything.
The Sunday before she died was Easter last year. Our texts back and forth that morning were about bagels and watermelon and how she needed to sit when she arrived because she was already spent. This year, Easter is still a couple of weeks off, but in my mind, it feels like it has passed.
Last year, the following Monday I had a class to teach, but only one student showed up and she was so distraught due to a recent break-up, I sent her home. With my suddenly free afternoon, I headed over to Annie’s to check on her. She was still in bed—wiped out from the day before, but we had a chance to spend some time together while Tony and Luca were out running errands. I asked her once again if I should go to the conference I was supposed to leave for on Wednesday and she said, with a little annoyance, (because it was like the 100th time I had asked about it), “Yes! Go!” I texted her later that night to see how she was doing, but she had already fallen asleep. This year, I thought I had made it through Sunday, but it was the date that got me—last Easter was March 31st.
Last year, Tony’s call came Tuesday morning letting me know that Annie was having trouble talking. We decided calling an ambulance was best, so I got in the car and flew over to their house. She was taken to one of the local hospitals where she was immediately surrounded by doctors, nurses, technicians. Annie was trying her best to communicate with them, with us, but they had an air mask on her to keep her oxygen up. She was trying to sign to me, but in my stress I was unable to make out her words. When they took off the mask so she could respond to their questions, she asked, “could I just go outside for a minute?” And that’s all I wanted to do right then, was take her outside to get some fresh air.
At one point, the decision was made to do a procedure to help get the medicine into her body faster. They cleared the tiny room and Tony and I had to sit outside. It seemed like more than a half a dozen doctors and nurses swarmed inside and then they drew the curtains. Afterwards, she was asleep or unconscious, but uncommunicative either way. Then, another decision—to bring her up to ICU—with which we agreed. But it was about another hour or two before we could go in to be with her again. And once we were in there, she was unresponsive. The doctors wanted to do more procedures, and dragged in machines and other staff and it seemed like a lot for someone who wasn’t really responding to any of the things they were doing. At one point, they started looking for a vein with a sonogram machine so they could put in yet another IV. I asked if it would really help. They looked up at me as if they had just realized I was in the room, and they said they weren’t sure. I asked them to please leave Annie alone.
So, Tony and I stayed with her until another doctor came in to tell us she was gone. This is what I wrote in my journal that night:
After the doctors, the nurses, the meds and tubes and wires. After Tony left to go take care of Luca, I stayed with her. I wanted to make sure she was okay. The nurses removed the tubes and the wires and cleaned her up. They put a new jonny on her and pulled the sheets up to her neck. As we waited for the funeral home to come and get her, I held her hand and kept her company. When the funeral people arrived and opened the door, I think I felt one last squeeze of her hand. They transferred her to their own gurney and body bag and I walked Annie down to their van. And then I left to go see Luca, Tony and Angelo at home.
And then a year went by.
Today has been day of tears and sadness. I don’t know what kind of metric there is to determine whether or not I’ve “made it” through the year, I only know that this is but one of the anniversaries that come with grieving a loss.
On Day 3 I wrote: I will number the days I am in this world without Annie because they will all be different now that she is gone. The ways in which I will miss her are still unknown and are waiting to catch me off guard. I just know it. There will be a billion of them, every one of the things I know Annie loved will leap up in my heart and insist I look at it again and again. As they should.
And as they have.
If you have been with me on this journey, please allow me to express my deepest gratitude for your love and support. And if you’re grieving and it helps you to read the stories of others, I hope our story helps in some small way. Thank you. xo
That picture of you and Annie is so beautiful. The joy you have for each other is in yours and Annie’s eyes. That joy is eternal. I lost my “Annie” on April 8th 2013. Navigating this life without our north stars seems impossible but somehow here we are. Sending love and strength to you and all who grieve✨🌟✨
Oh Cindy this made me so weepy. I remember getting to the conference last year and asking, “Is Cindy here?” I saw that you had registered. Then someone told me. I was so sad, just crushed for you. I’m going through the year of firsts now that I’ve lost my mom and one of my best friends in January. I’m not comparing any of that to losing a child, but it’s still a process for sure. My sweet aunt lost both of her 2 children, my cousins, very young, so I’ve seen this incredible loss and pain firsthand. You sharing all of this is so helpful and important to so many. Thank you and I’m sending lots of hugs.