And then she died….

And then she died….
June 2014

I am sitting here, listening to shallow, rasping breathing and watching death creep his cold bony fingers around the throat of a women whose love of life is legendary. I see flashes of her face…..out in the field, in the sunlight, her muddy boots slooping in the wet dirt as she comes grinning up to greet me. Her smile outshining the sun, as always.

I look again and I see her body withering up into itself like it is trying to crawl back into the womb and is slowly curling back into the fetal position in preparation for that journey.

But if I look out the window at the rain and wind, I can see her first day in the store. She was so proud of that store with its giant colorful hanging baskets and the bin of apples that she kept rearranging until they were applesauce. “Did you see this?” Her display of homemade jams and preserves all lined up on a gingham-covered shelf. Everywhere you looked in the store you could see her fingerprint. It was homey, country, nurturing….perfect.

And I can hear her laugh. That small bubbling that grew into an explosion of sound, her eyes disappearing as her face celebrated the moment.

She always celebrated the moment. Even here…even now. “Remember” she would say “All we have in life are these moments.”

She opens her eyes and looks at me. I tell her the time and she motions slightly with her head and then closes her eyes. I take her hand and uncurl her fingers. Her veins stick out in protest and her hand is missing the warmth of the living. I rub them to try to warm them up.

I close my eyes and I can see her chasing the kids into the cornfield. They are laughing and running away from her. She is going to pin them down and kiss them…they run faster, screaming…into the tall green rows of corn. She disappears into the corn behind them and all I can see is the corn waving in the wind of the setting sun and the sound of their laughter and protests.

2:29am
It is silent in the house except for the clock. It is counting her last hours on earth. Tick, tick, tick.

I had to kill the clock. I strangled it and will never tick again.
It is now in pieces on the concrete patio below. Silent. Now it is too quiet.

3:12am
The fire is sending its last embers to heaven. The night is dark and rainy and I dread the drive home. Hours of fighting rain, wind and tears. I am so tired. I am empty. Numb. Drown.

I realize I am supposed to be the wise one. The one that comforts. The strong one who knows what to do in situations like these. I am here to give support to those who are grieving. That is my job.

I am falling apart. I am not strong. I am breaking into a million pieces. My heart has stopped and nothing will ever restart it. I am dying with her. I have nothing wise to say. I go stand on the porch and let the rain wash over me. I give in to despair and let the waves of loss break in salty assaults over my open wounds. The wind swallows my screams and the rain washes my soul down the drain.

3:56am
Her breathing is very shallow and it pauses. I wait for it to stop but after a long, silent, unmoving eternity, she breathes again and I let the air I have been painfully holding in push from my body. The room smells of death. I open the windows and watch the rain invade the house, leaving pools of water on the hardwood floor.

I crawl into her bed and lay her head on my chest. I massage her temples and she relaxes into my arms. I draw the hair back and caress her temple. I can feel the pulse of her heartbeat against my thumb. Her heartbeat. She is still alive..still fighting.

I close my eyes and try to get comfortable on the partly raised hospital bed. She is a featherweight in my arms. Her face gray and twitching with visions and dreams.

I close my eyes and try to step into her dream. I can picture her at one of her many parties, carrying trays and drinks and making sure everyone is having a good time. Her food piled high at the bar, the music on, the empty glasses littered on tables and in the sinks.

“All good parties should leave behind a glorious mess.”

She is smiling and handing me another cold drink.

“Let’s talk business.”

And we would be off. Ideas, projects, ways to make money.

She moves her hand, fingers twitching, searching. I fold her hand into mine. I can feel the roughness and I reach for the hand crème.

She was a hard worker. Her hands still have callouses from working in the fields. How quickly this darkness descended on her. Only a few weeks ago she was swimming in the pool. Now I sit and watch her chest rise and fall. Ragged, shallow, throaty breaths with long heart-stopping pauses in-between.

4:47am
The house is silent in spite of the 15 people sleeping here. The only light is a glow from the kitchen stove light and her monitor’s green tinge. She is pale and quiet. Breathing has slowed even more. I check her morphine pump and confirm her dosage. She is floating in a pool of narcotics. I wish I could have some. I am in pain too. We could all use a dose of morphine. Instead we use alcohol, wine, weed and tears. It helps I suppose.

