At some point in my life I'll write everything down that I haven't blogged already about Anthony's death and dying. I'll go through my blog archives and dig up the stories that my memory has (thankfully) diminished. But I wrote this yesterday, even though "the morning after" this year's election felt pretty triumphant for me. I do know how personal despair can interweave with political despair...

The Day After (2004)

I admit, my mind wasn’t on the turnout of the election. But I’d assumed — naively so — that the mess that George W. Bush had put us in during his first term in office would make him a one term President. The only reason I even voted in the 2004 election was that Oregon offers vote-by-mail. Because when election day came, I was in the hospital waiting room, waiting waiting waiting while my husband had surgery to remove a cancerous tumor from his liver.

The surgery was over 10 hours long; the tumor over 8 lbs. The day after the surgery (the day after the election), Anthony remained in ICU. And so the day after the surgery (the day after the election), I sat in the waiting room of the emergency ICU.

I sat there watching the final election returns and news analysis on the television — the volume off, of course, as is common in public waiting areas. But I could see Senator John Kerry mouthing a concession speech, despite the questions that remained about voting machines and voting counts.

I remember Kerry’s concession, not because of what he said — clearly, I couldn’t hear a word of it — but because it was timed with the thunderous silence of the pain of all of us sitting in that emergency ICU waiting room.

One family sat clustered and crying, their son — a member of the Oregon National Guard — had tried to take his life the night before. The doctor came out, head shaking and voice lowered. The family had “a decision” to make, he informed them.

“A decision.” A concession.

Hope and hopelessness, both grimmly personal and political.

Image credits: Anthony Vanderford