My Last Starry Night
Written by Cat Corrier; December 2010

It was May 20, 2009, a regular workday, a Wednesday. I would love to remember every detail of that day, because it was the last day that I would ever recall as normal. It was the last day that I would have with Michael, my husband of eleven years. It was the last day I would ever feel whole again.

Michael and I had met in 1991 where we both worked for the local utility company. During the course of our work we had spoken on the phone on many occasions. I always enjoyed talking with him. His voice resonated confidence, intelligence, and compassion with an innocent touch of sexy.

It took a year before we met in person. He came to our downtown location for a meeting. It was a Friday, and I had planned to take half of a day off to spend with my best friend. Our plans were to take off to the mountains, find a stream, step over a few rocks with a cooler of beer, and plant ourselves on a rock in the middle of the stream and solve the problems of the world, well, at least our problems. So when Michael walked into my office for the first time, I had already changed into my hiking gear and had mentally checked out, picturing myself sitting on that rock. We were briefly introduced by a coworker of mine. To my recollection it went something like this, “Fahey (that was my last name at the time), this is Corrier (his last name)”. We may have shaken hands, I don’t recall. The preoccupation of the mountains prevented me from fully appreciating the first time we met. Years later Michael would tell the story in great detail, from what I was wearing, the length of my hair, down to the color of my eyes. But most importantly, he would end the story by saying he met the love of his life that day. He would say that God planted a seed of love in his heart for me, right there in that little room. I, on the other hand, called it a serendipitous event. Once again, if I had known the importance of that day, if I had known that this was the man I would eventually marry, be certain that I would have paid better attention to every detail of that momentous introduction.

For the sake of brevity, I will tell you that seven years after that first introduction, Michael and I were married, in every sense of the word. Our children blended, our finances melded, we changed my home into our home. We painted, well, he painted. We purchased a new bed that I still sleep in today. All around our home, almost in every corner, both of our personalities popped up. Happy, that’s the word. We were happy.

Michael Joseph Corrier

Michael became the first man in many years I trusted. Not just trusted to stay faithful –that’s a given in any marriage, but just as importantly, trust him with my heart, with my feelings. I knew it would be okay if I got mad at him. I knew that he would not withhold affection because I had spoken my mind, and he knew the same of me. It is very difficult for me to articulate the extreme bond that Michael and I shared. We had the rare combination, the blessed combination, of being each other’s best friend, lover, and companion.

We had the most incredible eleven years together. I would be lying to myself if I said that they were not without challenges, it is impossible to go through life without them. But where I felt like our relationship was unique is that we went through them together. We faced adversity as a couple. Never was our love in question, nor our commitment to one another. When one of us laughed, the other laughed along. When one cried, the other was there to offer solace. We lived together as a conscious unit, watching out for one another, never a secret kept. Truth was as necessary as air, as food, as water.

One of our biggest challenges came in the form of finances. There never seemed to be enough money to go around. Without going into detail, suffice it to say that it became a burden that stayed with us.

Michael’s last day on earth was a
Thursday, 12:30am.

We had spent the evening crunching numbers. We were in jeopardy of losing our home. I recall Michael at the computer for several hours trying to come up with a plan to keep our home. We had not yet missed a mortgage payment, but the writing on the wall was becoming evident that something was going to have to give. And then, when we both came to the realization that once again we were going to be faced with a life changing experience, we were okay. We started making plans to find a smaller home, or maybe even an apartment that accepted pets, dachshunds to be exact.

Michael and I were no strangers to starting over. We had done it before, and now, we would do it again. Home, after all, is where the heart is, is where your love is. We both seemed to have a peace about it. But of course, now that I look back, now that I know what I know, maybe on Michael’s part it wasn’t acceptance, maybe it was resignation.

I had a habit of watching television in our bedroom after dinner. I loved our bedroom; it was a haven for me. I felt enveloped there, warm there. And as always, my two constant companions, Heidi and Gretchen were never far away, one at my feet, one on my lap. They were our dachshunds, our little friends. Every dog Michael and I ever had, slept with us, and they were no exception. Heidi would usually saddle up next to Michael somewhere, and Gretchen liked to lay on one part of my body or another. It was11:30 pm on that Wednesday when Michael came to bed. I turned off the television and Michael turned out the lights. We had just settled in when Michael made the all too familiar remark that Heidi was licking him. We never knew why she did it, but she would… all the time. Sometimes it was cute, other times it was annoying. I laughed a little and made the all too familiar comeback, “it’s easier to just let her finish”. It’s an old line from one of our favorite movies. So, when I rolled over that night and went to sleep, I never knew that would be the last words I ever spoke to my husband. Strange how that happens, it should’ve been, “Michael I love you with all of my heart. We will be fine. Please don’t worry.” Something profound, something meaningful, something that would make him want to live through the night. But no, it was, “it’s easier to just let her finish.”

At 12:45am I was startled awake by a loud, insistent knocking at our bedroom door. I woke to discover that Michael was not there in the room with me, only the dogs, which were doing their “on guard” barking. While trying to collect my thoughts, the voice on the other side of the door announced that he was with the police department.

I knew. Oh my God in heaven I knew. In just a few seconds, coming out of my hazy sleep, I knew. This could not be good. On the other side of the door was going to be the words that would change me forever. Oh God no. I’m not ready for this.

I was informed by the officer that my husband was in the front yard and had hurt himself, (it’s serious, I think he added). Michael had called the 911 dispatcher to inform the police of his intentions. I was not given any details and was ordered to stay in the bedroom while the paramedics were trying to help him. I recall crumbling to the floor and begging for my 21 year old son Shane, who was upstairs sleeping. The officer awoke Shane and brought him to me. And on that bedroom floor we huddled, we cried, we panicked, we prayed that everything was going to be okay. The officer stood watch at the doorway ensuring that we didn’t rush out into the front yard. Within just a few minutes another officer came in my bedroom and informed me that my husband died at the scene.

