The Final Tests

Dearest,

It's only been a few days but I'm aching and yet constantly talking with you in my mind. You wouldn't believe what has happened to me since you left but perhaps not. But first let me tell you about our last few moments. I'm not really sure where you were then, here or there, or somewhere in-between but I think you would like to know how you were loved. As I suspected, you did not go in fits or spasms or pain. No not you. You who never got angry or depressed or even afraid of this awful cancer. No that would not be you. 

Instead you woke that last morning, after such a long day coma sleep through which we could not reach you. You woke me that early, early morning around 6:00am and you once again held your arms out to me to help you up, to help you leave. I did not rush for the others. instead cherishing our time, cooing like a new mother to her newborn, quietly settling you in love. Once at peace, I called to Cathy, your sister, my forever best friend, and together we made sure that you were gently bathed, and held and medicated soothing any agitation and calming your breath. The hospice nurse, Sandra, came soon and helped us to find the gentlest position and Tegan made sure you were angled softly to quiet that disturbing death rattle. Gently, gently, gently.

And as we held and cared for you, your beloved dogs taking guard, the solid, classic bookcase you had crafted for me alongside yours, collapsed. It was one of many things that crumbled the last week of your life. Like some final test through which you managed to give me strength "know where to seek support once I am gone". However I freaked. I quite frankly lost it. 

We have loved reading, we love books. On our very first date, we bought each other books. Who in the world does that? And synchronistically? On a first date????

But there it was, the bookcase you had built me falling apart after my many sleepless nights of losing you. Like the temple collapsing on Christ's death. Yes, I totally lost it. I ran up to your sisters and rudely commanded they keep a very close eye on you so that I could fix the bookcase and save the collections of our life—but of course I really couldn't. Within moments, Cathy called down to me from the top of the stairs to say your breathing had slowed.

But now I see that chaos was really just to make sure that we were all in attention after so many sleepless nights, of so many hours of not leaving your side, of being on edge attending to so many other things that had gone awry this week (the clock, studio flooring, loosing power to the house, water tank dying, on and on and on). Cathy called us all to you: Mary, Mary, Steve, and Tegan. We were all there with you in a semi circle of love. I was curled round you, holding you gently in our last embrace. Painfully in key as your strong heart quietly came to its final note. I can not tell you how I cried out, like an animal in the night, some sort of biblical wailing from deep within that I could not contain. Still I cry out at the slightest notice of our life together now gone. I move as though through a deep, deep fog unable to find direction,. Every few feet paralyzed by the thought of living without you.

However that night, I knew what we had to do from some inner guidance born in ancient context and custom. We each honored you, we spent time with you and in this age of Covid-19, this unimaginable time when death is unaccompanied and mourning is isolated, we each honored you. We bathed you one last time, we dressed you in your clothes selected so you may bicycle the universe. We cleansed the room of those awful cancer drugs and oxygen tanks and hospice items. We filled it with photos of your life and poems of love and grieving and prayers to Mary and the Father. We honored you and your life. We gave you our love. Even the folks from the funeral home who came much later on our request, wrapped you tenderly in a quilt made by another widow, gathered in love, Mary and I slowly followed you down the drive for our last goodbye.

And yet not.

Your sister Mary fixed that bookcase.

And Steve tried to mow our overgrown lawn. 

Cathy cleaned the house—even the molding.

Mary guided your last moments and made all the arrangements.

And Tegan silently, stoically mourned and mowed the lawn.

And as if in one final test after only fitful hours of sleep, I who am deathly allergic to stinging insects, was stung. In these last few months, thinking of your arduous cancer journey, I have often said how I'd prefer death by insect sting refusing expensive, immunizing shots and then there it was. But with iced and "Benadryled" swelling arm, I thought of Tegan, I thought of how you embraced life, and then I calmly interrupted Cathy's call to Mike and she rushed me to the hospital with a quick stop for the epipen along the way, much as you did not so many years ago. Brother and sister. For each, I live.

But deeply, desperately, I miss you. I mourn. I love you. My heart seeks yours. Stay with me. 

May we never stop talking ad infinitum in love.

me