Patrick Update: The Final Chapter

I am told all goes according to God's plan, not man's. As I sit by his bedside, it is truly hard for me to find any humanity in his protracted dying.

I shed buckets of tears, while caressing his limp hand, watching each beat of his strong heart literally shake his entire body, for no muscle is left on his frame of bones to absorb the jolt. Pain, he can no longer feel, stabs my heart as I listen to each labored breath rush from his body through a mouth that can no longer close.

I think about God a lot, and try to embrace the calm I hear in his sister’s voice, as she explains to me there is nothing to be sad about, as Patrick’s life is now in Jehovah’s hands. He told me before that he has no fear of dying, because his faith in the goodness of his Heavenly Father sustains him. His biggest regret was that his disease robbed him of the time he needed to bring me into the comforting fold of his faith.

So, here I sit, lacking the understanding of why he is still with us, suffering such a terrible end, as I put a drop of atropine under his tongue, so he won’t drown on his own spit. I never thought that I would be praying for him to draw his last breath, ending his agony.

My beloved can no longer move any part of his body, open his eyes, speak, or even swallow. When he is not snoring the growling noise of narcotic induced sleep, we know he is awake and hears us.

His condition changed so quickly, from week-to-week and day-to-day, it seems there has never been any time to adjust. As soon as one regiment was put in place to deal with the medical issues the disease was throwing at us, another part of his body began malfunctioning, forcing me to shift into high gear. He wanted to die at home, so that I could wield the baton conducting the orchestration of his medical care. To feel safe, he said, he could not entrust this task to anyone else. Besides, he confided, my “drill sergeant” persona might be needed when things got rough.

This vicious cancer stole the life from his body rapidly and in the most unkind ways. I cannot really say this past week was the worst, because this whole ordeal has been absolutely terrible. However, during the past week, as he lost the ability to talk and swallow, my anxiety level increased daily. I feel as if I have aged ten years in only one week.

Remarkably, I have photos taken just eight days ago, of him smiling from his bed, posing with my nephews, Andrew and Matthew, their six-foot-five, lanky bodies bending over his bed to get in close to him.

Patrick’s sister, Gwendolyn Branch, has been the glue that has held me together, since her arrival here in Austin, from the East Coast 32 days ago. Her kind and loving nature, admirable patience, nerves of steel, heart of gold, contagious laughter, and steadfast devotion to her brother, and to me, sustained me throughout, what has become, the greatest trial of my life.

I asked Gwen to come here to help me take care of Patrick. But, he wanted her here to take care of me. She has successfully done both, exhibiting great courage, grace, and compassion.

Last night, after sitting for an hour at Patrick’s bedside, reading aloud to him from the Bible, she came to my room at 10:09 P.M. and asked me to come check on him.

I knew the minute I saw him that he was gone. I turned off his feeding pump and began unplugging the tubes. She asked me to check for his pulse to be sure. He was no longer breathing and she asked, “Is he gone, baby?” as I checked and found no blood pressure or pulse. We both began to weep, as she said comfortingly, “He went real peacefully, without a twitch or anything.”

I handed her my phone and asked her to call our friend, David Bracken, who lives across the street, and my daughter, Molly Solomon. David arrived in minutes and he and Gwen shut the door and let me be alone with my beloved Patrick one last time. Molly arrived and sat with me as I laid my head on his chest and stroked his face.

David called the Hospice nurse who was to come and pronounce him. He called the funeral home, who in turn, called the police and paramedics, who were not supposed to come at all. David offered me apologies, as they barged into the bedroom, intruding on my last hour of privacy with Patrick.

No crime had occurred and the police had no business being in my house, and I abruptly asked them to leave. Paramedics with full tackle gawked from the doorway. One of them made their way around to the far side of his bed, and placed a stethoscope on Patrick’s chest, while I held him sobbing in grief. That one left and another appeared at my side, asking to see the “Out-of-Hospital Do Not Resuscitate” form, that we had signed by the hospice doctor, that was supposed to ensure no EMS involvement at the time of Patrick’s death.

I barked at him to leave the room, crying loudly that none of these people were supposed to steal even one precious minute of the little time I had left to hold my husband one last time in my arms. Until now, I had been unable to hug Patrick for the past two months, because of the excruciating pain he suffered caused by tumors growing on his spine from the base of his skull down to his waist.

As the hospice nurse unhooked his IV and collected all the narcotic pain medications, I wept as I lay my head on Patrick’s chest, while Molly lovingly wrapped her arms around me and cried. After a bucket of tears of grief, I finally began to cry tears of relief that Patrick’s pain had finally ended.

I little while later, Molly helped me from his room, as I did not want to see strangers handling my beloved Patrick’s body, which cancer had cruelly left looking identical to a victim of Auschwitz.

A few weeks ago, accompanied by a flood of tears as I held his hand up to my cheek, I was able to tell Patrick how much richer he had made my life. How he had inspired me to become a better person. I thanked him for being my friend these past ten and a half years, for coming here two and a half years ago to lovingly take care of me, and how honored I felt to be his wife. I told him he need not worry about how I would get along after he was gone. I assured him I would figure things out, and all the beautiful memories we made over the years, both in Baltimore and here in Texas, would sustain me all the rest of my days. And, when I told him I would love him forever, he wept. It was the first time I had ever seen him cry.

The last time we danced, we were alone at night in a swimming pool at a condo on Galveston Island. It was 10 September, and stars peeked out overhead from behind swiftly swirling clouds. I stood on his feet as he danced me around in the warm water of the pool. He sweetly sang, “Under the Boardwalk” softly in my ear. We did not know it would be our last dance.

A week later, early one morning he came into my room, where I sleep in a hospital bed so my legs can be elevated and use a machine to keep me breathing while I sleep. He gently kissed me awake and helped me into my wheelchair, then lead me across our apartment to his room and into the bed we used to share. He tenderly held me in his arms for hours. We did not know it would be our last time to snuggle in each other’s arms.

One week ago, when he could no longer use either of his arms, I put lip balm on his parched lips, and then, leaned over his bed rail and we exchanged four tender kisses. We did not know it would be our last time to kiss.

Four days ago, he was already awake when I came into his room to give him his 8:00 A.M. medications. He smiled at me and said, “Ah, one more day I get to see your beautiful face!” We did not know it would be the last day he would be able to speak.

I cherish each of these tender moments and the many more that came before.

He was taken away six hours ago, all have gone home to bed, and Gwen is asleep. Before she left, I had Molly shut his bedroom door, as I do not yet want to see his empty bed. I am exhausted and think I can finally sleep. Sunrise is in an hour. Tomorrow I will take care of a few business matters, and then spend most of the day resting in bed, with Molly here to take care of me.

In a few days I will start packing up. I need to put all my things in storage and be out of my apartment in 30-days, as I cannot afford the rent alone. I will go visit various friends, and take a few months to get my head clear enough to figure out the next phase of my life without Patrick.

Thanks to all of you who were part of the special care team who helped take care of Patrick, as well as, to those who called and/or emailed words of comfort and concern throughout this terrible ordeal.