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We’re putting the finishing touches on the arrangements for the memorial
service tomorrow. It’s going to be a lovely, mostly somber event. But it
won’t just be all wails and cursing at the gods. We’ll be playing both of
their favorite music; moreso Dutch, since he had more time to develop a
taste for what this planet has to offer. I’ll be giving the eulogy, of
course, and I’m really nervous about it. I’ve never spoken in front of this
many people before. The publicist keeps reminding me that I already have a
huge audience, because Nick managed to build one for this blog, and I’ve
been posting on it exclusively for days. That’s an interesting way to frame
it, and I’m trying to hold onto that. You’ve been listening to me talk for a
while now, even before Nick died; it’s just that it’s been through the
written word, and now you’re going to hear my real voice, and see my real
face. Oh God, I think I’m having a panic attack.
All right, I’m back. That white space between paragraphs is where that panic
attack happened, but I’m okay. As a medical professional, I know all the
tricks, but it’s one thing to give advice to someone else, and another to
follow through when you need it yourself. I closed the lid of my laptop,
shut the shades, and turned off all the lights. I sat upright in the hotel
bed, and focused on my breathing. Despite the darkness, I could make out
enough objects in the room. I could see the television on the opposite wall;
the painting hanging over the refrigerator, depicting a frozen ice skating
pond with scratches on the surface, but no skaters; the faint outline of the
DO NOT DISTURB sign; the luggage I had sprawled out on the other bed; and
the half empty glass of water on the nightstand. No, it wasn’t half empty,
but half full. I could touch the soft sheets I was sitting upon; my
overheated phone that I’ve been meaning to upgrade; the highlighter that I
was using while researching eulogy commonalities; and the brass gooseneck
reading lamp coming from the wall above the headboard. I could hear the
sound of children running in the halls while their mother tried to shush
them up; the hum of the furnace; and the ticking of the analog clock by the
door to the bathroom. I could smell the half eaten box of cheese crackers on
the table in the corner; and something dank that I couldn’t place wafting in
through the vents. I could taste the toothpaste in my mouth that I should
have more thoroughly rinsed out before I sat down to write this post.
I had to take another break, which is why I’m posting this later than usual.
Everything is okay, and I think I’m gonna be okay, but as the
memorial approaches, it’s like it’s all happening again. I never talked
about it before, and I will probably never publicly go into too much detail,
but obviously, I was there when they died. I remember the lurch of the
vehicle as we slid on the ice, and finally came to a stop. I remember
running out of the car, and one of the security guards holding me back so I
couldn’t see the wreckage. I remember seeing the wreckage anyway, and
feeling the heat from the flames on my face, which felt like they were going
to burn me, yet somehow still could not protect my toes from freezing under
the tyranny of the snow as it seeped into my socks. I remember thinking that
no one could have survived that fall, even though I was still bleary eyed,
and confused. There was no hope, and now these memories are coming back,
which will only make the eulogy harder to write, and even harder to give. I
need a third break.
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