And So It Ends

 And there it is - I made it to March 30.

I woke up around 5:00 a.m.  Good time for second thoughts about all the decisions made - especially after Mike's outburst last night.  Why couldn't I just continue with Bob's treatments, while he was sedated and couldn't object (true answer - sedation suppresses breathing so you can't do that but you don't think about that a 5:00 a.m. when someone is dying)

I crawled into bed with him.  This is something I hadn't been able to do - the bed was too small even for just him and he'd been too uncomfortable.  A nurse came in.  I talked with her.  "I don't know what to do.  I don't know if I'm strong enough for this. I don't know if it would be ethical to try to keep him alive after he's made his decision.  Would he ever forgive me?"  She said she would make a note to have someone from social work to come talk to me about that, and also Dr. Farhadfar, for the medical aspects).  After that I just lay there against him, feeling his warmth, his breathing, holding onto him.

A few hours later I got up, got dressed.  Paced the room.  Called Gill - stood next to Bob, stroking his arm while I talked.  Still didn't know what to do.  Gill suggested that I start writing - make two columns, pro and con.  Sort my thoughts.

I had been warned that they dying process could take a few days (it was three days with my mother).  Mechanically, I turned to self-care.  I don't think I had eaten the day before.  I walked to the snack room at the end of the hall - got some tea, a small box of cereal, small carton of milk.  Back to the room - poured the cereal and milk into a bowl, got my notebook and pen.  Wrote across the top of the page "To Be, or Not to Be, That Is The Question."   That's all.  I knew the con list would be long and involved.  The pro list would be one line - he would be alive.

How long did all of that take? Walk away from him, short walk down the hall, short walk back, pour cereal, pick up pen?  10 minutes?   A nurse came in - there was a lift team in the ward, so did I think he needed to be re positioned?  I looked over at him.  "He's resting quietly - I think we can leave him alone."  She walked over, took our her stethoscope.   "I think he's stopped breathing."

I blanked out for a bit.  Recently (as in now, 2022) I was talking to Amanda about her work in ICU and the ER.  She had talked about an accident victim that had been brought in and didn't make it, and the mother came in, and "we heard that scream that you never want to hear."  I told her - I know.  Pretty sure I screamed that scream.

I vaguely remember people running in, grabbing me, talking sternly to me, dragging me to the bathroom, water on my face.  Finally letting me to back to lay my head on his chest and sob, more quietly. They left me alone for awhile.  I fumbled for my tablet, put on the beautiful "Into the West."

            "Lay down, your sweet and weary head

            Nighttime is falling; you have come to journey's end"

Someone was gently rubbing my shoulder.  Asked if she could call anyone for me.  No, I could call.  First, Mike.  He started to apologize for the previous night.  I cut him off.  I thanked him for saying the things I wanted to say, expressing my real (if selfish) feelings. Then I told him there was no decision to be made; he had spared me that.

I called Amanda.  After that, I had no strength left, so I asked her to call Della.  I sent a group text to friends.  Packed up my things.   And then went and laid down with him again.  The chaplain came in to talk with me.  I stayed resting quietly against him while we talked.  After that, his case worker came in.  "I'm so very sorry.  But we have to talk about arrangements."

Arrangements.  Because there was a corpse that couldn't just stay there in the room.  My practical side took over, and I got up and went to my purse.  Four years earlier, after my father died, Bob and I had made our own "arrangements."   I pulled out the little card that stays behind my driver's license and handed it to her.  "That's the funeral home for the cremation, and that's the company that handles the transport of the body.  It's already paid for."  She stared at the card for a moment - "I've never . ."  She walked out and I went back to him.  She came back a few minutes later and told me everything was settled.  There wasn't even any paperwork to sign.

One of the nurses came in and asked if it was all right if they all came in to say goodbye.  They have a farewell ceremony for the people they have cared for and lost, very beautiful.  After it was over, they told me that I could stay as long as I liked.  I thought, and said "No, I'll walk out with you."  I didn't want to walk out alone.  Bob was gone.  My work here was done.  There was nothing more I could do.  And I wanted to go home.   I went with them into the hall.  My strength was fading - the willpower that had held me up because Bob needed me was gone.  Quietly I asked "could someone - please - could someone walk me to my car?"  Of course of on them did.

I went back to the hotel.  Strangely empty, smelling of freshly shampooed carpets and antiseptic.  I hadn't thought that much about Covid.  I called Jeff.  God eternally bless he and Rob, because he said they could be there in three hours.  They had said all along that they would come get me when the time came, knowing I would be in no condition to drive.  But I had thought it would have to be the next day.  But no - they were going to drop everything, leave work, and come.  "I can go home today?"

So I packed up.  They texted me when they arrived because they were nervous about coming inside.  Jeff drove me in my car, Rob following in theirs.  In town, everything was shut down and empty, quiet.  Somehow, it seemed appropriate.

When we turned into our drive, I asked Jeff to stop and let me out.  A couple of months previously, when we thought Bob would survive this, he had said "no matter how long it takes, or how much I have to rest, when I go home, I'm going to walk up our drive."  So I walked up it for him.  I was overwhelmed - I almost couldn't register how beautiful our land is.  Jeff waited outside while I went and found all the cats - they remembered me and were happy to see me.  I looked at the chickens and the peacocks.  It was all very normal; all very surrealistic.

I stood on the deck with Rob and Jeff a few more minutes.  It was starting to turn dusk.  They had driven six hours that day to bring me home.  "Thank you, guys.  I guess it's time to start learning to be alone."

So that's it.  2023 self, I hope you appreciate this self-evisceration.  Not sure why I felt the need, but it's therapy.  And I never have to do this again.  This year I've looked back at 2021 self to see how she got though this, and it was just crickets except for a post in June that said "I had to relive every goddamned minute of it." But I've faced it now and guess what, 2023 self?  I've gotten through it.  Time to march onward.