Friday I talked to the Hospice Doctor. It’s not at all like talking to doctors who are fighting to heal him and keep him alive. It was a good talk. No answers, and I didn’t expect any, but she did “suggest” that maybe it was time to give Rich some Quiet and Privacy. What human being doesn’t need THAT from time to time. So I went home.
Saturday he turned down the road she said was soon coming.
Early afternoon a very nice VNS nurse came in and offered to give him a massage--just hands and feet. How lovely. I left the two of them alone with soft spa music playing and took a walk. I returned in what I considered the adequate amount of time for the massage. She was sitting in a chair at the foot of his bed. We talked about how lovely the garden view was just outside his french doors. She told me the strangest thing had happened Through the entire massage, all she could think of was faeries. It seemed important for her to explain that she’s “NOT a faerie person.” Equally important for her to tell me how strong the thoughts and images of faeries were as she massaged his hands and feet. She seemed almost unsettled by the experience.
I smiled. And explained that our home, especially our bedroom and garden are full of faeries. Everyone assumes that it is my collection, but the faeries are all Rich’s. We both believe in them, Rich collects them. She told me she had goosebumps. I smiled. Was the message for her or for me, or both? He’s not done touching people.
As the afternoon wore on it was clear he had reached the point in this journey where he had always made me promise I would not allow anyone to see him. For months he has been adamant that once he reached the point of no longer being able to communicate, no one but me, without exception was allowed to see him. He made me swear.
Not pleasant or easy but I did it. You owe me one, Richard. I’ll find you to collect.
Sunday was possibly the worst day for me in the past three+ years. The effort it took me to get to a point that I could get myself to his bedside was nearly more than I could bear. There was a constant flow of tears all morning. I tried to accomplish something, anything; succeeded at very little. After the floors were mopped and and some clutter put away, I found I had lost hours wandering from room to room, always starting with a purpose that evaporated once I reached my destination. Must have wandered miles through this empty house. Absolutely could not bring myself to walk out into our garden.
Sometime in the afternoon I found myself at his bedside, not clear on how I had gotten there. He had clearly progressed since the day before. I held his hand, must have kissed it a hundred times, stopping only when the sobbing overwhelmed me. There was nothing left to tell him. We did not waste a single moment of the past three years. I was just unconsolably, selfishly sad.
I came home and curled up with a book. A delicious pleasure I have not enjoyed in nearly a year. It was like he was just away on one of his golf trips--those times when he could be the people person he is and I could be the recluse I am.
Then I went to bed for the first time in two weeks (the couch needed a break). I slept without listening for my phone.
When I woke up this morning things seemed different. I felt clear. I was ME again. Brand new thoughts settled upon me like butterflies, and I was reminded of what I’ve always believed.
I remembered why I’m not a “good Christian”. “Devout Christians” just confuse me. Everything I’ve witnessed from them on the subject of death and dying seems to run counter to everything they claim to believe in. To think that when none of US are with him, that Richard is alone….well that just makes my head hurt. To view this journey as a sadness, saddens me. People get happier when someone boards a cruise ship than when they start down the path to Bliss. I have never understood how one can claim Faith and view death as an end.
I realized I have spent the past few weeks trying to perform the role that I feel constantly is expected of me. I have focused on Richard, but in these past few weeks I have spent too much time and energy focusing on the grief of others and the comfort I should give them.
So here it is. I’m happy. I’m happy that Richard has walked this path with such amazing grace, dignity and strength. I’m happy he opened up and embraced this journey the way he did. I’m happy for all the lives he touched and the joy he felt in that. I’m happy he struggled through the darkest moments in the Pit of Despair, triumphed, and not once complained, whined, or questioned. I’m happy for every single moment I was allowed to share of it. All of it. I am happy that his suffering and struggling is over.
Now he is moving down another birth canal. No one can say when or how long before a child leaves it’s mother’s body and takes it’s first breath. It is a miracle that happens in it’s own time. Richard is not dying. He is giving birth to his soul.
I sit at his bedside this afternoon. So much of him is gone from me; so much of him never can be. I feel peaceful. His body now looks foreign to me. Swollen in some places, sunken in others; his complexion still rosy. I hold his lifeless hand. I talk to him without sadness about our future--his and mine in different places. His breaths are now four per minute.
I will miss him. I will go through the agonizing, joyous pangs of postpartum. I will grieve the absence of his touch, his smile, his tenderness, his crazy, funny ways, until the memory of those things weave their way back into my memory.
I don’t feel that he’s leaving me. He’s just going somewhere else, where only my physical boundaries will keep us apart.
When you love someone, “There’s No Such Place as Far Away.”
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