I sit trying mentally to give myself the emotional nourishment I need so I can be available and strong for others. Between bouts of losing my dinner which I try to do silently so as not to concern the others, I try to write words of encouragement. I am trying to find the phrases that help. The trite sayings that make a person forget that they have just been run over by a tank. I used to know a million of them but tonight I can’t think of one.

There are some things that are simply impossible to do. Stopping death is one. Comforting someone when they are emotionally raped is another. Finding the beauty in loss is the third. There are many things that can’t be done. Staying positive when death is dancing a jig on your friends and family, finding meaning in the randomness of roulette wheel that determines who lives and who dies, forgiving God for His inability to intervene. There are some things that can’t be done. Vomiting silently is also one of them. I run the water to mask the sound.

5:02am
I can only count as she breathes. Come on honey, let’s try for one hundred.

The last time we were together at 5am was on the lake. We were watching the sun come up, sitting on the beach in front of the marina. We talked about life and love and her kids. Her dreams of the farm she would one day have. She described it all in detail. I could picture it in my mind.

Staring out of the window into the darkness, I realized that her dream was a reality in front of me. The rain fell on the seeds she planted, the soil she tilled and the plants she mothered.

5:10am
She moves her head and shifts her body. I crawl back into bed with her and adjust my body to support her weight. I press my hand to her cheek. She is getting colder and colder. I stroke her face and try to bring warmth back into her face. She turns her face into my hand. I tell her that I love her and she gurgles a response. She can hear me, I know she can but I am glad she cannot see me. My tears roll down and drip off my chin and disappear into her hair.

As always as soon as I crawl into bed I can’t reach the things I need. I need a Kleenex but she is laying on my legs. I wrap my legs around her and my arms across her skin and bones and drip snot into my shoulder. Tears are messy.

If she could see me wiping my nose on my sleeve she would wrinkle her nose and say, “gross”. I would give anything to hear her say it actually but all I hear is shallow, raspy, breath…pause….pause…oh my god..pause…breath. And then I get to breath too. The last thing she said to me was “Did you see the farm?” Said in a whisper.
Yes, I toured the farm and saw every detail of your dream. I am so proud of you for making your dream a reality. We have talked about it so often and now here it is.

Eight months ago we had dinner. We talked about business and kids and life. Soft music playing in the background. Dirty plates pushed to one side while we filled papers and napkins with scribbles and brilliant ideas. When I hugged her good bye my heart realized for the first time that our moments together were limited. That she in fact was dying. I realized then that every good bye was real now.

5:28am
The morning is beginning to break across the sky. The rain has stopped. There is a small sliver of light on the edge of the horizon. She is still. Her breathing has again slowed down. The pauses between breaths is eternal. I lay my hand on her heart and feel it pulsing. I try to stretch my neck. I have slept awkwardly and my body is letting me know it. My eyes are swollen. One is shut completely; the other feels like someone has taken sand paper to it. I hear some movement in the bedroom. Someone is awake. I shut my eyes and wish for my eye meds, which are on the table just out of reach…of course. God hates me.

I brace myself for another day. The house will begin to stir and one by one they will come in to see if she is still alive. They will slowly start to emerge, looking guilty for needing sleep, desperate to see that she has waited for them. She has.

6:32am
They help me by taking her weight off my legs so I can shift my body out from under her. She doesn’t respond. We may be at the point of her having lost consciousness but she may only be sleeping. It is hard to tell.

Someone brings me coffee and we curl up together and watch her chest rise and fall.

I try to think of something wise to say but nothing comes and all we can do is wrap in each other’s arms and let cry.

7:33am
I am done. I have nothing left to give and no tears left to cry. Burying your friends, those you love, tears the fabric of your heart and leaves giant gapping holes where your sanity used to be. My head is aching and all I want to do is crawl into bed and join her in unconsciousness.

I kiss her cheek and go get into bed. It is still warm from someone’s body. I embrace that warmth and pretend that a real person is there with their arms wrapped around me. I let their warmth massage me to sleep.

Wait for me, darling. Don’t die while I am sleeping. Wait for me. The tears come again and I fold myself into the fetal position and surrender to the tide.