60 Days

I’m getting breakfast ready for the kiddos. My phone rings and, as the number for the hospital comes up on the display, I can’t breathe. I grab the counter to steady myself as I slide the bar and whisper a hello. “Hi honey, everything is ok.” I’m sure the nurse could sense the blinding panic in my voice. She was calling to let me know that the transport arrived early and they were sending her to the palliative care facility a little ahead of schedule if I could be at the other end to meet her. Off I went, stopping to pick up the aunties on my way. 

When we arrive, I notice right away how much homier it is. It’s warm, inviting and incredibly quiet. I do a weird walk-run down the hall to her room and as I walk in, she’s smiling. I grin back, delighted at how adorable she is all tucked in her bed. We brought a couple comfort items from home for her, a pretty knitted blanket and a tiny little Lady puppy that had been my Papa’s. She kept it on her dresser for years and my kids would always play with it. I give her a smooch on the nose and hand her the puppy. I make sure it’s tucked up by her neck as I spread the blanket over her. 

New place means new people, new doctors, new paperwork. As I begin the recent medical history download, the nurse begins writing quickly, pausing when my voice catches. She smiles gently at me, her eyes telling me to take my time. I bite down hard on my lip, take a deep breath and forge ahead with the details. Once the paperwork is done, the nurse takes me on a tour of the facility showing me all the essentials. This new place is comfortable and inviting in the strangest way because it was created with families in mind, not just the patients. It’s so quiet. No one is rushing from room to room, there is no beeping and no loud voices. 

Something is different today. She is different. I can feel the change, but can’t discern what it is. I find myself studying her as the day continues. She has slept most of the time, tired from the excitement of the transport. Every so often, she mumbles for her ginger ale, but I can’t entice her appetite with chocolate today. She starts making noises, but I’m not certain what she’s asking for. Before I can figure it out, it is evident she’s not talking to us. To be honest, I don’t even know if she’s aware of our presence in the room with her. Her eyes are open, bright and turned up towards the ceiling as she talks to an unseen presence. Auntie and I don’t dare move a muscle because we don’t want to interrupt this important exchange, but as we lock eyes we realize the level of privilege of what we are witnessing. 

The things she says bring tears to my eyes and some of what I’m hearing I’ve suspected for a while now. She has been strong, brave and courageous through this entire ordeal. She has been the picture of grace and I’ve been awestruck by her light. There have been some excruciating moments over the last 59 days that I haven’t shared with anyone simply because I didn’t know how to explain the conversations. She has made some requests of me and I will take care of them all. I will do anything for her. We sit still and silent until we see her nod her head, smile and close her eyes again. 

I look out the window and notice it’s dark again and I can’t believe how quickly the day has passed. I smooth her blankets, making sure she’s nice and snug and, as I always do, I lean in close so our noses are touching and I smooch her beautiful face. I lean in a little more so our foreheads are touching and I cup her face in my hands. “You are my most favourite in the history of forever and I love you bunches.” For 59 days these are the words I have said to her. Her eyes open just a little and she quietly asks what time I’ll be by in the morning. I tell her that I’ll be heading to her as soon as I drop the kiddos off at school and pick up the aunties and that would put me at her side around 9am. She takes a moment to consider this and then smiles and tells me that will work good. I tell her I can be there sooner if she would prefer and she shakes her head and says, “That’ll be good. I can wait.” I touch her cheek again and tell her I love her. “I love you too, princess.” She puckers her lips for one more smooch so I sneak it and make my way out.

On the drive home, I replay the day’s events over and over. The sounds, words, exchanges. Individually they’re nothing crazy, but when I consider them all together, there is a message. 59 days and all that went on plays in my mind like flashback scenes in a movie. I spend my evening somewhat distracted as I go over everything. I lay in bed with my eyes closed, but I can’t sleep. I replay every moment I can recall. 

I roll over and, before it has the chance to buzz, I turn off my alarm. I have been awake all night. I splash some water on my face, get ready and then get the babes up. Giggles, hugs, stories and questions and before we know it, we are in the SUV and off to school. I walk them to their doors, blowing kisses and reminding them that their daddy will be there to pick them up after school. I pick up the aunties and off we head to see our Queen. 

My phone rings and my heart skips a beat. It’s become a conditioned response. My dad’s picture pops up on the display and my breath catches. As I answer, he asks how far away I am. The nurse went in to wake her this morning, but she’s not waking up. Since this is their first morning with her, they’re not sure what’s considered normal for her. I take a deep breath, let him know that we will be arriving in about 10 minutes so I’ll check it out and I’ll update him as soon as I get there. The mood in my SUV changes and I press down on the gas.

