
I always read her behavior differently, though. I thought she looked like she was reaching over the trunk of the car trying to scoop up pieces of brain. I imagine her thinking something like, "Oh no! This is bad! He's going to need this part of his head when he gets better!" I imagine her in something like denial, scooping up her dying husband's brains with a sense of duty, with a sense of a still-possible future, the idea of a later time when his brains will be all back in his head and he'll be all patched up.
I think of her a lot lately, this iconic figure of a wife attempting to piece together her impossibly blown-apart husband. I think of myself and my own denial that my husband might be too far gone ever to be put back together again. I feel myself scrambling, fighting, begging, praying, hoping that it's not impossible for him to be ok, for me to be ok, for us to be ok together. I still have hope that he could be a whole man some day, and that we could have a real life together in spite of a lot of evidence that he won't be, that he can't be, and that having an adult relationship with someone as sick as my husband isn't possible.
I still have hope. I hang on. I keep sitting in a sinking ship.
Photo Credit: JFK Assassination