His last 24 hours

Dear Friends,

Writing to you all has been an anchor through these past years. I have posted 60 long and sometimes rambling letters- and in your reading and sharing them, and in your messages of support- you have helped me feel surrounded and enveloped.. you have heard me in my rawest moments. 

It's been a journey, huh?!

The horrible and the wonderful.

You celebrated the joy of last September when he survived the surgery and the pain of this March when we came to the point of terminal. 

So many of you have a story- in fact, everyone of you has a story.

Each of us has a tale of the horrendous moments that are typical and expected in this life- we don't want them but they are part and parcel of living.

And each of us are owners and partakers of the beautiful stories- the triumphs, the love stories, the overcoming.

I guess I just wanted to take this moment to thank you for being with us and sending love and support as we traversed the pages and days of our story. 

Now... 

I wrote in fragments in the final hours of his life. That Friday into Saturday were truly the most profoundly difficult hours I have known. And so I wrote. Writing is something akin to breathing for me these days.

So...

If you want to read on- please know that these words came from a bedside on the 4th and 5th of September, while our beautiful Sheldon spent his last breaths and heartbeats with us.

They are raw words that echo and reflect the pain that comes in saying goodbye.

If you can't- that's ok.

Maybe one day you will.

Friday- 4th September. 

11:13am

I don't know when or if this will be posted. Right now it's a simple matter of me needing to write. Needing to put these things down so that I can forget for a while and so that I don't forget in days and weeks to come.

There is no preparation for this. 

For sitting on the end of a hospital bed and staring for an hour at the face of a beloved.
Memorizing. When I actually wonder if this is what I want to remember,  but knowing that I will. This face that is so drawn and etched with the burden of these days.
No.. there is no preparation for this.
If you ever have to tread these worn steps of this goodbye,  don't be fooled into thinking you can prepare.
I stayed with him last night. The pull out bed that fits next to the window provided me the perfect spot to keep watch.
He didn't move.
No restlessness.
No midnight walks or 3am cups of tea.
He didn't move and I felt a deep gutted remorse that I complained those days and weeks when he would wander the house after midnight or offer me tea at ungodly hours.
He slept and I had the quiet hospital room and the distant murmurs of a grieving family three rooms down to keep my company. That's the horrendously beautiful thing about this ward. I know that the lady making a cup of tea is saying that long goodbye to her sister who has valiantly and bravely fought cancer. And the couple sitting in the courtyard are taking a moment before they continue their bedside vigil as their loved one fades.
It's a quiet and calm place.

Sheldon didn't want to die at home.
He made that decision and it was clearly a part of his palliative care plan.
I tend to think that it would be rather nice to be at home,  but he was thinking of the boys. He knew they needed somewhere to be loud little boys and not feel like death was looming. 

Home is that safe place.

      *****************************

1:30pm

I've come for a walk.
I needed to have the sun on my face while I process this.
My husband is dying.
Actually dying.
Right now.

My brother took my phone this morning and made the phone calls I couldn't make. 

Telling our people to come home. 

To be here while he goes home.

You can't be prepared.
For the breathing... the death rattle.
And the changing pallor of skin.
For the wave of selfishness that equally wants him to fight to stay and to relax into that place of no more pain.

I have never hated anything so much as I vehemently hate and detest the murderous thief that is cancer.

I have to go.
Back to sing my loved one the songs of our life.
The song we danced to.
The lullaby we sang to our boys.

*******************************

It's 2:37pm and I have come to the foyer to wait for his brother.
But really I just need a moment. Another moment to breath and process. To think forward to that moment this afternoon when I will sit our sons down and tell them what is happening. They know. But they don't. Their daddy's death has been an abstract. An unknown. Until now. Now we know. Now we see.
I hate this.
****************************

It's 2:05am. Saturday, 5th September
He's strong. I knew that. But this. This is a strength that astounds me. He has been progressively getting worse.
I thought I could do this. Let him go. Let him go home. To run into the arms of his Jesus who waits. But it's not a matter of simply letting him go.
It's processing the fact that I won't hear him talk to me again.
Or laugh.
Or complain.
Or give his opinion of the plot and character development of a movie while we watch it. (It frustrated me so. )

I'm so tired but I needed to focus on something. To focus on getting these fragments of thought out from bouncing around this fragile brain.

Everything that I have googled about end stages of dying didn't tell me that it's torture.

Listening to him battle to take a breath. While I will him to succeed and will him to let go.

It's coming.
I just can't... but I can.
Around me are strewn (and that's the perfect word) the sleeping and crying and waiting members of this watch.
We have set a watch.
My people and me.
I can... I just don't want to.
At all.

*************************************

3:32pm. Saturday. 5th September

The room is empty.

Quiet for the first time in hours.

I'm alone-

He has gone.

It took all of his stubborn, beautiful strength to hold on for so long.

And now..

It's quiet.

How to tell you?

How to capture what has taken place here in Room 116?

In the hours and days and years that come after this moment, I want to remember this day- these last days and I want them to be veiled in kindness and the beautiful- I don't want them to be a memory that is best tiptoed around. This is important- to remember how he left us.

He left us the same way that he lived- with strength and on his terms.

Oh, my stubborn, infuriating darling heart.

It's just me and him in the room now.

He's not really here, you know- but these arms. This face.

My stubborn, beautiful, infuriating darling heart.

The room, his room that he hassled the nurses to move him into, was full of our people today- and last night. 

I know firsthand the meaning and the living out of the word 'vigil'.

To hold vigil.

It looks like his loved ones standing around his bed, stealing seats from a neighbours room, finding a spot on the floor to stretch  out- all while we watched every tortured breath drag in and out of his failing lungs.

Oh, my stubborn, infuriating darling heart.

The vigil lasted all night- 30 hours in total.

30 hours and our people didn't falter once.

Thank you.

It seems trivial to simply say thanks for being with me while he went- but it's all I have today.

I need to go.

I need to go home to our boys.

They have been... I can't even begin to describe the pure courage that I have seen them show today.

They loved him and kissed his hollowed face.

They sang to him and they soothed him as he went.

Oh, my stubborn and beautiful sons.

For you- he would have stayed forever.

I need to go.

But I need to write this moment.

The silence.

No rattling breath..

No faltering heart..

No more cancer..

He is still.

And in no more pain.

He is quiet.

And I miss him.

Already.

One hour and the missing is deep rooted in my gut.

I need to go.

One more story I'll tell him, about how he has loved us and how we have loved life.

One more hug.

One more time that I'll stare at the rise and fall of his features.

He's beautiful.

I'm going.

He's gone.

I have to go home.

Oh, my darling heart.