The best that I can piece together is that sometime after I had rolled over and had gone to sleep, Michael had made up his mind to end his life that night. He planned it so that I would not wake up to it alone.  I would like to think that before exiting our bedroom with the gun in his hand, that he might have leaned over and told me he loved me. Or, maybe prayed for himself; and for his family that he would be leaving devastated. I hope that I got a last kiss; that would be a comfort. Perhaps a tear of his may have landed in my hair, and perhaps he touched my cheek with his hands and told me that he was sorry… and how great we had been together.

Michael left our bedroom with the gun in his hand and his cell phone on his clip. He walked out of our home for the last time and closed the door behind him.  He sat down in our front yard in one of our camping chairs. Michael was always so proud of our manicured lawn, and that spring our flowers were blooming so spectacularly. Maybe he reminisced of the many family gatherings we had spent in that yard; perhaps he was reminded of the Easter Egg hunt that had just taken place a few weeks earlier. The one where Lexi tirelessly hunted eggs, so much in fact that we all took turns hiding them so that she could hunt over and over.  I’m sure that he looked up into that cloudless, starry night and knew that he would soon be in heaven, where he could finally put all of his burdens to rest. And there, on that lawn, the one that he had resigned to that fact we would surely lose, he picked up the phone and dialed 911. It was only an informational call to let them know his intentions and where he was located. He left specific instructions to not ring the doorbell when they came into the house. He left the front door unlocked. He informed them that I was sleeping, and where our bedroom was located, and even that the dogs would go “ape shit” and start barking… (he knew those dogs).  His call was not to be talked out of suicide, but merely a way to make it as easy on me as possible. Had he not done that, I would’ve been the one waking up and looking for him. After hearing of Michael’s intentions the dispatcher quickly tried to change the conversation in an attempt to keep him on the phone a little longer, asking him his age…his address again… why he would want to kill himself. But when Michael figured out that she was just trying to keep him alive until the police officers could get there, he hung up on her. I suspect only seconds after that call was released, Michael placed the gun to his heart and pulled the trigger. It may as well have been my heart too, because part of me died that night as well. In fact, in the beginning, I had wished he had taken my life along with his because I really wasn’t prepared to go through the rest of my life without this man.

The next couple of weeks were all just a blur to me. I remained in a cloudy state of confusion, enveloping grief,but no anger; not yet. My family and friends stepped in to be my voice, to be my advisors, to be anything they needed to be for me. I was lost. I had become a woman without direction, and yes, even meaning. But there was something deep inside of me that would not, could not, for sanity’s sake, let me slip into an abyss that I would surely not be able to get out of. That fear kept me on the precipice of reality. That same fear got me back to work within 10 days after Michael’s death.

I had a few well meaning friends ask me in the beginning about going to grief counseling. I remember feeling then that it just didn’t seem the right time. I wasn’t able to put into simple sentences of how I was feeling, much less articulate in a reasonable fashion my innermost thoughts. The best description of myself at the time was that I was just a big heap of unknown emotions that communicated with sobs. So how was I to convey that in a counseling session? It was many months later while I was talking with my very wise nephew David about the early counseling issue. He said, “You know, it’s kind of like if you had been around a very loud explosion, or even a loud concert and after leaving, you try to hear. You can’t because the noise is still in your head; the ringing in your ears takes a while to subside. If the noise is still there, you can’t hear your counsel, you can’t absorb truths that you need to hear. It is just now that that I might perhaps be prepared to hear the counsel of professionals.

It has been eighteen months since Michael’s death. In that time my daughter Robin has given birth to a baby girl named Luna Summer. We have observed two Father’s Days without him. His birthday has come and gone, and twice we have gathered for Thanksgiving without his presence. In just a couple of weeks, our family will celebrate the birth of Christ. We will gather around the dinner table, basking in the happiness of our family. But as always, in every family gathering that we have held since Michael’s death, we each think of him, we each miss him in our own way. His absence, though rarely spoken, is much louder at times than the celebration at hand. I can see it in the eyes of my children, his children, and I know they can see it in mine. His memory shines bright in each of us, while all of us moving on as best we can.

I have had so many people ask me the question, “Why?” “Why did he do it?”  And the sad truth is that I will not know until I see him in heaven. The ones left behind were not given an explanation, a simple note that might have answered the most basic of questions. In some ways it may have helped temporarily, but really, it’s the same ending that we are left with. Michael chose to take his life and leave those he loved so dearly behind.

Michael left behind his mother and father, Ralph and Lola Corrier. He has two brothers, Niel and George Corrier. Michael fathered two children, Brandon Michael and Heather Lynn. He stepped in as a part time father to my three children, Heather Denise, Robin Marie, and Shane Patrick. He left behind two nieces, Kristen and Megan, and a nephew Colton. When he died our granddaughter Alexis Rhea was just about to turn 2 years old. And since his death, we have a new granddaughter, Luna Summer.

I know that each of these loved ones that I have mentioned have truly suffered in their own way. As a parent, as a son or daughter, as a brother, they each have their own story. But I only know one, and that is mine, the widow of Michael Joseph Corrier.

My prayer is that someday I will find my way through this labyrinth of grief, of loneliness, and heartbreak. At times I feel like great strides have been made, only to run into a wall in this maze I am trapped in, but I have faith that I will get through this. I may not come out the same person that went in, but maybe a better person. One that will never take for granted the warmth of family, the gift of life, the treasure of laughter, and the smile of a child. And maybe, someday, God willing, the love for another man.