Vital Sign

“I know, babe.” Jenna sighs into the phone but says nothing more than that to convey her sympathy. Awkward silence takes over our phone call and it’s time to end the discomfort for both of us.

“Give Jackson a kiss for me?” It’s a small thing, but it’s something that lets her know that I’m still here and I love my family. I just don’t love life at the moment.

“I always do.”

“Guess I’ll get some laundry done then,” I lie. I don’t need to do shit today except remember to breathe.

“Okay. And Sadie,” Jenna calls after me.

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

“I know. Love you too, Jen.” I swipe the screen, ending the call feeling a little sadder and more isolated than when it began. I always do.

***

April 20, 2013

I slide the plastic keycard into the lock and watch the red light flash at me tauntingly. I’m in no mood for this shit. I slide it back into the lock quicker this time. The red light flashes. What the hell? I take a deep breath and set my bag on the floral patterned, low pile carpet and try again, slowly sliding the keycard back into the lock.

Please. I’m tired and grumpy and I may lose my damn mind if one more thing goes wrong today. The green light flashes as the door clicks to unlock. I grab my bag and suitcase and drag myself into the hotel room. I need a nap before I do anything else. A nap and a little while to pretend that I’m not going to go meet yet another person that has benefited from the most devastating loss I’m certain to never recover from.

I dig out my small notepad and flip it open. “Mrs. Hampton, kidney lady—done. Terry Jones, liver guy—at four o’clock. Alexander McBride, heart guy—in two days,” I mutter to myself, trying on the words to see if saying them aloud will make me retreat back to the false safety of the house I once shared with Jake.

I pull out my cell phone and fight the urge to call. I can’t do it. Not right now. My nerves are already raw and frayed. Listening to Jake’s voicemail will be the quickest way for me to end up nursing on a box of wine all night and smoking cigarettes until my lungs hurt. I squeeze the phone in my fingers with my eyes shut and put it back in my purse.

I’ve won this time.

I hate that I promised my parents I’d do this. Part of me knows that they’re desperate to help and this was their idea of help, but I wish they wouldn’t. It’s that awkwardness that ensues after loss that makes everyone grapple for solutions. The only solution that I find fits my predicament is to hide away. I understand what they’re getting at with the whole idea of meeting the organ recipients, really I do. I had thought about meeting the recipients many times myself, on the days when I visited the far off realm of Old Sadie. Those are the days that it’s a little bit easier to breathe in and out. Those days don’t feel so much bigger than me. They’re a rare occurrence, though, which only makes things worse because the little bit of relief that those days give me makes the next morning so much harder to wake up to. In truth, I’m better off without those days. Those days are the ones that secretly encouraged me to find the organ recipients and the day after, when I was back in my familiar hell, jealousy washed over me like a hurricane storm surge. I’m still so angry at everyone and everything. It’s an irrational anger, but it’s just how I feel. I can’t explain it. I can’t even apologize for it. It’s like this entirely separate entity living inside me. It’s as if there’s Sadie Parker, widow and failed artist, and then there’s Sadie the bitter, confused, hopeless woman walking around with an invisible wound.

My physical wound from that night has healed. It took no time to recover from that. The bullet tore right through my side, leaving only a jagged, raised, circular scar as a reminder that it was ever even there. In truth, I was so consumed with worry for Jake that I had paid very little attention to the fact that I had been shot too. Jake’s gone and yet I’m still consumed with his wounds and the ripple effect that they sent out across the glassy calm that used to be my life.

I know there’s nothing I can do. I’m fully fucking aware of that and if one more person tells me that crap my urge to strangle them may be more than I handle. I know that people want to help. Everyone wants to help. They feel so damn sorry for me. I feel sorry for me too but I’m angry above all else.

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