His last day

Three days and nights of freezing rain was finally coming to an end. And so was Terry's life. At 1030 pm April 2nd, 2014 I told all the children and their lovers it was time to go to bed, get some rest and I would yell for them if he died. No one was keeping vigil in the room tonight except me. I knew I had to lay down and be with him alone this night. He was cleaned and lovingly tucked in, morphine and scopalamine given, all by me, these last things I could do for him. The Cheyenne-stokes breathing endlessly continuing with long apenic spells. I wondered and worried would I be awake if he went tonight. I laid down beside him under the covers and pressed up really close against him. I half uncovered him worrying so much he was hot and agitated with the work of dying. I left the light on in case - I guess that I would see him in his dying if his loud breathing stopped, it would cue me to awake and see him as he died.  I worried he would die without me witnessing his leaving, that I would be sleeping. I was exhausted beyond staying awake, I was cried out. I knew other different tears were to come but for this night I just needed to lay here and hear his last night of breathing next to me in our bed.

I fell into the most deepest sleep I'd had since the week he was diagnosed, no dreams, no tossing or turning. His body also exhausted from the effort of breathing, I felt no pushing at me with his hands and flailing arms, as his agitation about slipping into unconciousness tried to tell me, "help me Sue, I don't want to go", like he had done the previous two nights. There was only the breathing, the sound I wanted to end so he would be free and out of his suffering, the sound I never wanted to end because the silence would kill me. I woke at 4am listening, amazed to hear it. Joyful he had not died without my knowing. I got up to make coffee, still hearing him as I went about a regular ordinary routine done by millions every morning. But this wasn't a regular morning, and I went through the motions heartbroken knowing, I could never make him a coffee, he would never bring me my tea in bed again. That today he would die. I came back to our bed and I sat beside him, and I wrote, and I listened to music and I read wishes of hope and prayers. I took pictures of him, I talked to him in his ear about how much I loved him, how I would miss him, how sorry I was for not knowing he was dying, that I didn't notice until it was too late. I asked for forgiveness.  At 6am my daughter and I cleaned him and dressed him, he groaned when we rolled him over, he may have mumbled fuck off, hah ha   his last words  good on you my sweet. The palliative care nurse came by. I asked for supplies to do mouth care and she had to go to the car to get this.  She was unable to do anything else for him. By noon his heart was pounding, he was sweating, I medicated him to help him relax. I worried he was in pain.

We were all in the room after a lunch I could not eat, talking about him, and the crazy funny things he would say and do. Everyone had had their time alone with him the previous two days. It was a Thursday we wanted him to be at rest, we wanted this to stop, we wanted him back. We were talking about monopoly and the different versions of it and my son just quietly said, "look". It seemed out of context and I was confused but realized "oh at Terry he must mean", so I did. And his eyes were opened. This was new so different from the two days of unconsciousness and the breathing. His eyes rolled back a bit, I just looked at him, gasped, and held him and started to talk to him before they opened again. He looked past me up and towards a corner of the bedroom in front of him. I had a moment to think I wonder if he sees someone, Justin, or his mom or dad? before they closed again and he let out his long last breath, and never breathed one in again. I was still holding him and whispering in his ear that we are all here, we love you, tell Justin I love him, I love you, I love you.

It was my pregnant daughter that said he's gone. "He's passed" she said. It was 2:50pm. We all started to cry, my daughter Candice the loudest, I remember my son holding her. I remember going into "robot" mode. I took his rings off . I looked at and touched his chest so I could memorize it. I held on and on to him, so long the blood was pooling in his back and still warm, the only part of him with some small semblance of energy left. I wanted to keep feeling it, the last warmth in his beautiful body. I knew we could have as long as needed before calling the doctor to pronounce him and funeral home to take him.  I just kept holding him and memorizing his chest. Looking at his beautiful hands, the small blue tattoo that looked like a splinter under the skin by his thumb, his hair, his lips.

You were free, but I was not. We called the doctor to come. He listened to his nonexistent heartbeat for one minute. He had tears in his eyes, he said he was a good man. Yes he was. The funeral home people gently and honorably carried my husband out of our bedroom, his house, for his final time. My two sons walking and witnessing and standing by him as he was put into the van, like honor gaurds. I didn't go down the steps with them to the vechile. I was not in my body. I noticed all the mail in the mailbox, it had been awhile since I saw the outdoors. I took the mail. I took the mail out of the mailbox. This normal ordinary act of daily life I was doing as my husband's body was placed in the van is a shameful memory. An act I regret, that makes me cringe. This needs forgiveness, this seems somehow to mar all the good I did as I cared for him in his last week on earth. This is how he left our house and what I did.

This was his last day.