This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Natalie McCarter. It has been edited for length and clarity.
The Christmas of 2018 was blissfully normal with my husband, Ray, and our two kids, then 7 and 9.
On Christmas Eve, the kids had new pajamas, a family tradition, and as usual, I took plentiful pictures and videos of them enjoying the night. But unlike previous years, I told Ray to get in so I could capture him with the kids, and he did, singing and smiling.
That night, Ray and I stayed up late having a bit of wine and wrapping Christmas presents together. In the morning, we told the kids they could wake us when the sun came up, which they did; all of us then moved downstairs to open our gifts. Later in the day, we hosted our annual Christmas dinner at our house. Both of our families were there.
We were in such a good place. Our relationship was strong, Ray had just taken a new job at the Pentagon, and we were in our dream house with our kids. I wasn’t expecting this to be our last holiday together.
He died 2 months later
Nearly two months later was Valentine’s Day, a day I had always considered a consumer marketing holiday, but we celebrated it with a takeout dinner and a movie on our projector. That night, Ray said we should renew our vows for our 12-year anniversary, which seemed a bit odd as it wasn’t a particularly special number of years. We started planning how we’d take a cruise to celebrate, inviting our closest friends to come along.
The day after, I took the kids to an evening event, and Ray went to a friend’s house to hang out. As the kids and I were about to head home, I called Ray to check in — it was a phone call that lasted eight minutes and 36 seconds, just catching each other up on the day.
He ended it with “Love you, baby.” That was the last time I would ever hear Ray’s voice.
Later that night, once the kids were in bed, I tried calling and texting Ray — he wasn’t answering, which was unlike him. I tried not to worry, tried not to think the worst. I’d already lost my mom, my dad, and my brother — surely, I wasn’t due any more loss.
I kept telling myself to just go to sleep — he’d be on his way home soon. I couldn’t sleep, just lay there texting and calling him, asking him to let me know he was OK.
A little after 4 am, I heard a knock on the door. It was the police, and I could tell, I could tell. The way they were looking at me, they didn’t even have to say anything to me. I told them to go away; I didn’t want to hear what they had to say.
Ray had been hit by a drunken driver and was killed coming home that night.
I’m an advocate for people not to drive under the influence
I now beg people to make safe choices on the road, and keep other people accountable when they have been drinking — call them a ride or drive them home. Any distraction or impairment — alcohol, but also phones — could easily cause death and destruction behind the wheel.
If speaking of my experience of loss spares another friend, partner, child, sibling, or parent, then Ray’s legacy becomes a light instead of just a loss.
For six months, I kept convincing myself it was all a nightmare I’d wake up from. I just wanted to disappear, because I’d lost a limb I’d never get back. It was only my kids who kept me going.
As another Christmas without Ray comes around, I’m so thankful to have all the video footage and photos from our last Christmas with him. We’ll always remember Ray, but memories do fade. Seeing and hearing him keeps his memory fresh.
It doesn’t matter what people look like in photos; it just matters that they are in them to remember, no matter what happens. Because cliché as it sounds, tomorrow isn’t guaranteed.
Take the photo. Record the video.
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