Well, almost a year. It will officially be one year next Sunday, March 14. I have learned that the dread is the worst part, so I am jumping the gun in hopes that this will help me, since that’s why I have written these. This is the last.
In some ways it is appropriate that I do this a week ahead, since the last week was the worst. It was on Monday that the MD told me that Rick was dying. I pressed him for the truth, and he told me. Monday was the day I changed Rick’s status to “do not resuscitate.” Monday was the day I had to completely give up hope, and the day I had to call his mother and tell her to bring the family as soon as she could, that her son was dying. The middle of the week passed in a blur. I remember that I stayed in his room most of the time, and slept on a cot. He was awake sometimes, but he slept a lot. I went into the hall to call people, and a sweet man gently pressed tissues in my hand and kept walking. My best friend came, my sister came, and we waited for his family. I fought with a radiologist to drain his lung and give him some comfort. I yelled at that poor doctor and then played the sympathy card, saying, “He is dying. Why can’t you help him?” It wasn’t fair, but I can’t say I regret it.
Friday was the day I remember best. His family finally came late in the evening, exhausted from their journey from the UK, and so shocked they couldn’t speak. He recognized them. He said a few words. They milled about, cried quielty. I acted like nothing was wrong–he was awake, so I was smiling and calm. I kissed him, but he had fallen asleep, or whatever it is called when they pass out from the meds. His family left. They needed to sleep. Here’s the worst part, so don’t read this if you ddn’t want to: I started crying, and he heard me. He had been agitated, so they changed his meds a hour or so before. It was late, very late. He was suddenly more lucid, and when he heard me crying, he said, “Are you ok, baby?” It was the clearest thing he had said in a day or more. I lied. “I am ok, sweetie, just tired. I am going to go to sleep.” Then into my pillow, not so he could hear, I said “please die. Please die.” I couldn’t stand it anymore. He was so sick. So weak. They kept his pain under control, but he was so, so sick. I hate cancer for making me say that. There is no greater cruelty than to make someone wish their loved one would die. I know that some of you won’t understand, but I don’t feel guilty. It was the disease. It made his life so bad that death was preferable. It did that to him in just 10 weeks. My strong, loving, vital, young husband became that pitiful being. I hate that for him so very much. He didn’t deserve it.
I write this for my own healing. I need to get it out of my head, which for me means onto the page. I am also writing to ask anyone who is willing to do something in my Rick’s honor. When Rick was dying, I posted a thread about how I used to ask him if he loved me more than various things he loved (his Mini, our cats, filet mignon), always ending with Diet Coke. If he loved me more than his DC, which he drank incessantly, I was good. A couple of people posted that they told their partners “I love you more than Diet Coke.” So here’s my request: If you love someone, tell them. If you feel so moved, tell them you love them more than Diet Coke.
