Saturday
His face was frightened and it was the first time I saw that fear. He had held it close to spare me the truth for nearly ten months but it was there now. He lay in his bed, unable to stand on his own. I hurried to the side of the bed, my own fear rising high in my throat.
“I can’t be alone any more Deb. I can’t stand up by myself.” I scrambled up on the bed and laid my head on his chest.
“I’m afraid.” I said.
“I know and I’m sorry” he whispered.
“If I help you down the stairs do you think you can make it to my car?” I was panicking but I knew I needed to be calm.
“I’ll try.” he said.
I wrapped my arms around him and we made our way to my car and then my house.
The walls of my bedroom were teal. I hadn’t picked the color but I loved it nonetheless. His eyes were blue, blue, blue in that pale room.
Tuesday
I helped him into a pair of jeans that were way too big and then we made our way to the medical parking structure on South National. The medical staff brought a wheelchair out for us as his sister waved her greeting and his daughter met us at the elevator doors. Words, white coats and a hand laid on a shoulder preceded the words “hospice” and “good fight”. Back down the elevator and into my car we went. The radio played something as I slowed at the stop light. He removed his seat belt and pulled my head to his shoulder as we waited for the light to turn green.
“I just want to comfort you.” he said quietly. Tears ran down my face as I engaged the clutch and let my foot off the brake.
Wednesday
Hospice came with suggestions. “Did we need a separate bed?”
“No, we stay together.”
“A shower chair?”
“Yes”
“Will he need oxygen?”
“Yes”
“I love you.” he whispered over and over as I traced the outline of his face with my fingertips. “You are the best person I’ve ever known.”
“No, I just love you.” I said.
We laid together with my head on his shoulder, so afraid of hurting him and he, insisting that I could never hurt him.
“The hardest part of this is leaving you” He tucked a stray piece of hair behind my ear.
Thursday
No more pain medication in tablet form. Morphine can be used with a dropper. Does he want a cathatar? Booklets explaining death and the stages I should look for. The fentenyl patch attached to his chest next to the portal that had allowed the chemo in. Friends stopping in and family saying goodbye. My mother's phone call assuring me I would be alright, even as I sobbed on the back stoop. The machine that helped him breath. My hand held his through the night. Holding on while trying to let go.
Friday
No more words between us. The chaplain explains the part that we will play when the time comes. Words and more words that will never be spoken again.
Saturday
He will be gone today. I know this more than I know my own name. I lay his wallet and keys on the tray. I lay down beside him and I placed my hand in his hand. We listen to his favorite music.
10:44 AM
His arms opened wide as he sat up. It was he and I, as I always knew it would be. I wrapped my arms around him and told him how much we loved him but that it was alright to go now. I prayed. I told him that I would hold him in my arms until God took him and that he wouldn’t have to be afraid. His breath stopped and I watched as the blood left his face. I was so afraid of letting go of his hand in case he thought I had let go too soon.
10:50
I speak to him as though he is still there.
“I have to let go, my sweetheart. I have to call somebody.” My fingers untangle from his as I find my phone. A frantic call to the hospice nurse and then to his children.
“He is gone. Your dad is gone.” I say. Words form in my mind but never leave my mouth. There is only doing right now. Do what must be done.
11:15
Hospice comes and arranges his body into an acceptable pose. His fingers are no longer curled as they were when they held mine between them, but straight and smooth crossed over his waist. The cathatar is gone and the breathing tube has been removed. Sheets are tucked neatly around him in case anyone would like to see him.
We count pain medication and drop it into a bag of kitty litter. Someone asks if the family would like to donate his organs. I see his blue, blue eyes in my mind. “No,” I say. “No more taking from him. He has given enough.”
11:30
The black hearse backs into my driveway. Two gentlemen come to the door and introduce themselves. They walk into my bedroom. His son whispers to me that he can’t be here when they take his father. He can’t bear to see this. I tell him to gather everybody in the back yard and that I will stay with his father. I watch from the doorway as they lift my sweetheart onto the gurney. I see them watching me and I insist that I’m alright. They cover him with a sheet and work their way from the bedroom to the driveway. The doorway is narrow and awkward. The men lift him into the back of the hearse and close the door. Both shake my hand and tell me that they are sorry. I thank them. I watch them drive away while I clutch the bottom of my navy blue shorts with suddenly empty hands.