Last Days

          Mike died last Thursday at 6:18, in his home, attended by me and his two daughters, Allegra and Zoey.

          This Monday, May 18, Mike and I would have been married one year. (See posts on May, 9, 23, 30, and June 6 for accounts of our wonderful wedding.)

At our wedding on the Applegate River, May 18, 2019

          His cancer was vicious and aggressive. He started radiation treatments, then was taken to the emergency room and stayed in the hospital for four interminable, lonely, coronavirus-influenced days. The day he came home was a joyous day, even though he came home to die.

          The cancer ravaged his body. He was flat on his back unless someone rolled him over, to give him a bath, say, or to change the sheets. Visitors had to stand in a certain spot where he could see them. Malignant tumors started under his shoulder, then spread visibly, in a gravelly rash, across his chest and stomach. His arm and shoulder were swollen twice their normal size by lymphedema. The cancer attacked his spine, so sitting half-reclined in the bed, he gradually slipped to its foot and had to be lifted to the top again, heavy as he was with paralysis. Since he couldn't stand upright to be transferred to a potty, bowel movements were excruciating experiences. He wore a chest and neck brace until they became unbearable and, by that time, useless anyway, since he couldn't move.

          And yet through it all he was still Mike, still my loving, good-natured, intelligent, conscientious husband, who had brought me so much joy for the past six years. Now he was intent on seeing that his business, Home Comfort Hearth, was in good hands and would continue thriving after he left: he felt that responsibility to his customers and his employees. He accepted with humility and awe the love that family and friends showered on him in honor of the life he had led. I watched as each person who came to see him—employees; friends; his brother, sister-in-law and sister, who flew in from across the country; his favorite nephew, who came from Washington, DC—respond in the identical way. Initially there was shock, carefully concealed, to see Mike like this. Then Mike would start talking to them, and everything clicked into place: This is Mike, just as he always was except he's lying in bed, and what difference does that make? When friends were there, I would slip out for a walk around the neighborhood. Then I was back by his side, chasing people out when I saw him getting tired, caring for him, being with him, reminding him that I loved him.

         After a while the frequent visitors, medical interruptions, and business stuff that took so much of our time had me wondering, ruefully, where those precious intimate times were that I had heard were the best of dying times for husband and wife. They did come. Before the end days, when pain-relief medication took him, for the most part, beyond our realm, after the legal papers had been signed, and in between medical care, we delved deep into our love. Over and over we said how grateful we were we had gotten married last year. We started listing all the hikes we had done together, thinking it would be a fun reminiscence, but instead it made us sad because we kept thinking of all the hikes we had planned to do. I read to him, and I propped the computer at his visual level so we could work crossword puzzles. Each morning, as soon as I heard he was awake, I would pull on my silk bathrobe and slip into the living room, where he was lying in bed, to greet him with a smile and a kiss. The caregiver would make him coffee, which I put in his hand so he could sip it through a straw. I would feed him breakfast, cream of wheat or yogurt. Every morning for a couple of hours we shared each other's company with intimacy and love.

          I am grateful to hospice at A Santé, who responded immediately whenever I called for help and came every week to give him a bath. I am grateful to the caregivers, from Visiting Angels, who did all the cleaning, cooking, and shopping, ran errands, shifted Mike in bed, cleaned up after his bowel movements, and took night shifts so I could sleep. They told me from the beginning they were there as much for me as for Mike, and that was true. I am grateful to Mike's sister and brother, who made it financially possible to have this 24-hour care. I am grateful to every friend who came to visit, to the neighbors who brought flowers, to the employees who expressed such fondness for their boss, to the beautiful final words from family members. Above all, I am grateful for what Mike gave me of himself, not only in those last three weeks but in all the six wonderful years of our relationship.

          His daughters were there for several good days before he died. The growing love between the three of us would have made Mike so happy! When his pain intensified, the nurse gave him more medication, so he could be at ease, if not in consciousness. She was there the morning of the day he died and recognized by his breathing that he would probably die within the hour. He lived another six hours but finally drew his last breath.

         One of Mike's "last words" was that the most important thing is relationships. If you include a relationship with the Earth, Mike lived by that principle. He and I had such good times together, whatever we were doing. Even those last three weeks, if we didn't think about where they were headed, were good times. He was the best companion I've ever had. 

         For me, the hard part is just beginning. 

On our honeymoon a year ago, on the northern California coast