Autopsies by Michele Dwyer.
You haven’t quite experienced the truest, shittiest portion of your life until you have two autopsy reports in front of you…one depicting the details of your husband of 26 years who committed suicide, and the other depicting the details about your new love, the one who dropped dead 4 months after you met him, 16 months after your husband’s death. Physical details of the dead men that you have loved, and lost. My sarcasm shocks even me, it skirts around my fear that I am indeed going to break this time.
Each of these men, a medical examiner’s number now, each of them reduced to a toe tag and a plastic bracelet. Each of them dissected in the same building with the clinical precision and separation from the living that only a mortician could possess. I wonder if my love’s bodies were cut open on the same steel table. Cut open, organs pulled out, weighed and measured; body fluids given banal descriptions with lifeless colors such as brown, straw yellow, dark red, milky.
Lips that I’ve kissed described as ‘unremarkable’. Mouths that formed my name, that spoke of love and hope and futures to me, now described as having ‘no abnormalities’, meaning – nothing special here. Necks that I’ve wrapped my arms around, kissed and breathed their smells in thru my nostrils, burying my head into their safe places, now described as nothing more than ‘neck’. The parts of my men that steadied my feet solidly on the ground with their love, I now tread so softly around fearful that the recent descriptions of them will taint my locked away life.
Each beautiful body placed on a cold steel table, witnesses present and identified, medical students with clipboards and plastic blue gloves ready to outline and organize parts of the men that I’ve cherished. Bodies that made me catch my breath to look at them, now only corpses, rigor mortis noted, the scheduled 0900 autopsy.
Hearts were removed first, weighed and dissected. Hearts that I lovingly listened to beating as I lay on the strong chests that held them. Chests that I traced my fingers upon, maybe even tracing over the spots that would be sliced with a scalpel.
Eyes, four of them brown in color, with irises that measured in diameter the same, sclera that was clear. Those eyes once twinkled to look at me, with smiles and love in them. Eyes that sometimes had tears washing over the sclera, for all of the reasons that make eyes do exactly that.
Scars from surgeries that I knew the stories of, a deep cut on one finger that was described as ‘recent’. I had looked at that cut, I remember telling him that it didn’t need stitches when he’d asked. I wonder, now that he’s dead, and a surgeon has described it as ‘deep’, I wonder if I was wrong about the stitches. I wonder why I’m wondering.
The dura of two brains that had read me stories, gray matter that built me bird houses, fences, kitchens from scratch. Brains that knew what was wrong with my car, what was wrong with me, and could fix us both. Brains that I loved as much as their beating hearts.
My sarcasm leaves. My sadness takes over, the familiar exhaustion from the craziness of it all: two men, two deaths, two years, two autopsies, two boxes of momentos. Their deaths start again to do battle with my life. My white flag goes up one more time. I want my men back. I am prepared for the fallout that would most assuredly present itself should the universe grant this request. I would move far away, I would leave this place, leave them, if only they would take another breath and cough back into life. I want them to walk this Earth again, upright and strong like I remember. I want them off the steel table. I don’t want their bodies cut up.
A medical examiner tore thru my people, my persons, my significant others, my husband, my boyfriend, my family, my life. He examined their outsides, the insides, but he missed the goddamned point. He missed the pieces of the parts, the stuff that was mine, his, ours. He mangled what gave me love, he cut through my sacred ground.
I’m left now with the stuff of sterile reports, and my self-induced gut twisting confirmation that these men are indeed dead, are indeed never coming back as whole people ever again. They’ve been cut up, sewn back together, and the Wizard of Oz is just some fucked up pipe dream, for real.
I knew that. I really did. But now I find myself questioning this: just how much more witnessing of my love can I take.
Michele Dwyer, RN, IBCLC, has worked as a registered nurse in obstetrics for the past 26 years in Central New York state. Her husband took his own life on October 22, 2012, leaving her and their three children to slog through a life that up until that day, had seemed pretty ordinary. Michele has always loved to write, but writing has now taken on new meaning: self-preservation while maintaining sanity.
Jennifer Pastiloff, Beauty Hunter, is the founder of The Manifest-Station. Jen’s leading one of her signature retreats to Ojai, Calif. over New Years. Check out jenniferpastiloff.com for all retreat listings and workshops to attend one in a city near you. Next up: South Dakota, NYC, Dallas, Kripalu Center For Yoga & Health, Tuscany. She is also leading a Writing + The Body Retreat with Lidia Yuknavitch Jan 30-Feb 1 in Ojai (2 spots left.) She tweets/instagrams at @jenpastiloff.
Whoa, that was raw. I was riveted. It is a hell of a piece of writing.
My heart aches to read your story. People may die, but (I believe) love lives forever as we pass it on through the generations. WIshing you growing peace, acceptance and as much love as you can experience in this amazing life. I’m so glad you can write.
It is hard to hit ‘Like’ on this writing. Especially because I survived the death of man I loved deeply. So, read this ‘Like’ as ‘Respect’ and ‘Support’.
