Chapter 9 - Catherine
My wife Catherine was thirty-six when she died.
Not chronically ill.
Car accident.
The hospital was sudden.
Machines.
Waiting.
Six days.
Bernice sat with me almost every hour.
She watched me refuse food.
Refuse sleep.
Refuse to leave Catherine’s room.
On day four my mother said:
“Come home for one night.”
I told her:
“No.”
“Griffin.”
“No.”
“She won’t know.”
I remember grabbing her shoulders.
Not violently.
Hard enough.
“Don’t say that.”
She went quiet.
Catherine died two days later.
Afterward Bernice became indispensable.
Elodie.
Funeral.
Food.
School.
Everything.
I was grateful.
Then she developed a private story.
Griffin almost destroyed himself at Catherine’s bedside.
Now Elodie’s illnesses recreate that dynamic.
Therefore someone must be strong.
Bernice assigned herself.
The problem with self-appointed strength is that it often means nobody else gets to define what hurts.
When Elodie had anxiety after Catherine’s death, Bernice was useful.
“School anyway.”
Sometimes correct.
“Bedtime routine.”
Good.
“Not every ache means stay home.”
Also often good.
Success reinforced her.
Then medical symptoms emerged.
She used same hammer.
The world had changed.
May you like
Her method did not.
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