It is a quiet time in this house. There are few noises to interrupt the silence. There is a snore from time to time, a groan, a creak, a gasp. Mostly it is quiet here–deathly quiet. I cannot watch the television while I wait for him to die. I read all the pamphlets that say this is a time to live rather than wait for death. It’s hard to make quality time with a man who sleeps 23.5 hours a day. Sleep is a generous term for that unrousable unconsciousness. It is more of a semi-coma that feigns sleep and gives no impression of dream or rest. And so I wait.
He has been on a 6-day cycle these past three weeks. He sleeps for 6 days, rousing only long enough to take a few pills and a sip of water. During those long days I come to terms with death. I come to terms with learning to live alone and learning again to pay the bills and take out the trash and fold the laundry with no one to talk to but the spider on the wall. I spend six days wrapping my head around the deadly fact that this is really happening. I won’t wake to find it has all been a nightmare starring Bob Newhart and Suzanne Pleshette. On the seventh day he wakes and asks for stew or beer or tapioca. If I waited 5 minutes he would fall back into his fugue but I scurry to fill the stated wish. He eats or drinks and then falls back to whatever dreamless place he has been. The waiting starts anew.
The hospice doc says one can live for only a week maybe two without eating or drinking at all. What change does a a tiny meal once a week make in that prognosis? Is it an act of kindness to feed the transient request or should I wait and see if the will to eat lasts longer than the walk to the kitchen and back? I don’t know what is ethical. I don’t know what is kind. I don’t know what thread is holding him here in body when his essence has long since fled. So I feed him when he asks and I offer when he wakes and honor his wishes when he refuses food and drink. I hope he knows his needs better than I right now.
I searched the Internet for information on how to clean and dress him when death does come. I found traditions for Jews and Muslims and not a word about how a Presbyterian prepares an agnostic to meet eternity. I see it as the last physical act of love I can perform for him. It seems maudlin to say it here. It takes away the emotion behind the promise. Til death do us part–I don’t think I believed in death when I made that promise. I want to hold him for a few minutes more. I want to hear his voice, strong and clear one more time. Last time we really spoke to each other he said he had a speech that would make me cry. I Wish he had taken the chance. Right now I could use the words.
It is a very quiet time.
