Walking His Last Days
Six days to go until the first anniversary of his death. A year ago he was alive. I feel like I am Walking His Last Days.
As if it's a sort of a "countdown". I am drawn to last June and can clearly visualize David in his hospital bed in the Palliative Care ward. I can hear his voice as we converse together.
I look at the kitchen clock in the morning and remember that at this hour, I was packing up a lunch to take with me to the hospital. In the early evening, I look at the time and know that I was helping David get ready for bed before leaving to go back home. It feels like I'm re-living that whole experience, as if we are taking this journey towards its inevitable ending once again.
Only this year I'm alone. David lives only in my memory.
And my activities are different now too. Our house is up for sale. I am writing more often. I attend sessions at my bereavement support group. I travel now, seemingly at the drop of a hat. My time is spent on me. I'm not a Caregiver any more. My grandchildren help to anchor me in the real world.
My body is feeling tired, sore, nauseated. I've come down with another virus and the coughing is getting worse. Am I taking on David's symptoms at the end of his life? Headaches and nausea were common in his last few years, more so towards the end. I don't feel hungry most days. David's appetite diminished over the years, but particularly in hospital. And I've stopped exercising. I'm just too worn out, and the glow from my last ocean trip is gone.
As I go through yet another coughing fit, I wonder. Is this how he felt over the last months and weeks of his life? Coughing uncontrollably and gasping for breath? How frightening! When his mask accidentally fell off, did he panic? He must have. Did he feel frightened? Most certainly, particularly once the breathing treatments stopped working and he began coughing up blood. I think we both knew the end was near, but neither one of us wanted to give that thought power by speaking it aloud. We both hoped, but intuitively knew that this time, there would be no reprieve.
The Lines between us are blurry… words are not necessary. I know instinctively how he feels.
"Do you feel strong enough for a turn in the Healing Garden, sweetheart?"
"Yes, I'd like that…. but if it doesn't feel good…. "
"We'll come back right away," I finish for him, with a reassuring smile.
I bring his wheelchair over next to his bed. Hook up two giant oxygen cylinders to the back of it. David sits at the edge of the bed and waits until his breathing is comfortable. There is no rush. When he is ready, I help him to transfer from the bed and into his wheelchair. We wait a few moments more while he catches his breath. I have gotten so used to seeing him this way, so extremely short of breath that it hardly makes an impact on me. This is David. This is where he is here and now. COPD has robbed him of his energy, his mobility, his day-to-day functioning, and soon now his very life. I can only imagine how somebody else (who happened to walk into the room) would react to seeing this middle-aged (not elderly) man struggling for every breath with every movement. They would probably think his life was over. Well, he's not dead yet. He still has some good moments to cherish; some little bits of life to savor.
Once I've carefully unhooked his oxygen line from the wall and hooked it up to the portable cylinders, we are ready to roll. Out of his room and down the hall. It must feel strange be whisked away from the safety of his private room, his refuge. There were weeks in the beginning when he was too fragile to leave his bed, much less the room. We take the small elevator down one floor to the main level. I hold my breath all the way down, trying not to think of what might happen if the elevator malfunctioned and we got stuck. With a reassuring thump, like the safe landing of an aircraft, we're down. Out of the elevator, down another hall and into the cafeteria. Sliding doors to the Healing Garden open automatically as we approach.
And we're outside! Clean fresh air on our faces, warm sunshine washes over us. I push David's wheelchair over the stone paths, past the fish pond towards a nice shady spot. Bright flowers grow in abundance along the walking paths. There are lots of others out and about as today is Sunday. Families come to visit. Some patients stroll with the aid of a walker. Some need to be in a wheelchair. One thing they all have in common - the need for oxygen. There are portable cylinders and nose hoses on every patient. I saw only one other oxygen mask, very similar to the one David was wearing.
David's Eldest son came to visit. It was good to see him; good to visit in this peaceful, sunshiny Healing Garden.
Twice more we make the trip downstairs and into the sanctuary of the Garden. We've never done that three times in one day, but the weather was so nice, it did David the world of good. And it was also the last time. His last Sunday on Earth.....
