Broken and Scarred

*Frank POV*

There are very few things I’ve learned in this life. Some things, my father taught me, like to always carry a condom in your wallet, because a guy should always be responsible and prepared. Some things, my mother taught me, like how to bake cinnamon cookies, and that education is important if you want to get anywhere in this life. Some things, you just learn as you go along. One, I learned all by myself, is that life is full of tragedies. Some of them are foreseen, but unavoidable, like a hurricane that’s heading straight for your home. You can try and minimise the damage, by boarding up the doors and windows,but there’s only so much you can do to avoid the destruction that’s heading your way. It’s an evitable destruction, but even in the chaos, you mentally prepare yourself for the pain and loss that lies ahead. Others come quick and unexpectedly, giving you no time to prepare for the mental anguish ahead. You can’t pack away the things you hold dearest to you. You don’t get to run to safety to try and save yourself, so that you can fight another day. There’s no time to prepare for the worst that can happen. Those ones hurt the most, because regret is an emotion that sticks with you until the end of your days.

You spend the rest of your days living with regret over the things that you can never change, like the argument you had with your wife that morning before you left for work, because it was your turn to drop the kids off at day care, but you woke up late, and you were behind schedule,and why couldn’t she just drop them off instead for once, when she wasn’t in a rush like you were. You regret storming out of the house with a slam of the front door, not even saying goodbye because you were angry and pissed off and tired. You regret not saying ‘I love you’ one last time, instead of giving the silent treatment. You regret not picking up the phone when she tried to call you, because you were too busy with work to talk to her for just two minutes. You regret not checking your phone until six thirty, to see that the day care centre had given you three missed calls and a voicemail to ask why your three children haven’t been collected yet. You regret that your first instinct wasn’t worry, but immediate fury that your wife forgot to get the kids on her day to collect them.

This regret doesn’t hit when you get a phone call on your way to pick the children up, informing you that your wife is in hospital as a result of a car crash. It doesn’t hit you when you drop the kids of at your mother’s house before you speed down to the hospital, certain that she’ll be okay and probably only has a few bruises and whiplash. It doesn’t hit you when the nurse informs you that the only woman you ever loved is in emergency surgery, but she should be okay, as she’s in good hands and the doctors and nurses know what they’re doing. It doesn’t hit you when the doctor comes to you two hours later in the waiting room where you’ve been pacing non-stop, his voice grave and apologetic as he explains there was too much internal bleeding that resulted in unforeseen complications during surgery. It doesn’t hit you when he tells you he’s sorry for your loss, but that they did everything they could. It doesn’t hit when you’re at the funeral home, picking out her coffin, and which song to play at the burial. It doesn’t hit you when you’re holding the hands of your two daughters while they watch their mother’s polished coffin lower into the grave, their faces confused as their three year old minds try to understand what is going on around them, and why everyone is dressed in black, and acting so sad. It doesn’t even hit you as everybody tells you how sorry they are for your loss. That she was a beautiful, generous, amazing woman, and that they’re going to miss her.

It hits you that night, when everyone has gone home, and the children have gone to bed. It hits you when you enter the bedroom you'd shared with your wife of five years, and you realise that she’s not coming home. You begin to let all the stupid, silly things you wish you could change spin around your head, until the tears you’ve held in start to fall down your cheeks in torrents, and silent sobs shake your body, until you’re nothing more than a sad, sorry heap on the bedroom floor. All the regrets land on top of you like a landslide, crashing down hard, fast and painfully. In that moment there’s nothing in the world that can console you. Nothing can make you see the light at the end of the tunnel, because there is no light in the world anymore. It left when she did. The desire to leave and follow her is strong, but you remind yourself that it isn’t just you who’s affected by the tragedy. There are three children who have no idea that they’ve suffered a great loss. You have to remember that you’re all they have left now. You are now the sole parent of three little people, and the thought scares you more than anything. You eventually pick yourself up off the floor, crawling over onto the bed, and curling up in a ball. Life hasn’t ended just because she’s gone, but for next few hours, you want to drown in the pain, sorrow and regret. In a few hours, the children she brought into the world will wake up, looking to be fed, clothed and entertained, as it’ll just be another day for them. In a few hours, you have to start figuring out how to continue on without her love, guidance and patience. It seems an impossible task, and you wonder whether it’s even possible. She was the calm, patient one who held everything together. Everything had meaning; everything had a purpose, because she was always there, beside you at every turn, smiling at you with love and warmth. She made life worth living, because no matter how bad things were, no matter how blue, angry irrational you got at times, she would always wrap her arms around you, and give you a kiss at night, reassuring you that it was going to be okay. She gave you the three best gifts you had ever received, because she loved you, and trusted you enough to be there for her, through the hard times, as well as the good.

I’ve learned the hard way about regrets, and how sharp and torturous the pain is as it gnaws away at you with no reprieve or respite. I know about it, because it’s me curled up on the king sized bed that now has a vacant place where my wife used to sleep. It’s me who has to grasp the concept that when I wake up in the morning, I’ll be waking up alone. She’s gone, and I’m still here. Broken and scarred, but still here to soak and drown in my regrets.