Saying Goodbye

I thought that I would be able to write about the events leading up to my son's death from cancer before the anniversary date of September 29, well before that time arrived.  I found that writing about it has been so emotional that it reignites the horror show in my brain.  The sounds and the scenes burned forever in my mind, click themselves to the on position and play over and over.

This day, my birthday, is particularly emotional for me.  It is the anniversary of the day that the hospice nurse told me that my son would probably die.  I wasn't even thinking about my birthday; I was consumed with the declining state of my son's life.

When she told me, it hit me like a brick even though I had tried to prepare myself for it.  It was a reality, and it was crushing.  I remember looking at Jeff when she told me that his pale, thin body lay motionless in the hospital bed.  All of the days of torturous pain for him were almost over.  He did not deserve to die from this horrible disease at such a young age, but I knew he didn't have much fight left in him to prevent death from coming.  I wanted him to stay, but I wanted him to go, to be free of the demon pain he had suffered for three months.

I asked everyone to leave the room, to go outside, go somewhere, just leave me alone with Jeff.  I sat beside him.  He was barely breathing, but he was awake.  He had stopped sleeping so much, I think because he was afraid.  He had lost his ability to speak a few days before, but he was very aware of what was going on.  I had to prove to a nurse that he was in tremendous pain, but he couldn't say it.  I had to make the statement and ask him to blink twice if it was true.  The nurse looked at me like I was crazy, but he blinked his eyes twice and earned a higher dose of morphine.  I knew that he would understand me when I talked to him.

I held his hand with my face as close to his as I could get.  I told him that I knew he was suffering and that he had been courageous and put up a tremendous fight.  I assured him that I would be okay that nothing terrible was going to happen to me.  "Jeff, I love you with all of my heart, but your little body needs to rest now.  Please don't stay here because you are worried about me; I don't want you to hurt anymore.  It's okay for you to die.  I can't stand to see you suffer like this; please stop fighting; I will be here with you, I will always be here for you."  He weakly squeezed my hand; I kissed him and told him that his brother Kevin wanted to talk to him so I would be outside for a minute.  I felt his eyes on me as I walked to the door.

I stepped outside, and tears were pouring down my face; my heart was broken, and I would never be the same again, never.

Jeff did not die on my birthday.  Somehow he made it through that long night.


(My son's story will continue after the anniversary of his death, for now, it's just too vivid.)