Your last breath

On Coping #28

This morning you die in my arms.

.

Twice again yesterday you said you were tired

that you were ready to go

or words to that effect.

.

So the doctor increased your pain medication as he’d promised to do.

.

Which meant that for much of last night

you hovered between a light sleep and a kind of waking dream.

I could understand little of what you told me.

.

Sometimes realising you were asking to be moved to a more comfortable position

or begging for even more pain relief

or gasping for water.

.

And yet I knew exactly what you most wanted.

.

Eventually

around 1am

Nurse Anna tells me she feels your time is close.

.

So I hold you

and do what I guess people do

when their love

is dying

in their arms.

.

I tell you stories of our life together

memories people have shared of the difference you made to their lives

how you will live on in my heart

and in our children.

.

I play you songs.

.

2am.

3am.

.

I could drink a case of you

and still I’d be on my feet.

.

On you fight

your head yearning for peace

your body refusing to yield.

.

Eventually

I run out of words.

.

So I tell you that I love you

and that you are safe

and that I am here with you.

.

That I love you

and you are safe

and that I am here with you

I love you

you are safe

I am here with you

.

I love you you are safe I am here with you I love you you are safe I am here with you

over

and over

and over.

.

Your breath becomes shallow

more gasps than inhalations.

.

4am.

.

The air now passing between your lips barely a whisper.

I love you you are safe I am here with you.

.

4.10.

4.15.

4.20.

.

I am with you

I tell you.

.

It’s okay

I tell you.

.

I’m here

I love you

I tell you.

.

And then

at 4.30am

your chest decompresses

and rises no more.

.

I sit with you a few moments longer.

.

Oh

darling.

.

There’s no relief.

And there’s no sadness.

There is just the absence of you.

.

Yesterday

you were alert enough to see your sister walk into the room.

.

She tells you

she has been approved by her adoption panel.

.

That she is now all but guaranteed to be getting a baby.

Soon.

.

You beam

You weep with joy.

.

We all know why.

.

Outside

a bus goes past.

.

Another one will go past around the same time tomorrow.

Previous > On Coping #27: Forever a force | Next > On Coping #29: Struggling for words

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On Coping is my story of surviving on the sidelines of cancer. It begins in 2022 with On Coping #1, written the day after my 41st birthday. The day my wife Imogen, the mother of my three children, was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer.  It’s the story of what happened next. Read from the start.

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