Mouth Wide Open

The book I brought with me that day was only 98 pages long. Long enough to pass the time sitting in the overly lit, bustling waiting room, but not so long and intricate that it required focused commitment while sitting in the uncomfortable pleather covered chairs. Perfect, I thought, for the longest, shortest, scariest, and loneliest 56 minutes of my life, waiting for news that would decide the future. And it was perfect, as just a few minutes after closing the back cover, they called me back to you. You were still groggy from anesthesia when the doctor arrived and said the words to us. In those extra moments it took you to process ‘pancreatic cancer’, I was alone with the knowledge that our time together had just gotten cut short, back when alone was something I had mistaken thought I had experienced in full.

As I sit here with you in these last moments, a pathetic 6 months later, I envy the version of me that sat and read that book. The version that had only tasted sadness, anger, love, and desperation.

Your breaths have moved into what they call the “death rattle”. It’s a unique sound heard only by those of us brave enough to intimately experience death before it is our own turn. This, they say, is the final clue that death is imminent.

I had made the hospice nurse promise me that she would wake me in the night if the rattle arrived. I was determined to be with you as you took your last breath, in the same way you had been there for my first. I made the short trek from your bedroom to mine, knowing falling asleep was useless. My TV was the only light in the apartment when she called me into your bedroom, a mere two hours later.

We are laying in your bed at home, just like I promised. Its dark, as midnight has just arrived. A tiny amount light fills the room from the streetlights, and the hospice nurse’s Kindle. We had to put the diaper on when you could no longer get out of bed to go. I know you would hate that you are sitting in one now, and I hope death is kind in what it lets you be aware of at the end. It was only 3 days ago that I helped you to the toilet from this bed, that for decades we watched tv from together. This same bed that has heard our endless fights, our unending laughter, and our spilled snacks. Now, I lay next you, on ‘the other side’ of this familiar resting place, holding your cold hand and listening to your chest slowly rise with each rattle.

I’m purposefully not looking at you. This is not how I want to remember you. Not thin, bald, yellow, bloated, and helpless. This is not the woman who raised me. This is the body that I have been caregiver for since you disappeared from the poison cure, and our lifelong roles reversed. This is not the woman who fought for me my entire, painful life. This is not you. It is just the container that once carried the most important person in the world to me, my only fan, my very best friend. I am aware that you have already been gone for some time, but still, I must keep this promise. Another breath passes. Is it the last one?

No, not yet. Why not? Make it stop already! All of it. The pain, the sadness, and most importantly the regret…so much regret. Regret for the years we will not have together. For the memories we didn’t make. For the risks we didn’t take. The times we didn’t cherish and the phone calls we ignored.

That’s the lesson in all of this for me. There is no time left to waste. It is too valuable, as once it is gone, it cannot be replaced. You can’t go buy more. The is no time charging station. Time is ours to make use of, and ours waste. We didn’t understand that…I didn’t understand that.

Well, you can bet I understand all of that now and the wisdom from this will not be wasted. Not a chance.

Another rattle passes. The spaces in between them are getting longer, like labor, only backwards.

Our time together is being cut short. There are so many things that I hope to do in this life, with what borrowed time I have left, but I understand in this moment that those things will never mean as much to me without you there to share it all with. What I make of this life is just beginning and yet, what will it all count for if not to make you proud? Will it matter if I ever fall in love, become a successful writer, or get myself out of this loud city? Yes, I imagine, to me, but nearly as much.

The hospice nurse continues to read contentedly, lending a peaceful presence to your final moments. There are no rushing doctors, no machines attached to you, and our cat is still sleeping by your side. It’s exactly what you wanted. In your own home, with nobody to see you this defenseless. My exhausted brain is desperately trying to memorize your hand as I hold it, telling you its ok to go and that I will be fine. I don’t know those things to be true, but I know you need to hear it in order to set yourself free.

They don’t tell you that when you die slowly, your last breathes are with your mouth wide open. As the organs shut down, the muscles slacken in your face and jaw, and the last of your oxygen rattles through your fluid filled throat, entering, and exiting through a wide open maw until the lungs request it no more.

We were together when we found Grams this way, mouth frozen open in the silent scream of death. It was disturbing and yet peaceful at the same time. We had waited for that moment for her through the depths of her illness and saw in that open mouth a final freedom. I want that for you in this moment. I want the rattles to quiet, the pain to end, and for this whole awful thing to be over already. I loathe this space of suspended grief so much. I have grieved alone for months. I am doubtful I will have any sadness left when the time comes time to mourn.

One more rattle passes, and I am gripping your hand memorizing its lines, hoping this pause is the last one…

As the silence stretches on, the hospice nurse stirs. She knows the last breath when she hears it and so she begins to ready herself. She glances at me with a small nod, to let me know it’s over. I kiss your hand and get out of the bed, taking the cat with me. I will not look back. I refuse to see you frozen with your mouth wide open in the light I know the nurse will need to turn on.

Again, I make the short trek from your bedroom to mine. This time I know it’s the last time I will do this walk with you in the house. The tears roll silently down my cheeks, dripping off my chin on to the cat, who is all I have left. In this moment, I fully understand being alone.

Deep breath now. My container still needs oxygen. I open my bedroom window and take a deep breath of the cold winter night air. A weight lifts and a deep sadness fills its void. Grief has arrived.

I promise you I will do it all differently. I promise you I will do it all with purpose. I promise you I will take risks. I promise you I will live. There is no time to waste.