Day 72, John, Stalling
I stand at the small window of Drew’s room, admiring the foliage of the Chinese pistachio trees lining the courtyard below.
I bring Drew up to speed. “You wouldn’t believe the color on the Japanese maple in back. Even the walnut tree, which usually gives us nothing, is showing off a little. It’s not cold yet, but the nights are throwing the furnace on. It’s time. It’s fall.
“Look, Drew. I’m stalling here. I don’t want to talk with you about this. What I want is for you to wake up and tell me how pissed off you are at me and the blue fucking tile. I want you to sit up and ask for sausage gravy and biscuits for breakfast. I want you to complain about your neck hurting so I can lean over and rub it. I want all of that, Drew. And I’m afraid if something doesn’t change, we’re going to have to honor your Advance Directive. We might have to let you go.”
I’m pacing again. It’s hard to look at Drew. He looks so peaceful, and the cuts on his face have healed. The bruising and swelling have gone away. His hair, the “craniotomy cut,” has grown back into a respectable buzz cut. So much, after so long, looks normal.
“You know, Drew, I have fantasies at night sometimes, where I carefully disconnect you from all this hardware, wrap you up in your Kodiak bear bathrobe, and sneak you down the utility stairway and into our SUV where Phyllis is waiting. And then we drive. Just drive.
“It’s times like this where I hope you can’t hear me. Because I’m afraid you’ll hate me if we let you go. How can I be sure you really want this, the limbo? Or the other? How do I know you’re ready, that you’re really gone, Drew? And you, laying there, quiet as a mouse. Not helping. I’m so mad you put me—us—in this no-win scenario.”
I pace. I can’t look at the deep calm that has settled into his handsome face.
“Truth? I go back and forth, Drew. I’m hoping sometimes that you’re gone. I know that’s a horrible wish. It makes my stomach turn and ache. But, if I knew, I could honor your wish then, with some certainty that I’m doing the right thing. And five minutes later, I’m afraid you’re in there—and yet I’m hoping you’re in there fighting. Fighting to get out. Fighting to move a finger or open an eye. Straining to somehow speak. I want to believe that you’re just a day or two away from sitting up and asking what all the fuss is about.”
I sit and search his face for any sign of recognition or understanding. I see nothing and am once again in familiar territory. I weep.
Wow, John. I heard some of that. Your voice fades in an out, like a radio signal that wavers and then fades away. I can tell you’re upset. I’m sorry. I really am. I wished none of this on you. I know what you mean. I don’t think I’m angry like you, but I do feel impatient. That’s the best word I’ve got right now. Feelings are pretty sparse in here. But I get the feeling that something has to happen and I’m ready.
It’s painful, but not in a physical kind of way. It’s like when our cat, Tige, died. I was sad. And then I was lonesome for his company. I’m missing you that way now, John. Not that you’re dead, or I’m dead. It’s just that I can’t reach out and kiss your cheek. Or muss up your hair—I know you hate that. It’s so many inconsequential things, John. I feel like I might have missed your birthday. I have a card for you. I bought it before. It’s in the top drawer of my desk in the office. I haven’t signed it, but I was going to. Really. But you can get the card out if you want. I can’t remember what it said, but I remember liking the words.
There seems to be a big fuss going on near me. Lots of voices. Two I recognize: John, my husband, and Kit, my older sister. The nice lady with the drawl is here, too. Then other, male-sounding voices mix in and out of the equation. I hear John’s voice: “It’s time.”
You go get ‘em, John. I agree with you. The tubes and the beeping are annoying. And I miss food. It’s time? Time for what? I think I’ve changed my mind. I’m just fine if things stay just the way they are. Sometimes change sucks. Nope. Leave well enough alone. I’ve wished for that before.
*
Day 74, Drew, Dreaming
Drawl Lady gives me my meds. What a flood of thoughts and precise recollections are pouring back in such clear relief. I wish I had known then what I know now about dying. I would have had just the right words to comfort friends and reassure them about what would happen next. Maybe it wouldn’t have hurt so much to let go. But I didn’t know. And it does hurt. And nothing, unfortunately, is going to change the heavy way that loss sits with me. It is all horribly unfair. Is god really that mean?
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