Six Weeks

6 weeks ago, your oncologist told us, “I’m sorry, there are no more options.”
Tina, the tumor, metastasized into your liver, a cancer with a low survival rate.

It turns out that no one is ready to hear the “get your affairs in order” speech – not even a person living with two kinds of cancer for four years.

That week, there were Mayo Clinic second opinions, disbelief, and loads of what-ifs.

What if you’d gotten chemo? (Chemo? You never even told me you were offered chemo and turned it down until right that moment).

What if you’d not had the stomach issues that prevented you from taking your meds?

What if you never taken that summer job at the parks-and-rec in college and got exposed to Roundup every day?

There were phone calls and meetings to tell family and close friends.

Forms were filled out, and beneficiaries were declared.

- - -

5 weeks ago, there were platelet transfusions to raise your hemoglobin — and your spirits.

There was your kind at-home-care nurse, Shannon, who made the doctor give you a prognosis. Then volunteered to sit us down and share the news: you have a few weeks to a few months to live.

We both knew it was closer to weeks because each day you grew weaker.

I still don’t know how she got through that without crying. She coordinated more transfusions and a semblance of a plan until you figured out your next steps. "Fuck hospice," you said.

There was the week of our last date. You put on your new Minnesota Aurora t-shirt and I put on my jersey. Your bestie drove us to the soccer stadium gate so we could watch the match.

I pushed you around in a wheelchair, and we cheered when they scored goals, held hands. I tried not to think about the fact that I’d have different dates for the rest of the home games – forever.

The next day our sweet friend, Sara, reviewed your will. Then fab fivers Linnea and Laura wheeled you to multiple places to try to find a notary to witness it.

- - - -

4 weeks ago, we began calling and interviewing people from various hospices. Even though you weren't ready to check in.

Sue, our dear friend and nurse, came to sit with us and help us figure out what questions to ask.

Nina, the intrepid death doula, sat us down and told us what the process was when our “life pulse” lets our “death pulse” take over.

Watch for the elements, she said. First, Earth, which is food and friends and things that keep you grounded, will no longer be wanted.

Then you’ll grow tired of water, then your fire will begin to go out. You’ll be hot, then cold, and maybe both at once.

Finally, air. Your breathing will change, and eventually you’ll breathe in once more — and let out an exhale of your life force for the last time.

I took copious mental notes so I could watch for the signs.

- - - -

3 weeks ago, the visitors started coming. Some cried. Many tried not to. A few made you laugh. Mostly you consoled us. Mostly you worried about us.

We had to move you to the pull-out sofa because stairs were too difficult.

The news went wide, and out-of-towners made plans to visit. Hurry, I said. She doesn't have much time.

Others sent cards, Facebook messages, texts, emails, and donated to your GoFundMe. Some brought Colorado peach jam and Karen L. filled our fridge with food for an army.

Your mom and brother drove from Colorado to see you and then went home.

A few days later, you told me you were ready to check yourself into hospice. I knew you were done and ready to move on to whatever came next.

- - - -

2 weeks ago, you took your last breath, and it happened just the way the doula said— First Earth, then water, then fire, and finally, air.

During those last moments, you said lots of things – including “I can’t walk.” I told you you didn’t need to walk because soon you’d be able to fly. “You’ll be where they have jet-packs finally,” I said. "Tell the dogs, Ruby, Jasper, Twig, and Cash, that I said hello."

When it was done, my brother-in-law checked your pulse. We wept with the heaving that makes it hard to breathe. I'd never seen him cry in the 30+ years I'd known him. We hugged one another. “What will we do without her?” my sister asked through sobs. I don't think I'd ever seen her cry either.

Guthrie, our dog who was on his bed next to you, rose, sniffed your hand, and left the room. "Make sure you let him sniff me," you said a week earlier. "I want him to understand what happened to me and not think I abandoned him."

My brother-in-law called your mom and brother. I called the death doula and hospice.

A hospice nurse arrived some time (I lost track of time) and helped me dress you. I chose your new Broncos hoody, the royal blue one with the old horse logo that my sister, Laurie, had just gotten you for Christmas and your new cozy Vuori joggers.

I fumbled around and found your phone and started through the contacts. First Linnea, who volunteered to call and text others, and Laura, who I knew was going to take it so hard. I couldn't and still can't imagine what it's like losing "your person" of 30+ years.

Then there was my family and other close friends to notify. Then back to your phone with the hundreds of contacts. Who to start with? By the time I got to D, I was exhausted.

People were speechless. Or cried. When they asked what they could do, I told them to come over if they wanted to. So they did. For hours. With food. Hugs. Tears. More food. Coffee. More food. Flowers. Cards. Broken hearts. Friendship. Disbelief. And through it all, laughter and stories of you.

I put up a screen between my office-turned-hospice-room and the dining room so people could have privacy as they told you goodbye. I often wonder what they told you. I hope it brought them comfort to be able to sit with you one last time.

Hours later, after postponing it several times because more people wanted to stopy by, I shared a ritual with you and Nina, and Angela, the kind funeral director. We washed your body. Nina said it might help if I shared a story about a memorable experience we had together, something I wish I could take back, and something I wish I could have told you before you passed. I spread rose petals over you. I clipped a lock of your hair. Nina took a picture of me holding your hand. "You'll be glad you have it later," she said. (She was right).

When it was over (it will never be over) and I was ready — or as ready as I could be — I helped put you in a burial cloth and zip you in a body bag. I still remember the look on your yellow-tinged (from jaundice caused by liver failure) and sweet face.

Then we wheeled you on a gurney to the funeral director’s van. We carefully navigated the stairs to the outside. Then down to the street. 1, 2, 3, lift. Then the slamming of the door.

I don't know how I didn't start bawling as I wondered over and over how this could be happening despite knowing it could for four years.

Back inside, there were more forms. So many forms. Signing away the body of your favorite person is something I wouldn't wish on anyone else in the world.

There was a moment where Angela thought I might not be able to give permission for her to take you because we weren’t married. But thankfully (I guess?) you’d checked a box on one of the countless forms you had to fill out authorizing me to decide what to do with your remains.

If you hadn't, your mom or brother would have had to be faxed or emailed a form to sign. Because people hundreds of miles away are legally prioritized over the person who sat with you and held your hand while you let out your last breath.

- - - -

1 week ago, your death certificate came, and you were officially, legally gone. But the long process of notifying credit card companies and others would just begin.

I also learned that week that since you'd formally enrolled in hospice, the death was classified as expected — no police investigation needed. “It would have been just a formality,” the funeral director assured. But, my goodness, thank you for that, my dear. I’m not sure I would have been able to handle police probing into my life and the end of yours.

Today, I had to fill out a form to compete in the agility trial with Guthrie, and I almost wrote your name down as my emergency contact.

I sit here, pen in hand, tears dampening the paper wondering, "Who's name do I put now?"