March 1, 2003, Dallas, Texas

By Theresa C. Clemmons

March 1, 2003. It was the day marking my sixth week as a new bride. It would also become the day on which my husband, or at least the man I married, died.

Harold and I woke up early that Saturday morning. A sensation of exaggerated excitement and anticipation filled the air. We were madly in love and married just six weeks earlier on a beautiful beach in Hawaii. Still glowing with our tropical tans, we received a long awaited call.

It seemed like an eternity since we signed the papers to begin the building of our new house. Finally, news arrived that some real progress had been made. At last, the builders had completed the framing of both levels of our two story, 3300-square-foot dream home.

Without a single doubt, we could have grasped for no greater heights than those which we reached on that day!

So, with my son in tow, the three of us hopped into the truck and headed out.

Shane, my son from a previous marriage, had just turned 7 years old. He was excited too; however not about the house. His excitement stemmed from the belated birthday party I arranged at Chucky Cheese for the following day. This thought constantly swimming around in his dreamy little mind, Shane was easily coaxed into a trip to the furniture store. An amazing feat, considering he was already dreading our planned trip to the site of our future home.

Two hours later, we left the furniture store. I couldn’t help but to think how our enthusiasm seemed so contagious. I swear that our sales representative at some point actually began to glow. Clearly beaming she waved goodbye to us with our down payment in her hand. She expressed sharing our excitement about our home’s approaching completion date. I suspected that her excitement had more to do with the pending commission check she would receive after the delivery of our furniture.

Turning into our sparsely occupied subdivision, we decided to stop by the model home. This had become a weekly ritual since signing the papers for our own similar version of it.

At least once a week, we would stop to say hello to our sales crew. Although we were far more interested in gobbling up the freshly baked cookies that would always be on the stove in the model kitchen.

Arriving at the model, we found it empty. Finding no sales people to greet us, the cookies sufficed as a fabulous substitute. I don’t recall feeling at all guilty that we ate them all.

Piling back into our brand new, white, 2003 GMC pick-up, we started out once again. By now even Shane could hardly wait for our next stop. At long last we were about to see our newly framed testament to the utter greatness that our life together had already become.

Simultaneously, Harold and I paused to look at one another. With cookie-crumb smiles we kissed. Looking again at one another, Harold said, “My God, this is really happening, isn’t it?”

Blinking, the tears teetering on the edge of my lower eyelids were sent gently rolling down my cheeks. I replied, “It’s like a fairy tale; a real life dream come true.” Within seconds, we made it to the site where we planned to spend the rest of our lives.

It had rained for days. Mud puddles laid everywhere except for where just plain mud covered the ground. Always the gentleman, Harold strategically placed planks of wood to give Shane and me a safe and clean path to where our front door would soon stand.

Workers were still there wrapping up their Saturday work day. They watched as we made our way through every room and wood-framed entryway. Standing in the middle of every room, we imagined how amazing our finished product would be. Our collective happiness was felt more intensely with every step through, what we described as our monument to joy.

The perfection symbolized by this house filled us both as we exuded a sense of absolute fulfillment. Harold and I were both humbled by what seemed to be a blanket of blessings, sent from the Heavens, to swaddle our entire existence.

The workers had made a makeshift ladder by nailing several boards, spaced two feet apart, across one of the framed entry ways. This “ladder” they used to gain access to the upper level.

Like a little boy, unable to resist the temptation to climb a forbidden tree in the backyard, my husband was compelled to follow as one of the workers climbed up.

Harold had made it to the second step off the ground when he reached for the final board atop this make-shift ladder. Grabbing the last board with both of his big mechanics hands, he pulled up. He was attempting to pull his five foot, eleven and a half inch, 185 pound frame over the upper level ledge, so as to investigate the progress on that floor.

The second level had been beckoning both Harold and Shane, since first beginning to make our way through the house.

Shane, frustrated because he wasn’t allowed to go up after Harold, found solace with the discovery of some doodle bugs. I stood mere inches from Harold making his way up the ladder.

I looked away briefly, scanning the perimeter to make sure that my son and his doodle bugs were still humoring each other in a place where I could allow my maternal concern to take a short break. Satisfied that Shane was in a safe spot I returned my attention to my husband on the ladder. My eyes would bare witness to something my mind could not properly assimilate. The moment it became abundantly clear that a 911 call needed to be made, the horror of what was about to occur became my new reality.

Still standing on the second step of that God-forsaken ladder, his torso was now directly facing me. Though just a single second ago only a side view was visible from my perspective. Next, I recall noticing his hands. Both hands were still clenching that top board, except now it was no longer attached to the framing. As he tried to pull himself up and then over the second floor ledge, the improperly secured board came loose.

Unable to assess the situation quickly enough, Harold didn’t think to let go of the board which was all that he needed to do to prevent his fall. Holding this board with its three strait nails sticking out from one end, my husband stood stunned for about half of a second.

In that moment, fate and destiny collided, erasing everything on the very threshold of becoming. A threshold we were apparently not meant to cross.

I often re-live that moment, perhaps too often. It’s always Harold’s crystal blue eyes with that haunting terrified look that I see first. As if he knew something horribly wrong was about to occur. Yet he couldn’t think quickly enough to prevent it.

No flashback is complete without that damn board, seeming more like a magnet in his hands of steel. Last comes the always deafening sound of his crisply starched blue jeans crumpling as he falls, head first, onto the concrete below.

Harold did not die March 1, 2003. But, the man I married on that beautiful beach in Hawaii did.

Sadly, Harold will live the rest of his life stripped of the skill and precision he once so adamantly demanded of himself in all things. His sharp mind and quick wit are forever gone. As is his ability to comprehend or deal with matters on any level above that of an 11-year-old. What seems worst of all is that he has been denied the privilege and bliss of ignorance. Harold will always know how well he’s not. He will remain brutally cognizant of the man he used to be.

As for me, he doesn’t remember me. He doesn’t realize the love we shared or the life we lost. This man has no idea that, to this day, I would die for him.

Harold’s family, anxious to get their hands on his insurance and settlement moneys, stole him from me. They stole his memories of me, replacing them with untruths to lend an image far less than becoming.

I will forever remember him, the man I married Jan. 10, 2003, on a beach in Hawaii. The same man who, in reality, died March 1, 2003. It was only six weeks, but enough love flowed between us to fill a lifetime.

And although his memories have been washed away, my memories of our beautiful life that almost was will never die.

Theresa C. Clemmons lives in Garland, Texas. Her son Shane is now 10 years old and she is expecting a baby girl in January with her fiance, Brad.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Tuesday, November 7th, 2006 | Email This Post

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