A Thousand Different Scenarios, The Same Night

At the door, a young policeman and a slightly older policewoman stood. In the split second that I registered who was standing there, I tried to read their faces, unsuccessfully. I crossed my arms over my chest, waiting.

“Are you Karen Percy?” 

I nodded, my face succumbed to the heat. I imagined one thousand scenarios in that moment; they were scenarios I would have preferred: Clinton had some beers and made the horrible mistake of driving. Was he in an accident? Did he get hurt in jiu-jitsu?  Did someone else get hurt? But then. But then why would they be here?

“It seems as if Clinton had a seizure tonight at jiu-jitsu.” I don’t remember which police officer spoke first. I don’t remember that much of anything except for the finality of what they were there to deliver. 

“They administered CPR,” another one spoke, “They were unable to revive him. The ambulance was called immediately.” They worked on him in the ambulance. He’s at MCR. They were unable to revive him. 

I remember shaking my head. Why were they telling me this? Clinton is strong. Anyone who knows him knows that he is invincible! Why weren’t they working on him still? I wanted them to stop wasting their time standing in my kitchen, and go back to tell whoever–anyone–everyone there, that he was going to come back to life if they just kept trying! Keep working on him, and he’ll come back to life!!

Did I say all of that out loud? I don’t know. 

I fell to the kitchen floor. I was shaking, going into shock. The woman and man stood in my kitchen–our kitchen, watching me. Help me! I wanted to yell. But I didn’t really want their help.

“Is there someone you can call?” One of them asked. 

It seemed too soon. Too final. I didn’t want to call anyone. I wanted to be with Clinton. 

“Can I see him?” I asked. I just wanted to hold his hand.

They shook their heads no, “He is probably in the morgue at the hospital right now. Then, he will be on his way to Denver. It appears he was an organ donor.” 

I sunk further into the floor, through the floor, into the foundation of our home. Our home. I spotted his shoes off to the side. Above me on the counter, I saw the knife he used to cut something before leaving, and wished I hadn’t cleaned up after dinner. Was it a piece of cheese? Somehow, I desperately needed to remember, to find the block of cheese he had touched only hours ago. Later, the same would happen over and over again, with his razor, his toothbrush, his comb. My body. Please, Karen, never forget all of the places he’s touched.

They kept asking me, “Is there someone you can call?”

And I still didn’t want to call anyone. I wanted to erase them, and I could tell they wanted to leave. I loved the idea of them leaving, yet I didn’t want to be alone. I was stuck. I thought of our beautiful children upstairs. Two out of the three were asleep; my oldest son was finishing up homework, his headphones in, oblivious to the whispers of dispossession downstairs. Later, when the unwanted work of sharing the news needed to happen, his sweet voice would call downstairs, “Mama?” with a cute lilt on the last syllable, “Mama, who’s here?” Their lives were changed forever. And I still love it when my almost 18-year-old calls me Mama.

The officers tried compassionate pushing, if there is such a thing. I was still on the floor of the kitchen, and I needed to walk away. Somewhere–anywhere else. I found the closet where Clinton’s and my clothes hung, and I made a phone call to one of my closest friends and colleagues. I had no family nearby, and I knew she would pray. I knew she would come over. I knew she would call my work, my family. I knew she would cry with me. And she did; all of those things, she did. To this day, she remains an angel in my life.