The Power of Goodbye (part two)

My lost love 💔

Eighteen years ago today, on Hallows Eve 2008, my Julie lay in a coma, hooked up to various drips and machines. Her long suffering body, which she’d tried to kill off just over twelve years earlier, had finally given up. Her most recent kidney transplant had failed, and years of extensive dialysis had taken their toll. Some of her veins and vascular access sites had collapsed, infection had set in, and she’d developed septicaemia.

I’ve written about Julie’s story before, and the twelve precious years we were given following her suicide attempt in 1996, in my earlier blog Keep it Together⁠. But I’ve never really written about what happened when we finally ran out of time.

I can’t remember exactly what the doctors told me in that sterile ICU ward; much of that time remains a blur, except being told there was no hope of recovery or survival and, as her designated next of kin, I had to make the decision to switch off the machines and finally let her go. Probably the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make. Again, the medical details and timelines are fuzzy, except that I went into her room to see her ‘alive’ one last time before they switched the machines off. I know I told her that I’d love and miss her forever, And I do.

Julie had left a box containing all her instructions for what to do ‘when’ she died. Not ‘if’. When. She’d tried to show me the paperwork many times over the years, but I’d always refused to look. I simply couldn’t imagine a world without her, even though I’d already lost my dad, nana and mum in previous years. Each loss had been devastating, but each had affected me in very different ways.

This was different again, because I’d been in complete denial about Julie’s mortality. I mean, she was the bloody Bionic Woman to me. They’d rebuilt her before, surely they could do it again? But here I was, staring at this metal box I’d bought her as a Christmas present years earlier, now full of lists, instructions and paperwork. She’d prepared for her death, even if I hadn’t.

Among her very specific wishes were the donation of her body to medical science and absolutely no funeral. Unfortunately, because of the septicaemia, the donation wasn’t possible, and Julie hadn’t left a Plan B. So it fell to me to make alternative arrangements, trying to honour her wishes as closely as I could.

Without going into too many specifics, for the first time in my life I had to learn, very quickly, about all the legalities and practicalities that follow someone’s death. Hazily, and without knowing what the fuck I was doing, I dealt with the coroner’s office, registered her death, arranged for her body to be moved across county lines and organised an unattended cremation. The only addition I requested was a single bunch of red carnations to be placed on her coffin.

It all felt terribly perfunctory and went against some of the family’s wishes, but I believed I was doing what Julie would have wanted. Ultimately, it was her wishes I felt responsible for honouring, and I needed to be at peace with that. Once I’d done everything I could, I handed the paperwork over to her chosen executor, a local solicitor whom I’d trusted to deal with her will, estate and all the remaining loose ends. Unfortunately, she didn’t, but that’s another saga for another time.

For now though, I’ll just say that my former love of Halloween, or ‘Hop-tu-Naa’ as we called it growing up on the Isle of Man, has been an emotional hurdle ever since. I did find some solace in learning about the Mexican tradition of Día de los Muertos, the Day of the Dead, when loved ones who have died are remembered and celebrated through colourful shrines, gatherings and rituals. There’s something beautiful about that, but still, I can’t bring myself to celebrate Julie’s death and even calling it an ‘anniversary’ feels wrong.

I don’t know what the hell to call it, honestly, because every year when this date comes around, I find myself back in that car, being driven home from the hospital where I’d left her for the very last time. I can still remember that engulfing feeling of loss, the enormity of what had happened and the realisation that there was absolutely nothing I could do to bring her home.

Eighteen years later, that feeling has never really left me. So yeah, I know a thing or two about the power of a goodbye. Loving someone and losing them and forever living with the permanent hole they leave in one’s heart and clutching to the memories like they’re made of pure diamonds 💎 because they are way more precious than that. And the very thing that drives me to wanting to stop suicide happening to anyone else. Her legacy is my pain and though I’d definitely swap it to see her in the flesh again, we just got to accept what we can’t change and keep moving forward.

Oh and one of the major things this whole experience has taught me is that none of us are immortal and preparing for end of life should be on everyone’s agenda. Even though my son has the same reaction that I had to Julie’s plans, I know when it’s my time to leave this mortal coil that my green glitter box will have hopefully saved him from some of the awful decisions that our loved ones face in their saddest moments.