3 Ply

She had a preference for 3-ply tissue. And was always willing to pay the not-on-sale price to get what she wanted. If I was doing a Costco run, I would always call her to see what she needed or if she wanted to come with me. Every few months Kleenex would end up on the list and lord help me if I brought her 2-ply. For reals. You don’t even know the crap I heard when I bought Her Highness The Queen the wrong stuff. 

I had gotten into the habit of bringing boxes of “real” Kleenex to her in the hospital because (gasp) the hospital only had a paltry half sheet that they were passing off as 2-ply. She swore up and down that it couldn’t possibly be more than a 1.5 ply at most and that it most definitely wasn’t a full sheet. We all giggled about it, rolled our eyes and gave her the gears over her tissue snobbery, but we learned to appreciate this particular quirk. So much can happen in 60 days. So. Much.

“I never thought dying would be so hard.”

I can’t tell you how many times I heard her utter these words in the last couple weeks. Hearing it the first time was a shock to the system, but it has since become the topic of countless discussions. She was under the impression that when you decided to begin that final walk, you would go to the hospital to be plugged in. Not sure to what exactly, maybe the wall or a machine. When you decided it was time someone would simply unplug you and that was it.

After the final visit from the internal medicine doctor, everything moved simultaneously in slow motion and at break-neck speed. Time is a funny thing. The days you wish would hurry the hell up and be over seem to last forever. And when all you want is one more day, it never comes. From this point forward, the only thing she wants is comfort. Peace. Support. Love. Doctors have tried to give us an idea of time, but I know that anything that does or does not happen will be by her own will. Based on the results of the final blood test I know there is an infection and it begins this final chapter in her magnificent story.

She sleeps a lot, with alert times in between the naps. The good hours lift spirits and give hope that maybe, just maybe, the outcome will be different. No one actually says it out loud, but I can see it in their eyes. I have run this emotional gauntlet with her and have been ALL the things. I have done my best to help everyone work through their feelings around all this. I have kept myself together as I have held others while they fell apart. I have had to help people understand her wants and have shouldered their anger and heartbreak as they worked through to a version of acceptance. I understand her choice, I support her. I am struggling like hell. 

The nurses come in at meal times with a tray for her. They smile at me and ask if I think she’ll eat anything. I smile back, shrug my shoulders and say probably not but maybe leave the jello. It’s always worth a try. She’s not eating much. A couple spoonfuls of jello, maybe a square or two of chocolate and all the fuzzy (no that’s not a mistype) ginger ale she wants. 

My days follow the same pattern now. Get up, attempt the Morning ME Ritual, get myself ready, get the kids up and ready, kiss my babies and head to the hospital. Some days I pick up my aunties and other days I fly solo. I go early because I hate the idea of her being in that place all by herself. I have to focus on taking deep breaths as I drive because I’ve recently started holding my breath. Deep breath in through the nose 1-2-3-4-5. Hold 1-2-3-4-5. Exhale through the mouth 1-2-3-4-5. For as much work as I’ve been doing, I am having a hard time living with faith and love. I am scared and fearful. Terrified that I won’t make it in time.

She made me promise that I wouldn’t let her die alone. With tears in her eyes, she grasped my hands as she asked. With strength I wasn’t even aware of, I gave my word that I would be by her side when she decided it was time. She kissed my hand as a tear rolled down her cheek. So every day when it was my turn to go home, I would hold her face in my hands, tell her how much I loved her and that she was my most favourite ever. She would smile, tell me she loved me and that I was her favourite too. I’d giggle and promise not to tell anyone, she’d just wink and tell me everyone already knew. Before I’d go, I’d say “I’ll see you tomorrow?” It always sounded like a question. She would think about it, then smile and nod.

Have you ever spent time in the Just-In-Case zone? I’ve been in this strange place for 50+ days now. If it’s a day that I make it to the grocery story, I pick up a few extras “just in case” I stay at the hospital later. I give my babies extra loves and smooches when I tuck them into bed “just in case” I’m not home in the morning. Perhaps the biggest habit to break will be the one I started about a week after she went in. Before going to bed I grab every item of clothing I need for the next day, fold it and leave it next to my bed so I can get dressed in a hurry at any time. Ready and waiting, just in case.

I park my car and head up to her room. I recognize a lot of the people as I walk through the hospital. I smile and say good morning to all the staff at the desk as I walk by. I enter her room, say good morning and smooch her soft face. Sometimes she answers. As I put down my bags, I ask the nurse about her night. They’re not doing vital checks anymore, but they will if I ask. Mostly I do them myself because it gives me some idea of where we might be at for the day. I’m obviously not a medical professional, but I’ve picked up a few things over the course of her stay.

Today is Day 53. A new doctor from the hospice team has come in to discuss options for end of life care. End of life care. The statement is a gut punch. The entire conversation makes me feel like I’m drowning. I can’t breathe, my heart is pounding. I have taken to biting down as hard as I can on the inside of my lip to stifle the sobs I can feel coming on. Silent tears run down my cheeks. 

I’ve learned to hear the things no one wants to say because I pay attention to the in-between. Based on what I’ve figured out, she has only a handful of days. Even though her spirit is as bright and warm as it’s ever been, I can see her getting weak. Her eyes don’t open much, but she hears everything. 

As the doctor tells us about the placement list, she gives my hand a squeeze. I reach for yet another tissue to dry my quiet tears. I make a mental note to bring another box of tissue when I come back tomorrow. 3-ply of course. I’m going to need it.