Six Months a Widow

Even though Dennis had not been well for many years, I didn’t really contemplate what was as inevitable as sunset. We made it through so many medical challenges and, somehow, always pulled through and adjusted to new routines and therapies while old traditions—like a heart-shaped pizza on Valentine’s Day—kept the bond strong. We managed to have fun together in spite of it all. My biggest fear was that I would predecease him and he’d be lost without me.

So, a week after what would be our last Valentine’s Day, when my husband couldn’t get up and couldn’t talk, as I called 911, I assumed this was going to be another setback, but we’d tough it out and soldier on.

For the first few days in the stroke unit at the hospital he was stable, but showed no improvement. He couldn’t swallow and a feeding tube was inserted in his nostril. A surgically implanted feeding tube procedure was scheduled. I believed things would get better after that. They did before.

About 24 hours before the surgery was to happen, a neurologist came to visit us at bedside. He asked me if I still wanted to have the feeding tube implanted. “What would be the option?” I asked. “Comfort care,” he said softly. I looked at Dennis and he had tears running down his cheeks.

“Oh my God,” I thought, “he completely understands.” I told the neurologist I needed some time to think about the decision. I needed to call my good friend Nancy, a retired nurse who had worked with geriatric patients and was familiar with every aspect of hospice care. She was on vacation and couldn’t be there with me, but we talked for a long time on the phone.

When I returned to the room Dennis was sleeping sweetly. Something, though, was different. He had removed the feeding tube by himself. He had made the decision for me.

My center of gravity shifted in that moment. My focus was no longer on doing everything possible to help him live his best possible life. Now my job was to help him transition to the sweet by and by in the least traumatic way.

I knew that a great deal of hospice paperwork awaited me, but writing my soul mate’s obituary was the first and most urgent task. As I sat pen in hand, Dennis awakened. He couldn’t talk, but just to be sure I understood, he exaggeratedly mouthed the words “I Love You.”

Almost fifteen years earlier, when he was unresponsive in a nursing home, I would whisper in his ear, “Come back to me, Dennis. Please come back.” Now I needed to prepare him for the journey of no return.

In 2011, when computer visionary Steve Jobs died, I remember speculating about his last words, which were reported to be, “Oh, wow! Oh, wow!” I asked Dennis, “What do you think he was seeing and feeling?” “Something amazing,” he said, “something mind-blowing.” I agreed with him. I always wanted to believe that something wonderful was waiting on the other side. In his final days I needed Dennis to believe it too.

I forced myself not to cry when I was with him. “We’ll be going home soon,” I said, “to get you ready for the next adventure. He squeezed my hand and nodded knowingly.

We were leaving the hospital for home hospice on Ash Wednesday. As nurses were getting Dennis cleaned and dressed, I waited with my sister and her husband just outside the room. A man who identified himself as a lay chaplain asked if he could put ashes on my husband’s forehead. “I guess that would be alright,” I said wanly.

He went into the room and applied the cross muttering a prayer. He walked back to us and said with peculiar jokingly good cheer, “Now’s the part where he gets up and walks.” Astonished, I froze.

“Would you like me to call a priest?” he wondered. “There’s power in prayer and miracles do happen.” “We’re taking my husband home to die, there won’t be any miracles in this scenario,” I said with a sternness that surprised even me. “Are you sure—“ Cutting him off short I said, “Look this is hard enough. Please leave.”

This unpleasant wrinkle disrupted the steady flow of care and compassion coming from the hospital staff. Offering false hope was a cruelty, but it stiffened my resolve to find the strength I needed to remain hellbent on following my instincts.

When we finally got home, Dennis’s caregiver Dorathy was waiting. She had put a vase of fresh flowers and heart-shaped balloons in the room. It was the complete opposite of black bunting. It seemed more like a bon voyage party for someone who had earned a spectacular vacation.

Dennis was so relaxed and comfortable. Dorathy had recently learned that she was pregnant. She told my husband that if the baby was a boy she was going to name him Dennis. A shaky thumbs up acknowledged his appreciation of the honor.

Over the next two days the house was filled with family, friends and food. Mostly Dennis slept, but would open his eyes and acknowledge the presence of a guest. There were even some laughs when he was told a good story. When our cat, BiBi, jumped on his bed he‘d reach out to pet her.

I spent the last nights in bed with my husband, holding him close and whispering in his ear about the happiest times we had together. “Remember the Bob Marley concert at Hill Auditorium?” That show was in May 1978, less than a year after we were married, but he loved the memory of it. In rehab, his PT used to play “Stand Up for Your Rights” as Dennis would do sets of sit-to-stands from a chair. Before long, other therapists and patients would sing along and applaud when he reached the goal.

Dennis also loved the 1986 movie “Down by Law,” especially the scene in which the character played by Roberto Benigni says, “It’s a sad and beautiful world.” He used that expression on so many occasions and deeply believed in its truth. “Dennis, you know that it’s a sad and beautiful world. But where you’re going to be, it’s only beautiful. No more sadness for you.”

As he grew less responsive, I gently told him, “If you need to go, you’re free to do that. I’ll be right here with you when you’re ready to slip away….” Curled together on the hospital bed I could feel his breathing. It started to slow and I began to hear the same rattle that I heard when my mother died. “Kathy,” I whisper-called to my sister who was on the recliner in the room. “I think he’ going.” I gave him a kiss.

She came to us and felt his pulse. “Yes, he’s passed.” It was 4:46 a.m. She told me that as I said “I think he’s going,” she could see his feet moving. “It was like he was running toward something.” I knew it! I bet that run ascended into flight! He was ready and I had no choice but to accept it.

Within minutes the first call I had to make was to the University of Michigan Brain Bank. They needed to be notified immediately to make arrangements to take Dennis’s body to the hospital so the gift of his brain could be accepted.

Now six months have passed. I’ve finally realized I don’t have to sleep only on my side of the bed. The phrase, “May his memory be a blessing,” is slowly making more sense. I’m hoping that in the coming months I’ll be able to find genuine comfort in the wise adage, “Death ends a life, not a relationship.”