Bags of clothes

Resting on the floor on my side of the bed I keep a plastic bag full of Steve's dirty clothes. Most of them are the clothes he took up to DC for his work week but a few are from the weekend before he left. I keep them in a plastic bag to hold in his smell. The only problem is that, for the most part, his clothes mostly smell like plastic bag. I spent hours crying the day I realized his clothes smelled not of him but of plastic. Then I wadded everything back up and stuffed it back into the bag. The bag still sits next to our bed. I can't bring myself to wash those clothes.

There is a second plastic bag. This plastic bag contains one pair of black shoes, one pair of black socks, one black belt, one black suit, one black tie, one blue button down shirt and one pair of blue underwear. These are the clothes Steve was wearing when he died. I know that not because I saw him that morning but because this plastic bag is the one I received from the hospital the day after he died.

I went through that bag once. Very quickly. I went through it at the hospital when I realized his gold cross necklace, his Saint Christopher medallion (he always wore it when traveling), his pinkie ring and wedding ring were missing. They weren't in the plastic bag that contained all the items from his pockets. They weren't in his computer bag. There was only one other bag. The bag of clothes he had been wearing.

I searched the contents of that bag as quickly as possible. Not without noticing the pants, underwear and shirt had all been cut off him. But not his suit jacket. He must have removed that before he had his heart attack. It was a triple digit day, after all. And not without seeing that there was some blood staining his clothes. My husband died of a heart attack so where did this blood come from? I don't know the answer. I know that when my uncle died of a heart attack on his couch 3 years ago, there was a small pool of blood where the paramedics moved him to the floor to start CPR. Small like the size of a quarter. So I imagine a little blood always happens. But I don't know why or how or where it comes from.

When I couldn't find his jewelry, I panicked. I begged to be allowed to go into the Emergency room he had been in. I begged to speak with the staff. I begged to go to the morgue to see if his items were with his body. Then I waited. The staff reviewed his chart to see when and who had removed his jewelry. I paced the floor. The head of the ER was personally searching the room he had been in. I breathed deeply. They called down to the morgue. I ran outside and called my mother.

Eventually a nurse came out to speak with me. She had been on shift the night before when my husband was admitted. Seventeen hours later she was still on duty and she had my husband's missing items. She had held on to them, wanting to meet his family. Knowing that if I saw his watch with his belongings but not his wedding ring, I wouldn't leave until it had been found. She told me how hard they had worked on him. How long they had worked on him. How they did all they could. And then she told me she had waited all night for me to come. She had tried to break the security code to his phone so she could reach me. So I would know she was standing guard until I could arrive.

I don't remember the name of this nurse at George Washington University Hospital. I just remember the relief I felt when she brought me his rings and necklaces. The relief to know that even in his passing he had touched someone's life. The kindness of her reaching out to me at one of the hardest junctures ran through me so deep it made me weep. It makes me weep still.

I thought of that nurse today. Today, when I finally went through the bag of clothes he had been wearing his last day. I hugged his jacket to my chest and I cried. And I hope that wherever this nurse is, she can feel my loving gratitude.