Although I’ve made plenty of
mistakes, when I married Abel Cunningham, I knew it was the best decision I had
ever made, and the farthest thing possible from a mistake. He was tender and
kind, smart and funny. Sure we had our
share of disagreements, but doesn’t everyone? Besides, we always made up and
usually we were laughing together an hour later.
He worked as a fireman and
paramedic with the Portland fire department, and I worked at the local daycare;
looking out for the kids and looking forward to the someday when I would have
my own.
I remember so clearly the day that
everything changed. It was a Tuesday and
he was going on a twenty-four hour shift. I woke up with him at six to pack his
lunch, and he kissed me on his way out the door, stroking my long blond hair
and telling me that I was beautiful. I
laughed and said that no one was beautiful at six a.m., but he just smiled and
looked at me in that earnest, open way that told me he was speaking the
absolute truth as he knew it, and he said, “normal people may not be, Maggie,
but you sure are.”
I got the call around noon. There had been an incident, and Abel was in
the hospital. I learned the details
later – he was working on the ambulance and he and his partner had been called
to an apartment building for a man that was unresponsive. Abel’s partner talked with the frantic
girlfriend, who said that he had been drinking all morning, but when asked if
he had taken any drugs, she reported that he had not. She lied.
Apparently the guy had overdosed on cocaine and when Abel bent over her
to get a pulse, he regained consciousness.
When people overdose on cocaine,
sometimes they wake up and experience violent psychotic outbursts. They don’t know who, or where they are, but
they are often terrified and tend to lash out.
It was Abel’s partner who saw the
knife first, but by the time he shouted and ran towards them, trying to help
Abel, it was too late. The patient
plunged his knife into my husband’s stomach.
It entered Abel’s abdomen pointing upwards, and it pierced his stomach,
spleen, and left lung. The partner was
able to call for backup and subdue the patient while Abel collapsed began
bleeding out on that dirty apartment floor next to them.
When I arrived at the hospital with
shaking hands and a sinking feeling, Abel’s partner, Jackson, was in the lobby.
He wouldn’t meet my eyes. I demanded
that he tell me what was going on, and he squared his jaw in an attempt at
confidence, and said with a trembling voice that Abel was gone. I didn’t
believe him, I had seen Abel that morning – I had packed him lasagna for lunch! I pushed past Jackson and asked the nurse if
I could see my husband. After convincing
her that I was indeed immediate family, she brought me to his bed. Sure enough, the bright blue eyes I loved were
closed, and his skin was suddenly, unfamiliarly pale and cold. I knew Jackson was right, my husband of two
years was dead. He would never stand on his sturdy legs again; I would never be
swept off my feet by him. He had smiled his last wide, open smile.
I stumbled backwards and ran out to
the hall, and kept running until I crashed into Jackson. He
held onto me and I clung to him and sobbed and sobbed.
A week after the funeral, I cut off
my hair, and dyed it such a dark shade of brown it looked black. He wouldn’t be running his hands through it
in the soft morning light ever again, so what was the point? I began wondering if every choice in life was
a mistake, even the things that make you the happiest. After all, everything ends eventually.
