Marry Christmas

A decade ago today, I woke up in a cabin in Blue Ridge, Georgia, ready to become Ramón’s wife. Typing “Ramón’s wife” still feels odd because, in many ways, it’s as though I never got to fulfill that role. It’s also weird because I tend to avoid titles, meaning I’d never really called him my boyfriend or my fiancé. And once I finally got used to calling him my husband, he became my late husband—another title I’m not too keen on.

Today I woke up in the hospital where Ramón died—a place I hoped I’d never spend another night as long as I lived. I consider this my first time back since that awful morning I said goodbye. (I was in this building briefly for outpatient surgery in 2021, but I used a secret entrance and never saw any of the areas that are so fraught with memories.) On Wednesday, after several weeks of trying to clear a respiratory illness at home, my CF doctor and I decided I needed to be admitted.

And that’s why I’m spending what would have been my tenth wedding anniversary in the building where Ramón died.

When I got here on Wednesday, I felt crappy enough that most of my energy was devoted to my physical health. But as I rolled my suitcase past the valet desk, I remembered the cashier’s voice as she said, “Have a great day!,” moments into my life without Ramón. And as I sat in the Admissions area, I recalled the panic I felt as I sprinted down that corridor when Ramón was transferred to the ICU in his last hours. My chest further tightened as they wheeled me up to my room, passing the double doors I’d burst through that final morning to find them yelling, “Alvarado. Who’s with Alvarado?”    

I dreaded coming back here, but I feel surprisingly okay. Yesterday my latest-but-not-late husband, John, visited, and I decided I was ready to take a walk. We ventured off the floor, and I showed him the scenes of some of the crimes. But happier memories surfaced, too, like Ramón jogging laps (inside the hospital) some mornings—and us loitering around in the gift shop making awful jokes. “Can we please have this bedazzled scarf? We’re both terminally ill.”

I can’t yet describe it, but this hospitalization feels important to my mental and emotional healing. Walking those halls yesterday felt a lot like me taking my power back. I feared that being here might lead to a regression in all the treatment I’ve done for PTSD. But instead I’ve realized how far I’ve come. Though I’d love to be almost anywhere else, I’m oddly at peace here.

Happy anniversary, Ramón! I’ll browse the vending machines in your honor.