Seven Days...

Last Sunday,November 10th, a little after 2:18 a.m., the Husbandly One breathed his last breath and was gone.  Just like that.

I was trying to give him a dose of medication to clear his airways, and had just asked him to open his mouth a little wider so I could get the oral syringe in.  His eyes flicked toward me, his lips moved and he whispered... something... and then he was gone.  I had stared at him, then stood up and said, "Oh," in shock.

Our friend, K, who was there helping me with the night watch, stood up and leaned over him to look, then looked at me, her eyes wide with shock, and she said, "Oh," the same exact way I had.

The next thing I knew, I was wrapped tightly in her arms, and I was roaring with grief as my knees threatened to buckle, because the worst thing ever had just happened to me, and I was trying not to leave with him.

Most of that night is a blur.  I remember staring at his face earlier in the night, thinking death was coming soon as I noticed how his skin was molding to his skull.  I remember staring at his face after the hospice folks had cleaned him up and dressed him, touching his face and crying at how small he was, how thin, how... cold.  I remember sitting on the couch in the dining room, holding E's dear, dear face in my hands as she told me she loved me.  I said, "I know you do, because you came here without your teeth."

I remember how kind the hospice people were, and the policeman who came in with extremely neatly threaded eyebrows.  I remember my sister holding me so tight and telling me how sorry she was, and my other sister on the phone, telling me how much she loved me.  I remember the guy from the funeral home, who sounded like Barry White.  And I remember looking out the back door at this extremely beautiful sunrise and being startled that so much time had already passed.

And now, it's been seven days.  Seven days since my husband died.  Seven days since I last looked into his face, wishing I could relieve his suffering, and knowing there was nothing I could do except respect his wishes.  He'd been unresponsive since Thursday morning.  His last clearly spoken words to me were, "I can't breathe."

And because he was in hospice care, and had a Do Not Resuscitate order, I called Hospice and not 911.  They helped me calm him down and get him breathing almost normally, but he was practically comatose after that.  If you asked him to blink to answer yes/no questions, he'd do it.  He'd smile, or smirk, or waggle his eyebrows, and he would hold your hand, squeeze it, and tug on it.

We held his hand around the clock.  Seriously.  We took it in shifts, there was always someone there to hold his hand when I needed to sleep, or to eat, go to the bathroom, go outside and cry... someone held his hand continuously.  If you didn't, he'd look for a hand, reaching out and trying to find one.

So we held his hand.

It's been seven days since I held his hand.  Seven days since I ran my fingers through his hair and talked to him.  Seven days since I lost the one person who got me and loved me anyway.  Seven days since I told him I loved him and he squeezed my hand back to say, "I love you, too."

Seven days of pretending to be a functional competent adult.  Seven nights of sleeping alone in my full-sized bed that suddenly seems way too big.  Seven days of pushing down panic and staying calm so my kids stay calm.  Seven days of not going through the stacks of mail and papers on my desk to find out what OTHER bills didn't get paid.

Seven days of missing my best friend, the person I tell everything first, seven days of wanting to tell THO something, or ask him something, or just wanting to see him, just because.

Seven days of missing his Facebook Messenger icon being constantly up on my phone, because we sent jokes, memes, or photos we'd just taken of something interesting to each other.

Seven days.  And I will never, ever be the same again.

Fuck.  Cancer.

I'm Trying Not To Be A Wuss, But I Don't Think It's Working...

He's so damn thin.  I don't even want to speculate with how much he weighs.  His appetite is almost nonexistent, and warring with that is the  "don't waste food" mentality we were brought up with by our Depression era parents.

He thinks, "I can't eat an entire chicken pot pie, even though I want one.  And if I don't eat it, it will go to waste.  Therefore, I will not eat a chicken pot pie, so I won't waste the food."

He hasn't said that, but I'm pretty sure that's part of what's wandering through his head somewhere.

I had to change that mentality myself, especially over the last year.  And most especially where he's concerned.  So he can't eat an entire chicken pot pie, I'm just thrilled he ate some of it, you know?  Maybe I should do what I did with my mom when her appetite was decreasing.  You know, instead of cajoling her to eat, I would make a sandwich and say, "Oh, you know what, Mom?  I can't eat this whole sandwich by myself.  You want half?"

And because she grew up during the Depression, there was no way she was going to let that half of a sandwich go to waste, so she'd shrug and say, "Might as well."  And we'd sit there and eat our half of a sandwich and smile, and inside, I was cheering because hot damn, I got calories in her!

I just need to be even sneakier than usual, because he's always on to me.

