I’ve used the term heart broken before many times. I’ve probably used it on this blog, but I never knew why this phrase entered into the English language until now.
There is a physical, dull ache in my heart. It feels like a hole that will never be full again. It feels like I’m being ripped apart at times, and numb to everything at others.
It feels that way because my husband is dead.
About two weeks ago, I enjoyed a very pleasant evening with Tim where he was super sweet, helped around the kitchen and eased all of my growing fears about the future of our marriage. For months and months he had been acting unstable, angry or completely depressed… but we had a good evening. I went to bed early, texting with a friend about how much better things were.
Then I heard a strange noise in our spare bedroom, and I found him collapsed on the floor, blue and sporatically gasping for air. I called 911. I gave chest compresions. The EMT came immediately and were amazing. I was immediately shuffled outside and asked what medication he took and what his medical history was while they tried to save them. The head of EMT, a gruff older man, asked me if my husband had taken Opiates. I told him not unless he was keeping much bigger secrets from me.
He was keeping much bigger secrets from me.
They gave Tim a drug that counteracts the effects, and he woke up essentially no worse for the wear. Everyone said I saved his life, and if I hadn’t heard him he would have died.
But he didn’t die.
We got rid of the drugs. We cried and talked. We made treatment plans and held each other. Through tears, we promised that everything was going to be okay.
On Thursday, Tim had just seen an addiction counselor for the first time. I talked to him on the phone right after the appointment, and he sounded relieved. He was positive. I said I was proud of him and I loved him. He loved me too. I walked back into work feeling like we were going to be okay.
When I came home, he was collapsed on the floor in the spare bedroom. As soon as I touched him, I knew. With the first OD I was upset, but in control… but I was not in control Thursday. I had to repeat my address three times to 911 in-between my sobs so they could come help us.
He must have had a pulse, because they worked on him for about 30 minutes. The cops kept me away from that room, and the entire time I sobbed and either said “Oh god Oh god” or frantically asked them if he was dead. No one would tell me anything, but I knew.
And I was right.
There seems no limit to my heart break now, but there is also no limit to the amount of love and support I have around me. I’m not okay, but I’m going to be alright. I will never be the same, but I will survive this and I know that.
Please hold your loved one tight for me, and appreciate every day. I had so many happy memories with my husband, and so many good days. Soon their memories will be stronger than this. I love this man so much, despite everything. My love was not enough to help him, even though I tried so hard. His problems ran deeper than I will ever know, because he tried so hard to protect me from being hurt.
He was my best friend. I will make it, but I will miss him every day of my life.