Time To Go

It was raining when I got back from my trip. He was sleeping, and his caregiver was sitting on the couch, watching something on her phone.

“Hey Shelly, how’s he doing?”

“He’s not doing very well. He ate a little dinner last night, but he was having those bouts of confusion. He kind of drifted in and out of things. He didn’t eat his breakfast or take his pills this morning, either.”

The expression on her face communicated all the nuance lost in her sparse words. She was scared.

I nodded, letting her know I understood her unspoken message, and she looked relieved. It was no longer her burden, but mine.

Unpacking was mainly a matter of transferring clothes from my suitcase to the laundry hamper. Finished, I stored my suitcase in the hall closet, then walked to his room. I could tell from looking at him that his time was short. The realization settled in my stomach like a lead weight. Grief tried to lurch up but I viciously suppressed it. He was relying on me, and I wasn’t going to let him down.

His eyes fluttered open, focused, then a huge smile lit up his face. His single working hand twitched in a gesture of welcome, and he tried to speak. It took a few attempts, but he was finally able to ask me about my trip.

“We had the perfect day, all sunshine and blue skies. The little boat we rented was great, had two seats for us to be comfortable while fishing. With the little outboard we could navigate way back into the coves, among all the dead tree branches, and just drop an anchor. Plus we were out of the wind that way. It was fierce out on the main part of the lake. But in the cove, we could take our jackets off.

“The fish gods were smiling on us. We caught a total of 46 fish between us for the day. Crappy mainly, along with bass, bluegill, sunfish and others. Averaged out, it was a fish every seven minutes. It was crazy, I’ve never seen anything like it. The guys at the dock were sad that we do catch-and-release. That’s OK. We had the perfect day on the water.

“We’re out in the middle of nowhere, 30 minutes from a small town, but we find this little Mexican restaurant. It was authentic and amazing — the perfect end to a great day. In the morning it was raining so we didn’t spend another half-day on the lake, instead driving home early. Besides… I missed you.”

He smiled as he drifted off to sleep.

An hour later his breathing changed. It went from gasping at times to wheezing. His face was flushed, hinting at a rash. The symptoms fit an allergic reaction, so I gave him an antihistamine. The flush subsided, but his breathing was still labored. He dozed off again and slept for a few hours.

His advanced medical directive stipulated no hospitalization under any circumstances. Given that, all I could do was keep him comfortable. Unsure what else to do, I went about my normal routine, frequently checking in on him. He continued to sleep, and his breathing was gasping and rattling.

Shelly prepared to leave. “You call me if you need me, OK? I’ll be here in a heartbeat.” She clocked out for the weekend, and the house grew quieter.

He woke and called for me. I came running, unsure what I would find. He was alert and coherent, just weak. He had eaten a light lunch, but refused to eat anything for dinner. At least he drank some water, and didn’t seem to be in any discomfort, other than his labored breathing.

I chattered about upcoming events, the weather, nothing of import. His eyes said he didn’t want to speak of his situation, and I respected that. He drifted off again, waking up in time for bedtime, as he put it. He had trouble swallowing his pills so we did without them. I kissed his forehead, uncertain how I would find him in the morning.

I collapsed, exhausted, and slept for a few hours. Awake early, eyes grainy and scratchy, I walked to his room. He was still alive, but he had a death rattle in his breathing. I wasn’t going to wake him, so I started to fix something to eat. I kept popping into his room. Sometimes he was awake, other times not, but he kept on breathing.

I told him about what I was cooking but he wasn’t interested… That was a first. His attention was drawing inward, and he was caring less and less about the material world.

I had to step away for a few minutes. When I came back it was obvious the end was at hand. I had heard stories of old people waiting until they were alone to die, and it seemed he had tried to do that, but I was too fast for him.

I stood at the foot of his bed and spoke gently to him

“I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.” His breathing grew more shallow.

“It’s OK to let go.”

He breathed slowly once, twice…

The tears began pouring down my face, but I continued to talk to him. Hearing is the last sense to go, and death is a process, not an instantaneous event.

“You’ve done it. You’re free now. No more hospital bed, no more wheelchairs. You can run now.” I laughed. “Knowing you, you’ll be off chasing skirts in no time.”

I rubbed his arms, his legs, keeping up a constant monologue. “You’re off on your next great adventure now. I wish you could come back and tell me about it, but I know you’ll have a wonderful time.”

I couldn’t help telling him I would miss him. But I didn’t want him to feel obligated to stay. I talked to him for ten minutes, before finally leaving the room and collapsing in grief.

Once I could talk without sobbing, I started making phone calls. The machinery of death spun into action.