Put the Best of the Worst on First, My Friend

That line is from a song written by John Hartford – a nonsensical patter song with a driving rhythm. These early days of grief are a lot like that; words and thoughts and emotions tumble and roll, often making no sense, yet driving one on. Snatches of sentences punctuated the dark like lightning, both comforting and troubling. My sweet Mr. Dewey’s death was like that. I’d like to tell you about it. It was a heartbreaking gift for both of us, I think. At least that’s my hope.

I knew it was happening. He was leaving. I wasn’t sure when, but I knew it was soon. That morning, his Hospice Nurse came by for John’s daily care. On leaving he said “I have a feeling I will be back today.” My sweetie was largely non-responsive. His eyes were open, but not focusing or attaching to anything. His breathing was soft, but more labored than usual, and he was easily agitated. The slightest movement caused him to wince, and he was no longer comforted by the sound of Lucas or I reading to him.

I had meditative, nebulous music playing quietly by his bed. One of us – Jami was here to provide comfort for us both – would stop in every 10 or 15 minutes to just let him know we were here and that he was loved, and to softly caress his hands, face, legs.

I was making cookies. Jami had gone in to minister these ablutions. She came into the kitchen and said “It’s strange how things change so quickly.” I thought she was talking about how his condition had worsened over the last few weeks. No. She wanted me to go in and see him. He was breathing, she said, but differently than even 15 minutes before.

We went into his room. I thought he was gone. He wasn’t breathing. “Oh, Jami,” I said, “I think he’s gone.” But at the sound of my voice, he came back, a deep, gulping breath coming from my sweetie as though he had been pulled from deep water. I took his head in my hands and told him that I was here. Jami put her hands on his legs. The breaths continued, deep and urgent. His eyes remained open but unfocused, clouded. I could feel his fear.

Lucas, my nephew, who has been such a help to us in these last months, especially, pulled into the driveway. I asked Jami to go tell him that this was the end, and that he should do whatever felt right to him. And she called my brother, Mike, who had left a bit earlier to do some grading. She and Lucas came into the room, quietly but quickly. Then Lucas came to the bed and held John’s hands. With Jami at the foot of the bed, Lucas holding his hands, and me cradling his head, I told my sweetie that it was okay to go.

“I know you’re scared.” Breath.

“It’s okay.” Breath.

“It will be peaceful soon.” Breath.

“I love you.” Breath.

“I will be okay. But I will miss you so much.” Breath.

We have always been a bit silly, as a couple. I made up several “ditties” that I sang to him throughout our 32 years of being together. I started singing one.

“I love my sweetie pie, he is the sweetest in the world, I do not lie. I love my sweetie pie, and I’ll love him till the stars fall from the sky.” Breath.

And then no more breaths. He was gone.

I climbed over him to the other side of the bed and spooned him into my arms. Already I could feel the pain, the anxiety, the fear, were gone. His face and body softened subtly. Jami and Lucas stayed with us, talking quietly about what a sweet, gentle, good man we had loved. Mike returned and joined us. We stayed there for a long time. I could feel the heat leaving his face and arms. He was so peaceful.

This was our gift, all of us to each other and to him. He had to go.

But he came back at the sound of my voice.

He didn’t go alone. That was my gift to him.

And he didn’t leave without a goodbye, and that was his gift to me.

After a while I got up from the bed, and we all went into the kitchen. I baked the cookies. They were his favorites. We talked about Mr. Dewey, crying, laughing, smiling, hearts full and broken, but pieced together with love, like Japanese tea cups. Sacred.

Listen: this is important. If you get the opportunity to be in such a moment, take it. Gently, without hurry, without urgency. Let that person you love rest a while before calling in those who manage the next steps in the process. This time is a gift, especially if your loved one can remain at home. But even in the hospital or nursing home, don’t panic and rush out to call the experts in. Ask for time. Sit, talk, cry quietly. It is such a gift.

We continued to check in on my sweetie for a couple of hours after he left us. We continued with the caresses, the quiet reassurances, and long pauses to simply be. At one point Mike went in for a minute or two, then came back out and said “He just looks beautiful.” And he did. Yes, he was gaunt, pale. But his face was pure, smooth, no trace of anguish of any kind.

What a gift that time was.

What a gift my sweet John Dewey was.

And what a gift he will continue to be.

Until the stars fall from the sky.