April 1, 2023 – My new Chapter – Widow
My
darling husband of 45 years died in his sleep in a nursing home on March 8,
2023.
We
had a lovely marriage. We had fun
together, we laughed together, we weathered job losses together, we moved to
many locations for his plant manager jobs in injection molding.
He
was 84 and in poor health. I’d managed
to take care of him at home until the first week of January and then – the bottom
fell out. I was worn out and frazzled
and came down with COVID. I didn’t know I’d
caught COVID until I suddenly didn’t taste my coffee. I thought it was the usual cold misery and
being worn out.
It
was all quick, dementia was not confirmed among other ailments and he lost his
voice before our wedding anniversary – the one that put us over the top – into Ruby
range – 45 years.
The
last time he was “with me” mentally was on Sunday the March 5th when I visited him in the nursing home. I
hugged and kissed on him and talked to him.
He knew it was me. When I went to
leave, I dropped my keys and bent over to pick them up – his hand gave me a
love tap on my ass and I turned around and said, “Aren’t you fresh,” laughing
at him.
A mischievous
smile swept across his face. Delight was in his eyes. I kissed him again and
left.
Tuesday
morning when I arrived, he was staring at a spot where the ceiling met the wall
past the foot of his bed. I leaned in
and kissed on him and talked to him, but he kept his attention on that spot
above my right shoulder. My first
thought was, the angels are calling him.
Then,
it just happened that the newly assigned nursing home doctor dropped in and
chatted with me. First day on the
premises and we had a long chat about palliative care and Hospice care.
Russ
didn’t waiver his stare at the ceiling spot all that morning. He, of course, listened to our discussion
about his care. The doctor
was from our New England and the Doc and I chatted about places in common, Russ
didn’t speak, he hadn’t spoken since the end of January. The Doc had recently moved to the area and
came out of retirement.
When
the doctor went to check his vitals, my husband, was startled out of his
staring and fear crept over his face as the cold stethoscope touched his
chest. His head reared back trying to
focus on this person. He said nothing
and he didn’t look at me. Even later,
when I said goodbye, kissing on him and hugging him, no hug back – no eye
contact. I knew he was “gone” – Poof – alive in body, but not in mind.
We
had a favorite word about the end of life – the end of not being able to care
for each other at the home and when we’d need assistance. Kaput. He knew he was Kaput. We’d discussed it the
last time he could speak to me.
Wednesday
morning I got the call at 5:29 in the morning.
When the telephone rang I was awake – as usual – and I said out loud.
“This
time in the morning, this is not good.”
“This
is Willow Ridge, your husband has passed away at 5:26. I was making my second round, and found he had
passed. He was fine earlier when I came
on shift.”
I am
not sure what I said in the dark, but my feet hit the floor.
“Will
you be coming?”
“Yes,
I guess I need to get his stuff.”
“How
long before you come?”
“Fifteen
minutes, half an hour.”
I
can’t remember what else was really said.
I might have said, thank you, I might have said goodbye – I might have
not said a thing.
I do
remember it was chilly in my bedroom room.
I found clothes to pull on; I reached for one of his beautiful merino
wool sweaters to embrace me. I yanked on
yoga pants, which I never go out in public in.
I
knew right where an empty suitcase was.
I grabbed my purse and my keys and was out the door in a flash. It was about 22 degrees, I had no coat on, I
didn’t care. The cold got me awake.
Driving
up in the dark, I asked myself. Can I
handle this? Can I look down on my dead
husband? Do I have the strength for this; seeing death on his face?
Then,
one of his favorite phrases came to me as if he'd spoken to me.
“The
kiss of death!” He always pulled on the
persona of a Mafioso type when he was joking around. He used it often in sentences when someone
was going to get in trouble or get fired.
“He’ll get the kiss of death.”
I
laughed and said out loud, “I’ll literally be giving you a kiss of death, my
darling.” That moment of honesty gave me strength. Made me smile and laugh in the darkness on the way to the nursing home.
Surprisingly
at the nursing home, in the pre-dawn, I was easily let in and I did not stop at
the kiosk to sign in – purposely. I
walked briskly to his room carrying my rolling suitcase not wanting to wake up
other residents.
The
door was closed and I opened it to twilight.
He looked like he did many times when he was sound asleep, mouth open,
eyes half open.
Standing
at his bed I went to touch him, but hesitated, my hands were ice cold and then
I chuckled again asking myself – do you think your cold hands are going to jolt
him awake? I shook my head at my own
stupidity and clasped his hands and forearm.
OH, you are warm.
Tears
streaming down my face the words came to me from my senior high school play of
Romeo and Juliet:
Juliet
…. I see that poison has been his
untimely end. Oh you’re so selfish! You drank it all, and didn’t leave any to
help me follow you? I’ll kiss your lips. Perhaps there’s still some poison that
remains on them which will cure me by killing me. Your lips are warm.
So surprising, those words reverberating in my
head as if I’d re-studied them the night before.
You are warm to the touch, the
caregiver was honest, you’d died in your sleep, recently.
I leaned in and gave him his “Kiss of
Death”. I took in the whole scene, in
the twilight. The caregiver had pulled his blue blanket smooth and crease less,
folded his hands nicely.
I walked around the bed and I brushed
his eyes closed, with the thought, it’s not every day one gets to close the
eyes of a dead person, especially the love or your life. Father Brown in mystery movies does it with dignity
and grace. I think I accomplished that.
Then I packed his things, trying my
best to be quiet, to not wake the other room occupant. I packed his shoes, his pace maker gizmo, his
clothes, my picture. I was down to the
last items and the other occupant roused from sleep.
“Where you moving him to,” he queried
in the darkness as he sat up and moved the curtain to see me better.
I hesitated, there is no easy way to
say this I thought. This younger man had had
a stroke. There had been a picture of a family on the bulletin board that had
been left from a previous occupant before Russ.
“He is dead, he died in his sleep.”
“Hot damn, NO!” He swished the curtain back further and
looked at his roommate as he’d seen him often enough in the last two months
looking like he was napping with his mouth open.
Then he apologized for swearing. He
often apologized for his salty language and I always said, “Not a problem.” He
was shocked, shaking his head, looking at Russ and me unsettled.
Packed and zipped. I didn’t know what
else to do. Spoke to my Russ, mentally, ‘I’ll
see you in heaven, later. You’ll love
God’s golf courses.’
I carried the suitcase of stuff to the
nurse’s station, told them to call Padgett and King and I left the building
before I could fall to pieces.
➰
What is the shame of crying in front of
people? Why was I so concerned about the staff seeing me turn into a fountain
of tears?
The rest of the morning I spent making
telephone calls. The funeral was already in the pre-planning stage. What a
godsend that was.
I wanted to share this with you all so
that you know I am in a new direction now.
Everyone is being so nice, and I tell
them what I believe.
Part of living is dying.
Many don’t know what I mean by
that. But, it is the truth. We all die.
It is the living that is important.
84 is a good age to attain. Russ
lived a full wonderful life and I was so lucky to be a part of it.
