The New Year's Package

You would be at a loss when she slides her fingers to the top of the picture and begins tearing it to pieces, first a slow crease as the picture bends to her pressure, until she rips furiously, screaming, “Happy New Year!”

The shock of his sudden death at the age of 38 consumed Amy for the past four months. She was no stranger to death, having been a nurse for the past 15 years. She lost her own parents when she was just twelve and this shaped her to be pragmatic about end-of-life. When she drove Matt to the hospital in September, with him curled up on his side moaning on the back seat, she barely worried about the need for an emergency appendectomy. Accustomed to crisis mode in the ICU, this was just a run of the mill health issue that would be dealt with, and he would come home the next day.

But an infection set in, a second surgery was performed on post op day three draining the festering spread of pustulant drainage threatening to rot any healthy tissue. Day four, Matt spiked a fever of 103, became confused, and then combative. Sedation was given and Amy pushed to have Matt transferred to ICU.

“Calm down Amy, he will be fine” lectured the surgeon, chosen for his skills and not his bedside manner.

That night as Amy slept soundly, still with her solid belief that most things work out, in fact all things work out for them, Matt became quieter. Nurses checked through the night, dutifully charting “sleeping well, no changes.” Meanwhile, the infection traveled through his body, taking on a life force of its own. By morning, his brain silently swelled. The nurses changed shifts, happy that Matt was better today, meaning he was quiet and not disturbing anyone. Amy received that same report when she called that morning as she prepared her first cup of coffee.

She arrived at Fairview Hospital, the same hospital she worked in for the past nine years, and stopped by to check on Matt before going to her unit to pull at least one shift that week. As she walked in, she immediately realized something was terribly wrong. First, the smell. The air was tainted with the faint odor of rotten eggs permeated with the undeniable putrid smell of old fruit beginning to soften with black spots. And something else, so faint that she couldn’t name it. But it caused her breath to become shallow, made her pause before reaching out to him. Dread. That’s what she felt. This was the moment that the world Amy knew and loved, shifted.

She could not get him to respond, she frantically pressed the call bell, grabbed the pillow from under Matt’s head and positioned his airway to facilitate his breathing all in one motion and without thought. She started screaming for help when no one responded. She doesn’t remember the Rapid Response Team swarming in and taking over, the code being called, a nurse trying to hold her back as they placed the monitors and intubated him. She does remember the sound of his ribs cracking as they started compression, still waking up at night from that sound. She fell to the floor begging God to save him, pleading, and then cursing God.

She buried Matt. Her companion since she was nineteen. They were married when she turned 20, with just their families and a small circle of friends to witness. They opted to buy a house rather than throw a huge celebration. Friends marveled at their seamless relationship, their shared goals, their Hallmark moment romance. The only goal that was never achieved was conceiving a child. But even with that disappointment, they faced life head on, accepting what they were given, and enjoying the total freedom of their childless marriage.

On December 29, Amy stood in the kitchen and poured herself another glass of Pinot Grigio, stopped before replacing the top and instead held the bottle up to her mouth and guzzled the contents. Stacie called at that moment. The younger sister who was always supporting Amy, trying to hold her together since Matt’s death.

“Hey Amy, whatcha up to?” Stacie’s bubbly, cheerful voice invaded Amy’s current dark mood through the phone.

Amy tucked her dark brown hair behind her ear, stood a bit taller and lied. “Just cleaning up the kitchen.”

“Just wanted to make sure you’re coming over Friday night. For our New Year’s Eve celebration?”

“Maybe, not sure now. I might need to work evening shift.” She took another long drink.

“What? You’re not on that day. You told me that last week.”

But so much had changed since last week. She kept that to herself, swallowed hard, “I volunteered. They’re just so shorthanded you know.”

“I want you to be with us though. You should be with family.” Stacie, the supportive one, constantly holding her up. She’s the one that packed away all of Matt’s things within the first week of his death, helping Amy rearrange her clothes by seasons to fill both closets. Stacie didn’t know that Amy secretly stashed one of Matt’s dirty flannel shirts from the laundry. She needed something tangible to hang on to. Soft from wear, unwashed with his musky smell, she kept it folded under her pillow and each night she buttoned it around his pillow to cling to. Until three days ago, when she took the shirt and burned it in the fire pit out back.