The Perfect Trifecta: A Journey Through Grief and Loss

My sister and I call it the perfect trifecta. I hope you’ve experienced this magic more than once: when the dishwasher is running, the washing machine and dryer sing their duet through the walls of the house, and you are running the vacuum.

The night that Clinton didn’t come home to us, I was reveling in a post-trifecta glow. I prepared for my in-laws to visit the next day. The house was clean. My lesson plans and grading were ready for the following morning. The kids were headed to bed, and I looked forward to crawling into crisp, clean sheets. I planned to watch The Bachelor (I know, I know) before Clinton got back from Jiu-Jitsu.

Earlier, we stood in the kitchen when Clinton winked at our two older children just before leaving. “Let’s see who I can submit tonight…” he said with a playful grin. He loved doing something active after a long day of work, and he was falling in love with martial arts. Clinton was 50, and a lifetime of playing competitive soccer was taking a toll on his joints. Jiu-jitsu had less impact on his body, and it seemed to be a good balance. After he left, I finished cleaning up after dinner and picked up our youngest son from wrestling practice.

Later, the house was winter-quiet. It was cold outside, and there was an uncomfortable stillness, almost like ringing in the ears, as I watched the clock. I listened to the heat click on and the familiar pattern of footsteps upstairs. The kids brushed their teeth and picked through their closets for the next day's school clothes. It was 9:30, then it was almost ten. Why wasn’t Clinton home? Did he go out for a beer with some new Jiu-Jitsu friends?

I started to get angry. Why hadn’t he called? As it grew later, my anger turned to fear. He wasn’t answering my calls. I started bargaining: Just come home. Just come home soon, and I won’t be angry. I had no idea what had already happened and what was still happening as my worry overrode the voices on the television. Stupid show. What a stupid, stupid show.

Then I saw headlights come down our driveway. I breathed a sigh of relief and realized that whatever I was feeling earlier was just my intuition running on overdrive. Relax, Karen, all is well. But the garage door didn’t open. Why would he go around to the other side of the house and park? I waited.

A knock at the kitchen door. Something was wrong.