Remembering

Last year, this exact day, was the last full day of my sweetie's life.

He was really sick by then, mostly sleeping and in a lot of pain. He could no longer swallow pills, so I would slip the Dilaudid inside his lower lip and within minutes, he would settle into sleep again.

We knew his time was short and I reminded the kids to say goodnight and goodbye before they went to sleep. I wasn't expecting him to make it through the night. It had been exactly 10 days since we brought him home from Huntsman and pretty much what the doctor had predicted.

We were not surprised although I spent the first week listening to him say things like, "I don't feel like I'm really dying." It was hard not to fall into the false hope that maybe, just maybe, his life would be preserved.

We had both known from that moment in the ER that he would not live through this trial and that the time would be short. Not 7 weeks short, but that was all we got.

After the kids were all in bed, I still sat beside his hospital-style bed. I just wanted to feel his warmth, watch his chest rise and fall. His breathing was labored and I knew it wouldn't be long. He woke for a moment, begging for pain meds which I quickly gave. He mumbled something about not leaving me, but I told him it was time to go.

I sensed that he would not pass until I left the room, so I kissed him softly, said goodbye, and slipped his cpap on to help him sleep. Then I walked the 20 feet into our shared office, carefully leaving the door open. It was just past midnight.

You might think I was upset or shattered, but I wasn't. Not then. It was peaceful, eminent, right.

I couldn't concentrate, so I sat there, listening to him struggle to breathe.  I turned on my computer, but I just stared at our picture on the homescreen.

It wasn’t long before his breathing pattern changed; almost like he was snoring, but it wasn't natural. I knew it was just the machine breathing for him and as soon as I turned it off, his warmth would slip away.

Those steps back into the livingroom might have been the longest 20 feet I have ever walked. I hit the switch to stop the noise and gently removed the cpap from his face. That amazing, beautiful face that had been my constant for almost half a century. I pressed my cheek to his as the tears ran down and pooled between us. His hand still held a bit of warmth, but it was slowly slipping away. In my brain, I knew I should call the kids, but selfishly, I kept these precious moments just for me.

There was plenty of time for phone calls and mourning. Plenty more in the days, weeks, and months to come. I was tired, oh so tired, but there wouldn't be any sleep. Not then...not now.