As if it's a sort of a "countdown". I am drawn to last June and can clearly visualize David in his hospital bed in the Palliative Care ward. I can hear his voice as we converse together.
I look at the kitchen clock in the morning and remember that at this hour, I was packing up a lunch to take with me to the hospital. In the early evening, I look at the time and know that I was helping David get ready for bed before leaving to go back home. It feels like I'm re-living that whole experience, as if we are taking this journey towards its inevitable ending once again.
Only this year I'm alone. David lives only in my memory.
And my activities are different now too. Our house is up for sale. I am writing more often. I attend sessions at my bereavement support group. I travel now, seemingly at the drop of a hat. My time is spent on me. I'm not a Caregiver any more. My grandchildren help to anchor me in the real world.
My body is feeling tired, sore, nauseated. I've come down with another virus and the coughing is getting worse. Am I taking on David's symptoms at the end of his life? Headaches and nausea were common in his last few years, more so towards the end. I don't feel hungry most days. David's appetite diminished over the years, but particularly in hospital. And I've stopped exercising. I'm just too worn out, and the glow from my last ocean trip is gone.
As I go through yet another coughing fit, I wonder. Is this how he felt over the last months and weeks of his life? Coughing uncontrollably and gasping for breath? How frightening! When his mask accidentally fell off, did he panic? He must have. Did he feel frightened? Most certainly, particularly once the breathing treatments stopped working and he began coughing up blood. I think we both knew the end was near, but neither one of us wanted to give that thought power by speaking it aloud. We both hoped, but intuitively knew that this time, there would be no reprieve.
The Lines between us are blurry… words are not necessary. I know instinctively how he feels.
"Do you feel strong enough for a turn in the Healing Garden, sweetheart?"
"Yes, I'd like that…. but if it doesn't feel good…. "
"We'll come back right away," I finish for him, with a reassuring smile.
I bring his wheelchair over next to his bed. Hook up two giant oxygen cylinders to the back of it. David sits at the edge of the bed and waits until his breathing is comfortable. There is no rush. When he is ready, I help him to transfer from the bed and into his wheelchair. We wait a few moments more while he catches his breath. I have gotten so used to seeing him this way, so extremely short of breath that it hardly makes an impact on me. This is David. This is where he is here and now. COPD has robbed him of his energy, his mobility, his day-to-day functioning, and soon now his very life. I can only imagine how somebody else (who happened to walk into the room) would react to seeing this middle-aged (not elderly) man struggling for every breath with every movement. They would probably think his life was over. Well, he's not dead yet. He still has some good moments to cherish; some little bits of life to savor.
Once I've carefully unhooked his oxygen line from the wall and hooked it up to the portable cylinders, we are ready to roll. Out of his room and down the hall. It must feel strange be whisked away from the safety of his private room, his refuge. There were weeks in the beginning when he was too fragile to leave his bed, much less the room. We take the small elevator down one floor to the main level. I hold my breath all the way down, trying not to think of what might happen if the elevator malfunctioned and we got stuck. With a reassuring thump, like the safe landing of an aircraft, we're down. Out of the elevator, down another hall and into the cafeteria. Sliding doors to the Healing Garden open automatically as we approach.
And we're outside! Clean fresh air on our faces, warm sunshine washes over us. I push David's wheelchair over the stone paths, past the fish pond towards a nice shady spot. Bright flowers grow in abundance along the walking paths. There are lots of others out and about as today is Sunday. Families come to visit. Some patients stroll with the aid of a walker. Some need to be in a wheelchair. One thing they all have in common - the need for oxygen. There are portable cylinders and nose hoses on every patient. I saw only one other oxygen mask, very similar to the one David was wearing.
David's Eldest son came to visit. It was good to see him; good to visit in this peaceful, sunshiny Healing Garden.
Twice more we make the trip downstairs and into the sanctuary of the Garden. We've never done that three times in one day, but the weather was so nice, it did David the world of good. And it was also the last time. His last Sunday on Earth.....
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