I do the weird walk-run thing (more running than walking this time) all the way to her room. As I enter the room, the nurse is there checking on her again. She explains that she’s tried to wake her a couple times and she’s not responding well. I cup her face in my hands and singsong good morning to her, asking her as calmly as I can to pretty please open her eyes. She makes a soft noise, but doesn’t open them. I ask the nurse to check her vitals as I hook up her oxygen monitor. I check her arms, legs and foot. I check her catheter bag. There are changes. Fuck. 

The room is so quiet, the only sound I hear is the air rushing through her oxygen tube. I lay my head next to hers on the pillow and put my hand on her cheek. I take a deep shaky breath, tell her I’m here and that she’s not alone. I close my eyes and share what’s in my heart. She has been such a significant part of my life for so long, it’s hard for me to picture my days changing. I go through everything she and I have talked about like a checklist so she knows everything will be ok if she is ready. Even though it’s like a gut punch, I know she’s ready. I can see it.

My dad arrives before I can call him. He looks at me as I bite down hard on the inside of my lip and softly shake my head. He goes over to her to say good morning and check on her. She looks comfortable as we listen to her calmly breathe in this deep sleep. Deep breath. I tell him what I know as the tears spill over. We both know it’s time to make some calls so we step out into the hall and give my aunties some privacy to say the things they need to say. 

Have you ever had to make a call to someone to tell them it’s time? This is not my first time and (spoiler alert) it’s hard as hell. You are the one to shoulder their pain as they listen to your words. You are the one to hear their breath catch and their tears start. Your call makes their pain surface. Makes it all far too real. You try to keep your shit together while you are in the process of falling apart. You try to answer their questions, apologize for being the one to do this and empathize with the fact that no, it is in fact not fucking fair. It doesn’t matter what you say, how you say it or how soft you try to be, the words sting. It is heartbreaking and hurts like hell. There is no good way to say any of it.

I hold my phone to her ear so her besties can talk to her. They want her to know that even though they’re not in the room, they are wishing her a calm and loving passage. That they love her and will miss her greatly. They send their love to us and say goodbye. Our family begins arriving and without any discussion, we ensure every one gets a few moments alone with her. The atmosphere is oddly calm and quiet. There is some small talk, questions and tears, but the only constant sound continues to be that of the air rushing through her oxygen tube.

I pull a chair up next to her bed so I can sit and hold her hand, touch her face. I need to make sure I have all the details memorized. My mind starts to wander so I let it, interested to see what movie is about to play. Smiling to myself, I see the motorhome patio pop up. Growing up, my brother and I spent our summers with Nana and Papa having all sorts of adventures. This memory in particular took place during one of our many summers in Devon. For a few years before Papa got sick, they traveled south for the winter and we’d get postcards from all over the US. When winter finally thawed and the snow melted, they’d drive home and set up in Devon for spring and summer. Most days, my brother and Papa would head off into the bush in search of golf balls (a golf course ran through a section of the park) and other treasures. Nana and I would go on walks or to the park, but mostly we’d sit on the deck in the shade reading magazines and doing crosswords and word searches. We’d talk and giggle about the things we’d read and we’d get caught up on everything that had gone on while they were away. In the evenings after dinner, we’d light a fire and sit around it roasting marshmallows and visiting with the neighbours that always stopped by. We were so fortunate to have that time. 

There’s a soft knock on the door and, as my attention snaps back to the moment, the doctor pops in. He asks a few questions and then explains what’s happening. He tells us his experience in situations like this and tells us that she has 1-2 days at most. He is kind and gentle with his words, but it feels like I’ve been slapped. I’ve never been given a timeline before. I nod as tears roll down my cheeks. He tells us if we need anything to let him know, that he is here to help us as best he can. It occurs to me how hard his job must be sometimes, dealing with people in these hard moments. The room is quiet again. Quiet enough that I can hear her breathing changing rapidly. Wide-eyed, I look up at my dad. In the look we exchange, we both know that she doesn’t have 1-2 days. We are down to hours, at best.

I take a deep breath and lean in to whisper in her ear. I stroke her face and her hair, my tears leaving droplets on her and her blankets. I close my eyes and breathe through the ache. And then, there was silence. 

60 days.