Free Fallen: A Trauma, a Marriage, and the Transformative Power of Music by Kara Stanley Page B

with us and answer all our questions later in the afternoon. The rest of the family is now at the hospital and the prospect of imminent surgery has been averted, so I leave to see Eli off to the coast.
    I return alone to the hotel room to have something to eat and take a nap. Both concepts—eating and sleeping—seem foreign and impossible. Instead, I shower and cry. What if they canceled Simon’s surgery today because I made a fuss? What if the surgery today could have prevented some damage to his spinal cord? What if I had grabbed him by the hand as he deliberated at the foot of the bed and insisted he stay at home? What if I had never gone back to school and put us in the position of needing the extra income from construction? What if we had moved to Toronto instead of Halfmoon Bay? Or Halifax? Or Vancouver?
    Over and over again I relive the moment when he stood at the foot of the bed. I can still feel the early-morning heat of our blankets. I am guilty for not dragging him back to bed. I am guilty for not properly reading the signs laid out before us: Simon’s moment of destabilization in the grocery store? Change, he had said, on an atomic level. And he rarely considered taking a day off. Why that Tuesday? I am convinced that the universe supplied all the evidence needed to predict this event, and I am guilty because I could have—should have—done something to prevent it. And I didn’t. I am consumed by imagining how, by simply reversing one of those decisions, I could alter this series of events. How far would I have to go back to ensure that what is happening now would be impossible? Would I return to British Columbia with Eli and leave Simon in Montreal all those many years ago? Would I give up my life with him to spare him this?
Yes,
I think,
yes, yes, yes.
This is a dangerous train of thought, one that pulls me apart, fiber by fiber. I am insubstantial as a tuft of carded wool. And I would make almost any deal with the universe if it meant I could undo the precise moment at which he fell.
    Back at the hospital, I sit with Simon’s friend Sully, who, even in the summer heat, wears a plaid flannel work shirt, the cuffs frayed, and baggy, grout-stained jeans. I covet the flannel shirt, in all its tobacco-scented, oversized glory, and want one of my own to wrap myself in. If I asked, Sully would take the shirt off and give it to me now; he is that sort of friend. A big bear of a man, Sully plays bass and sings in a sweet Nashville tenor, one that Simon greatly admires. Sully tells me he wants to do Simon proud by being the kind of person Simon would be at a time like this. It is a common sentiment among those who gather at Sassafras. In this type of crisis, the person you most want around is Simon: strong, resourceful, constructive, positive. The kind of person who can be emotionally open and available without being crippled by those emotions.
    “I know,” I say. “Damn Simon. Taking a nap when I need him most.”
    “That’s the thing about Simon,” Sully says. “He always puts everyone’s needs before his own. He always thought first about you or Eli. Not himself, not his music.”
    It strikes me then that Sully thinks I am guilty too. He doesn’t say it to hurt me, but I know Sully well enough, I know the life of a musician well enough, to know there is more than a hint of an accusation in this statement. Strangely, it does not increase my guilty feelings. For an instant, I see how ridiculous and self-centered my guilt is, how absurd. Simon is not, and has never been, a martyr. We made decisions
together
. Countless important life decisions and countless seemingly unimportant ones, like taking Tuesday off versus riding it out and reassessing come Friday. My guilt is useless and counterproductive. Indulgent, even. Perhaps I prefer to cultivate my guilt rather than confront my helplessness. Like Sully, I have to learn how to rise to this situation. Be as strong as Simon would be if our positions were