The hallway always seemed to stretch on into infinity at night time.
In the midnight hush. I would sneak out of the room that he had badgered you to move him into.
The hallway would stretch.
And I would listen for you.
The quiet lull of your voice.
The shuffle of paperwork as you gave careful consideration to what each room required.
More morphine in 10 minutes.
You would smile the genuine smile of one who knew the weariness that was lodged deep in me. And you would point to the teabags.
"Cup of tea time. Are you hungry? There's toast.."
I couldn't eat.
But the smell of toast is comfort.
I'll make some toast.
When we had arrived this time- you had looked at me and I had known.
No words needed to be exchanged.
I knew that he wouldn't be coming home with me.
We had been in and out of the ward in the weeks and months before this time.
And you had edged around the moment- this moment- and what it would mean.
He had bugged you about what room was his favourite- "Put it in my file. Room 116. I want this room." He would tell each of you.. "I like to see the bridge and the cars. I feel like I'm still apart of life when I'm in this room."
And you did. You managed to get him into his room.
You stoically stood by my side as the doctor went through the motions of getting us settled.
For this last time.
For this last stay.
The one with the table and the tissues.
You held my hand and you were honest.
You talked me through each brutal, heart wrenching transition that we would discover as he stepped closer to leaving me.
You were kind that night. That terrible night of knowing.
You gave me time to cry and weep the bitter tears of a wife who desperately wanted to keep her husband alive, but who hated to see him fade further in pain.
You were always present.
A different face.
A different name.
The same kindness.
The same compassion deep in your eyes when you saw our sons come in to hug their dad.
It's been a year.
That's a long time, oh but it is just a drop in the ocean of days and moments we will know without him.
It's been a year.
And I remember every second.
Every moment that he lingered and raced towards his death.
I remember it.
It is knit into the fabric of who I became when he left.
And in that tapestry of his death... there is the silver thread of you.
The palliative carer.
The nurse who would put aside her own emotion to carry mine so that I could just breath for a second... just find some calm for a minute.
You cried when he left.
You let me sit in the quiet room. Just me and his absent physicality.
But I saw the tears that spoke of him.
And my heart was quieted somewhat.
Because your tears spoke of his integrity and his kindness.
You couldn't help but like the man- I mean, he was cheeky and trouble but he knew how to make you smile.
The final thing I have to say to you, dear palliative care nurse, is this-
Thank you.
It's not enough. Not nearly enough.
A million words couldn't do the job of expressing my thanks.
But, in the moments and nights in those dying days that I left him in room 116 and I went home to tuck in our boys and kiss their sleeping faces, I knew that he wasn't alone or lonely.
I knew he would potter down that long hallway and find you in the still, dark hours of the night.
He would ask you the tough questions about what was to come and you would answer him in kind honesty.
He would call you to his room and let you know the pain was becoming unbearable, and if it wasn't too much trouble could you please give him some of the good stuff...
The palliative care nurse.
He would talk to you in those dying days and you would hear him.
When I couldn't be by his side, you were there.
In the shadow of the valley of death, God granted us his strength and the offer of His kind graciousness.
And it was you.
It was the palliative care nurse.