Maybe that will take my mind off the thought of losing the love of my life way before I'm ready.  I'm really scared.  We go see the oncologist on Monday, and we'll see what we see.

I should probably go back to the doctor myself.  My ear is still bothering me.  It's kind of hard to focus on me right now, though.

I'm tired.  I'm hungry.  I'm scared.  And... I feel pretty alone right now.

Like A Thief In The Night...

Well, last night completely sucked.

No matter what I do, it's always there.  This... waiting grief.  It's so frustrating, and so.... time wasting.

I mean, he's here.  He's alive.  He's fighting.  He's actually doing pretty well on the treatment front.

But every once in a while, it sneaks up on me and sucker-punches me when I least expect it.  I can hear my mother's voice.  Don't borrow grief.  Well, I'm not borrowing it.  But it's very hard to live in the moment when your husband's having a rough chemo treatment, when he's cramping and going through diarrhea and spending hours in the tub, completely miserable, and you find yourself wondering how much he can take before it's too much?

Please let that day be far, far away.  Please.

I can't bear the thought of him not being here.

I can't bear the thought of him suffering.

I'm so... torn up and ... last night, I couldn't stop crying.

I hate this.  I hate what he's going through.  And I hate being so selfish.

Last night was full of dreams I only half remember, but I would wake up crying.  Not sobbing, just, I'd wake up with in tears, my face and pillow soaked.

Today is going to totally suck.  I hate letting him see how much this upsets me.  But I can't... I can't let him see this... I mean, I'm trying to be strong, dammit, not a child!

How do I do this?

It's Worst at Night...

Nighttime is the worst.  There are nights when I just can't sleep. 

I worry.  I worry a lot. 

I worry about my kids.  Granted, my oldest is an adult, and will soon be graduating with her BFA, possibly by next fall, and my youngest will be 18 in a month.  But I still worry. 

I worry about our finances.  I worry that we'll lose our insurance.  I worry that the Husbandly One will get worse, or he'll give up.  There are times, when he's asleep, that I will lay there and cry, dreading the inevitable.  I still have no clue how to deal with that.  He's 54.  I thought we'd be in our 80's or 90's before that became an issue.

But, unless some radical new miracle treatment comes along... I can't even think about it, even though I do.

I wonder, sometimes, if this ridiculous lingering illness I can't seem to shake off is really just extended broken heart syndrome.

During the day, we go along as always, trying to come up with enough energy between the two of us to get basic chores done.  Clean the kitchen, do the laundry, vacuum the house, hack back the bamboo that's trying to take over the back and front yards because the people who owned the house before us were idiots who really though they could keep the bamboo confined to one tiny spot in the yard.  We run errands, feed the cats, putter among the plants, watch the ducks, talk to the kids, you know, all the things you do during the course of the day.  And it's so much easier to push back the fear and anguish, the worry... I can focus on other things and do stuff.

But at night?  So much harder.  The house gets quiet.  I'm tired.  I lay down, turn out the light, wrap my arm around him and think, "He's thinner today." And then it starts.

It's so hard.  I lay there, my eyes burn, my face stretches as I force myself to breathe normally, fighting back tears as I think desperately, Please, please, don't take him away from me.  Don't take my husband, the love of my life, my best friend... don't take him away from me...

Sometimes, he just... knows, and he'll turn over, asking me if I'm okay. 

"I'm fine," I lie.  "Just... hurting a little, that's all."

No need to tell him that it's not my joints hurting.  Then we'd both be awake for the rest of the night.

Sometimes, I'm able to calm myself down and finally relax into sleep.

But some nights... some nights, I can't.  Some nights, I have to get up and go sit in the living room, or out on the back porch if the weather is nice.  Somewhere I can sit and cry my heart out, because... while I know the chemo is working NOW... I know that one day, hopefully years from now, but one day, he'll be done.  He'll have had enough, he'll be tired, and he'll say, "Enough."

Quality of life over quantity.

I can't even think about that right now.  It's really selfish of me, I know.  But I can't even bear to think about it.  The selfish, immature part of me wants to scream out, "DON'T LEAVE ME ALONE!!"

The selfless mature part of me is yelling it, too.

I just... can't even think of sleeping in that bed without him in it.  I can't think of being in that room without him.  In this house.  This life.

On the 16th, we'll have been married for 28 years.  I'm hoping for 28 more, but you know what?  I'll take every damn second I can get.

Tonight is one of those sleepless, full of worry, terror, and grief nights.  My focus for the last two years has been so narrow, just... getting through, day by day. 

Seriously, I am barely coping with any of this.  And I hate that about myself.

Day by day.

Now, if I can just get through tonight...