This Time Last Year - Part One

Approximately one year ago today, I started telling people that Chuck was going downhill...and fast. "I think we're looking at days, not weeks."

The response was always one of surprise.

After all, only 6 days earlier, we ran errands together. He was in pain and didn't get out of the car on many of the stops we made. But he was functioning. He was alert. He was eating. He was awake.

I kept many of the receipts from that day. October 30, 2008.

We went to the junkyard to buy a mirror for my mom's van. He came home and installed it for her...that was the last car repair he ever did. He had a craving for Rally's french fries and a chocolate shake so we stopped there...that was his last fast-food meal. We went to the dollar store for some odds and ends...he made sure to buy the dogs some treats, as he always did. He bought some "Marvel Mystery Oil" stuff for one of the cars. (I still have it. I have no idea what it's for or what to do with it.) We bought a small wastebasket that he could keep next to his side of the bed. We also went to the auto parts store to buy a bulb for the car headlight...a simple fix, right? If you know what you're doing (he did) and if you felt well enough to get under the hood of the car (he didn't). He tried though. He got frustrated so he tried to explain to me what to do. I just couldn't get it in there right. I mean, I never figured I would need to know how to do those things. He got even more frustrated at me but didn't want me to go in and ask one of the employees for help. So I got back in the car and cried. That was our last argument...ever...in the parking lot of Advance Auto Parts.

We both knew that he wouldn't be able to do too many things in the days and weeks to come. But neither of us knew that would be the last day he would ever get into a car. (And we sure didn't think he would die a mere 12 days later.)

I saved the receipt from the next day when I went to the grocery store...alone. I noted on it that this was "the first time he admitted that he just wasn't up to running to the store with me". I bought some things that he had a craving for. He never even attempted to eat most of them. (I really do have to finish cleaning out my freezer...some of those things are still in there!)

Now, here it is, one year and 6 days after his final outing. On November 5, 2008 he wasn't doing much of anything anymore...except sleeping. He was still eating sporadically. But barely. I knew it was getting close at that point. I remained relatively calm though. I had to. I went into full-swing caregiver mode. There was no time for fear, worry or sadness. (Except for when I was alone at work or in the shower.) But in front of him? No way. Not even while he was sleeping.

And this is about the time that he woke up because I was tearing through the bedroom in search of a misplaced photo. The one he requested to be buried with. It was my senior picture that I gave him when we first started dating. I had written on the back of it. He carried it in his wallet for many years but had taken it out because it was getting so worn. When he woke up, I looked at him. I was crying and I said, "I can't find it, Chuck. I can't find the picture." One simple wish that he had...and I couldn't fulfill it. (I ended up placing a duplicate of that picture in his casket with a new note written on the back...it still wasn't the same though.)

As a side note, I still haven't found that picture. I hope it shows up someday.

When I look back on "this time last year" now, I feel sick to my stomach. I feel like I would have felt then...if I would've had the opportunity. I couldn't have cared for him if I had given in to this feeling.

I really just want to get past this next week or so. The next few days of thinking how much sicker he got with each passing day "this time last year".

And then November 10, 2008...when I couldn't get his restlessness to settle down...the day I frantically called his nurse out around 11:00 AM and she started talking to him to calm him down. He was out of it but couldn't hold still. She quietly told me that it would probably happen some time tonight. She started giving him the "talk". "It's okay, Chuck. Jodi is here. Right by your side. She's taking such good care of you. But you can start to let go now. It's okay to go whenever you're ready, Chuck. Jodi and the boys will be okay." He began to calm down a bit after she said those things to him. That's the day his breathing started getting that ugly rattle. The day his nurse put the oxygen back on him and he didn't fight it or complain about it. The day I had to make phone calls to tell everyone he probably wouldn't live to see tomorrow.

Then November 10th turned into November 11th. An all night vigil by his side. Caring for him. Loving him. Kissing the top of his head. Drugging him up as much as possible to get him to just be still for more than 10 minutes at a time. (No amount of drugs worked.) Wetting his lips. Wiping the blood away that kept coming out of the right side of his nose. Helping him use the urinal whenever he felt the urge. Attempting to change his bedding whenever he didn't make it in time. Talking to him. Telling him, over and over, that it's okay to go. Fighting off the urge to beg him to just go already...to stop fighting the inevitable...to stop suffering.

For God's sake, I just wanted him to be able to be still and find some peace. He never got that until his final 10 or 20 minutes. The suffering and agitation (it's called terminal restlessness) was absolutely heart-wrenching to watch. That and the "death rattle"...his breathing...are two aspects of the nightmarish final 26 hours I will never forget.

I remember being afraid to take a shower. Or to doze off for 30 minutes. There was no way I wasn't going to be there...holding his hand. I was so worried that I wouldn't be able to tell when that moment would arrive.

There was no mistaking it. Things changed with him all of a sudden...and I knew instantly.

To be continued.....