Pure Eyes, Dirty Hands

My husband died of blunt force trauma to his head. He crashed through the warehouse roof he was working on. I remember when his boss called me that morning; I wasn’t sure if I would go to the hospital. It was a few hours away.

He’s fine. He’s never even needed stitches from an actual work-induced injury.

I remember saying, “He’s very sure-footed, how did he fall?” I think my very matter-of-fact questioning may have taken him aback a bit, but it was a tad surreal and I’m guessing I was in denial. While I knew his job was dangerous, I didn’t think it was actually dangerous for him. He was the best at anything he attempted. Something he never even tried before, he’d pick it up and master it almost instantly. He taught our kids balance before they could crawl. He was always training them to use their minds to control their bodies and situations. To be aware, but not be scared. He wouldn’t simply slip. He couldn’t. That doesn’t sound like him. And as it turns out, he didn’t slip. He didn’t fall off, he crashed through.

“Okay. Okay, so did he like break a leg or what are we talking here?”

“He was airlifted to the hospital.”

“Uh huh. Okay. Well, thanks for calling. I think I’ll come, but, you know, I’m not sure. Thanks.”

Of course I went to the hospital. When I walked in I noticed his boss sitting there. I had never met him before, but I knew it was him. There were three of them. They were making calls and talking to each other. They were discussing my husband. His accident. Their accident. I walked right past them. I went to find the elevator and didn’t want to make eye contact. And then I couldn’t find the elevator. I knew it was a hospital and they’re all pretty standard, but it was like a freaking maze to me and I couldn’t find the damn elevator or stairs to take me to my husband. So I walked back to them. They were still talking.

“Hey. Hi. I’m Matt’s wife. Katie.”

I received the greetings and the sympathy and the apology and the concern that one would expect. I asked them if they knew where the elevator was and they told me. And I let them know they were welcome to visit, but it would be after I saw him first.

I remember when I walked into his room: I took a deep breath before I walked in. I walked in and stopped after a few feet and looked at his face. I paused and smiled. In an odd way he looked peaceful and beautiful. I then grabbed the sheet covering his body and lifted it completely off him and examined his body. I noticed all the bandages and plugs and tubes and whatever those hospital things are called and they each had a 3M label, which was the warehouse roof he was working on when he crashed.

I remember feeling very numb in that moment. I shook my head, rapidly blinked my eyes, and notified his coworker and supervisor and boss that they could come up to see him. I wanted to get the social part out of the way before I truly had time to digest everything I was taking in.

Three men were now standing with me around my husband who had no idea, before they entered that room, that I was pretty much only there to hold his hand until legal death took place. I asked them what had happened. I didn’t mean it in a defensive way but my husband was lying in a bed and won’t ever be home again, so what happened? What they said doesn’t matter. It was an accident. A misstep. Poor planning. A fatal error on many parts. But I’ll always remember their faces. I’ll always remember the way those three looked at me and the way they looked at my husband. The man who was working in close proximity to him, I looked straight in his eyes and asked him to tell me how this happened. Again, his words do not matter. But I’ll always remember his eyes. The look on his face as he stood on one side of my husband and I stood on the other—I’ll never forget it. I know I won’t because as much as I think of the way my husband looked in that hospital bed, I see that man’s face. I see his eyes. And I worry about him almost everyday.

Everyday that I allow my mind to go there, I think of him. I worry about his well-being. As I spoke to him, I had no idea how young he was. Matt mentioned him before and always spoke very kindly of him. But in that moment, I didn’t think of any of that. And I worry that young man will age into one that has never addressed what he witnessed. I worry that he is incredibly busy at work and “totally okay” and just staying busy. I worry about this because that is exactly what my husband would be doing. They work in a field dominated by men—and not just any kind of men. They work alongside the men who get dirty, who work hard, who come home bleeding, who embrace that they get to be in the fresh air day after day, and they go back with no hesitation. They work in a field where wit and banter and sarcasm are the main language. Their stories stay surface level. Their emotions are clouded in keeping their hands and their brains busy and they push it back and push it back and push it back. And everyone around them thinks they are okay because they are working and they are continuing and they are making jokes. Joke, joke, joke. Laugh, laugh, laugh. “Brush it off and get back to work.” I even said that in my eulogy. I said that because that’s what he would do. My husband would say, “shit happens,” and carry on.

But maybe that’s not what we should be doing. Maybe we should talk about it. Maybe we should cry freely. Maybe we should get pretty damn mad. Maybe when people die at work those that witness it should be required to speak to a therapist or a counselor by the dollar of their employer. Maybe we should really consider mental health a bit more and truly look at what trauma consists of. What ptsd can stem from. What brushing everything under the rug can create in your gut. In your mind. Maybe we should all identify that the day you visit the guy in the hospital, the day you give the okay to take your loved ones organs, the day you pay your respects at their funeral are all just the very beginning. The absolute beginning of a very long journey. Not just for the spouse. The children. The parents. The siblings. But those that witnessed the accident. Those that witnessed the fatal blow. We should check in with them, too.

Since my husband died at work, an OSHA investigation took place. I read every single page. Every sentence. I viewed every picture. It was detailed. It was explicit. It was real. And I’m glad they took the time to do that. But from reading that report, I can place myself there. I can see my husband’s face. So if I can do that from a couple sentences then there is no way in hell that the man (or men) who witnessed everything can’t see that. Can’t hear that. I know there was sound. Many sounds. Loud ones. Crashing, crashing, crashing. And yet, they’re just working and working and working. They should have time to rest. They should have an outlet to discuss it. Should, should, should—I get it—I sound like a nagging wife. A concerned woman. I may not be a man who works in a dirty job, but I’m a human. I’m a human capable of empathy and from the looks in their eyes—in his eyes—they are too. And they need a tight hug and a good cry session before that leaves their eyes for good. I’m a firm believer that empathy only leaves you when you’ve convinced your mind that no one cares about your pain. If yours doesn’t matter, why should theirs? And when I sit somewhere and I look up at a metal roof—first, I think of my husband. Second, I think of the crash. Third, I think of that man’s eyes.

I don’t care what any hardworking, goal-oriented man tells me—if they see someone crash through a metal roof, if they hear someone crash through a metal roof, if they see tubes connected to that person’s body after they crashed through a metal roof, if they went to their funeral after they crashed through a metal roof, there’s no way they don’t think of the incident when they build a metal roof. There’s no way it doesn’t cross their mind when they strap on their harness. They see it. They hear it. They feel it. We need to help them heal It. At least to ease it. For their sake. For our sake. For the sake of the ones we lost. For the world’s sake.