“It’s OK,” I told him. “you can go now. I love you.”
All five kids were now in our big, airy master bedroom with me, on and around the King-sized bed. Amy, my husband Gary’s oldest daughter from his first marriage, had only arrived from upstate New York at midnight. It was now, what, 3 AM? Amy’s preppy, can-do brother Josh had been a champ, schmoozing the airlines so they’d help with flights and not charge us a fortune. Josh knew how to get shit done! His father’s son. Amy and Josh’s middle brother Jax (formerly Katie) had flown in from Minneapolis that morning. Not such a hassle since he worked loading luggage for American Airlines and could fly standby free of charge. He’d shown up unshaven, in rumpled clothes, but sober, and he hadn’t fought with Josh so far, thank God.
Amy had been sprawled on the bed talking to her Dad since she arrived. He was unable to open his eyes or speak anymore, but Amy later told me she knew he’d heard her because he’d been squeezing her hand. The hydraulic bed was propped up to facilitate her Dad’s shallow breathing. The oxygen machine whirred at the bedside. Gary had grown unrecognizable, so thin. He was always freezing now, but could not stand the weight of blankets, so the bedroom fireplace was blasting heat toward his emaciated frame; a linen sheet was pulled up to his chest, a padding of bath towels beneath him. Time had become fluid. In the wee hours, all the lights were still on, and my son Nick, Amy’s half-brother, was across the room on the leather couch under the window, playing his Dad’s favorite music from a laptop, his sister Chloe, just 19, next to him. My sweet red-haired babies. Nick had been in the room for the last 48 hours straight, playing Neil Young, Jackson Browne, The Who, the Beatles, Queen, and all the rest of the artists Gary loved most.
Music was EVERYTHING to Gary. It had given him a life beyond anything a poor, abused kid from Ft. Wayne, Indiana could ever dare dream of. He’d gone from working in a local record store as a teenager to working WITH all his musical heroes later in life. Some had become close friends. Early this morning one of his rockstar pals BEGGED me to let him come and say goodbye. I’d had to turn him down. I knew Gary would never want to be remembered this way. Yesterday had been the last day visitors were allowed. Today I had phoned a dozen people — some of whom were en route to airports — to tell them not to come, that Gary was unconscious and the end was near. ALL I cared about was keeping him comfortable and getting all 5 kids there. I was too focused on that to worry about how and when my husband would actually die. I’d held onto hope for so long. I had held. I hadn’t broken down. Now the moment had come, the moment he and I had spent almost two years trying to prevent, putting all our energy and resources into keeping him alive.
Music was EVERYTHING to Gary. It had given him a life beyond anything a poor, abused kid from Ft. Wayne, Indiana could ever dare dream of. He’d gone from working in a local record store as a teenager to working WITH all his musical heroes later in life. Some had become close friends. Early this morning one of his rockstar pals BEGGED me to let him come and say goodbye. I’d had to turn him down. I knew Gary would never want to be remembered this way. Yesterday had been the last day visitors were allowed. Today I had phoned a dozen people — some of whom were en route to airports — to tell them not to come, that Gary was unconscious and the end was near. ALL I cared about was keeping him comfortable and getting all 5 kids there. I was too focused on that to worry about how and when my husband would actually die. I’d held onto hope for so long. I had held. I hadn’t broken down. Now the moment had come, the moment he and I had spent almost two years trying to prevent, putting all our energy and resources into keeping him alive.
His once-strong right hand — bony, cold and still, was in my right hand. His wedding ring, now much too large, which had been sitting on the nightstand for months, was in my left hand. He had beautiful, elegant long fingers. He'd been such a big, powerful man. Cancer had devoured him. When the emergency room nurse last weighed him, he’d lost 130 lbs. How could it be that only days ago, we were in the hospital, him sitting up, still sharp, when the doctor answered his question with, “Yes, Gary, you ARE dying. Don’t you want to go home, rather than stay in this hospital?” Gary had immediately said yes, and we’d moved him here. Our room filled up with medical equipment: the breathing apparatus, commode, wheelchair. Hospice nurses around the clock. The bedside table full of morphine vials and high dosage fentanyl patches, which were so potentially lethal the nurses had to wear gloves when applying them. They were needed to keep the excruciating pain at bay. The cancer had moved from his esophagus to his lungs, to his ribs. He was in agony every moment he was conscious those last days. His suffering was unspeakable. Watching him deteriorate was unbearable, so when the soft-spoken Jamaican nurse said it was time to gather, I was relieved. The kids were sobbing, except Chloe, who held everything in. Always.
“It’s OK,” I told him. “You can go now. I love you.” I leaned down to kiss my husband’s forehead… and I felt him leave.
No comments:
Post a Comment