My child, whose autopsy report’s final line read, “The cause of death was inconclusive. …” Indeterminable, unreasonable, inconceivable. And unknowingly, a gateway into the pain that flew into that open hole 18 months later when my twin died. Suddenly. Inexplicably. My wandering daydreams for my child, every memory intertlaced with Us….. and I am left to drift, cast about, flounder. But the paper. The autopsy report shows, they Were.
I feel really sad for you. I remember when my brother’s body was seen to belong to the state, no longer alive, and me thinking….but you can’t take him, he’s not yours, he’s our family member. He wasn’t, but no state, no doctor, nobody else can ever understand the memories or the reality of the connections which exist beyond science. They are not a part of the story, but later on, so many years later, for me, they are the only story, as i hope they will be for you too.
I read my beloved’s autopsy, too, though we knew clearly what caused his death. I just couldn’t not. I had to know everything I could know. But really, how creepy, to read of some stranger handling the body of MY beloved, naked, exposed, of someone that had no idea, no idea of the heart & soul that had inhabited that flesh cutting it, commenting on it, touching him last … that was MY lover, my partner. No one should touch him even in death, but me….
To add to the surrealism of this experience, I actually laughed while reading it. Yes. That’s what I said. I laughed at one point while reading my beloved’s autopsy. No, make that twice. I guess it’s that thing they say about humor as tension relief. As the author noted, they use the term “unremarkable” to denote anything that isn’t attributed to the cause of death. When I read “unremarkable genitalia” (he’d died in a car wreck from head trauma when the truck flipped, so nothing below the neck affected his passing), I bust out laughing at the absurdity of it (he was quite remarkable in this area, I’d say 😉 But I admit my bias 😉 )…. I also chuckled when the examiner concurred with the common opinion of all of us that loved and adored my silly, kind hearted man’s amateur tattoo (a harmless and somewhat hilarious result of a drunk night in his 20’s 🙂 ) that it was “a crude smiley face tattoo” (meaning unskilled, not vulgar I’m sure)… I always said that if I didn’t know what it was, I’d think his small children had drawn on him …..
Wow…my heart aches for you. Beautifully written.
Such beautiful words that cut right through my heart.
My heart goes out to you, I too have lost a love, my oldest son… the pain of loss is a huge hurdle, I have yet to make it over. Wishing you happiness.
Michele…thank goodness that writing has become a lifeline for you. I was privileged (an odd word, I know…considering why we were “there”) to read your thoughts in Megan’s first workshop, and am glad you found Jen’s site. I was struck by your reply to Mara. I, too, did so much sleuthing after my father’s suicide. I had to know everything….but of course that’s impossible. In the end, I still don’t know exactly why…and why on my birthday. I used to work in EMS and in the ER of a trauma center. I wondered if that had anything to do with my need to know every detail of the autopsy, the scene report, etc. But I think perhaps it is not as unusual as I first thought (I thought I was a freak for wanting to know everything. For NEEDING to know everything). The pathologist (who, weirdly, is a social acquaintance) told me that it’s not unusual for the families of suicide victims or homicide victims to request a meeting. I hope you do write about your sleuthing. I will read it and know I am not alone.
xo,
Erin
Well written, hard to read thru tear filled eyes. I have always been amazed that you found the strength to go on, to finally open yourself up to fall in love with my brother, only to have him ripped away from you while the world seemed to be revolving for only the two of you. A promising future with him, an almost sister-in-law(me) who will love you forever, how ever long that is, because sometimes, forever is not long enough…hugs
Michele you know I cry with you. I feel so lucky to have met you! You are a sweet angel. I am so sorry for your pain! I will always remember u in prayer.
Whew, powerful.
I never saw an actual autopsy report but got confirmation over the phone that cocaine was certainly in his system – the only time I’d ever, after 10 years together – at least 5 of that suspecting, known for sure. Although a noose is what ended it leaving my young daughter and I, it was addiction that killed him.
For you to have found love again and lost him so soon — shit. I’m sorry. So many stories – and yes, the telling is so important. Thank you for yours.
[…] Autopsies.. […]
We lost our youngest daughter this spring to a strange combination of cascading events in her little body that started with her inability to get over several colds and ended with the blood surrounding her brain completely clotting. We watched her slowly slip further away as her brain swelled and stopped working. There was no need for an autopsy, but my husband and I couldn’t handle the thought of some unknown person cutting our 10 month old baby up. We got all the paperwork to take her home and bury her in a small family cemetery, without embalming, just as she was. For some reason, that felt right. It might be different and strange from the normal way now, but I just wanted her intact and uncut when we laid her to rest.
an almost lover of mine recently committed suicide. we were 2 months into seeing each other, and the day i didn’t return his text, he left a note by his bed and left this world. thank you for this. sending you strength and love.
Strength and love being sent back to you, Angela. Such a hard thing, being left behind when someone leaves this world on purpose. 2 years out from my husband’s death, I’ve come to believe that even 1000 notes would never help me to understand…
Peace for you…
Michele, this was beautifully written and took me into your country of loss. What grace and love you convey here.
[…] Autopsies. – The Manifest-Station. […]
[…] Autopsies. – The Manifest-Station. […]