The empty chair

I'm copying something I wrote in a notebook last night. I hand write a lot that I don't share here but I want to share this now as a continuation of my previous two entries of the day. Although today has been a much better day, I want to share what a bad day is like...completely through to the end. My mind doesn't shut off. It wanders from one random subject to another and there is no stopping it.

Usually if I just keep on writing, my spirit begins to lift and I will start to feel better...which is exactly what has happened. That's my ultimate goal...to work through the negative, painful feelings and get to a better day. Thank you, every one of you, who read. Thank you for listening.

Tuesday, July 14, 2009 -- almost 11:00 PM

Why wouldn't he ever agree to Hospice bringing a bed? I told him at the time, "Just let them bring it. You don't have to use it. But it will be here if and when you choose to use it." Instead, he sat/laid in that stupid vinyl lift chair. Until the end. I would have rather had him die in our bed if it would have made him more comfortable. I guess he must have been as comfortable as possible in that chair or he would have asked to move.

I think he didn't want a bed because he didn't want to see them carry in his "death bed". He would feel like he was sick. (That's something that he couldn't accept.) He would feel like he was giving up. Like he was "laying down to die". Of course, I'm only speculating because he never gave me a reason. But this is what my mind does when I'm going through these low points.

He DID like the chair. He felt so much relief when they first brought it. He could finally feel somewhat comfortable. I could have even been relieved seeing him in that chair -- IF he would have laid his beautiful head back and appeared relaxed.

Whenever I think back on that time, I can't help but go back to that feeling...just wishing he would rest his head. Instead, he always held it up...his neck straight. When he slept, his head would nod forward like someone who dozed off in the evening -- trying, but failing, to stay awake for a favorite TV show.

I hate that vision. I pray to God he was in the most comfortable position he could be in. I pray that he didn't sit that way for the same reason he refused a bed...

Because he didn't want to give up. Because he wanted to put up a fight. Because he didn't want to die.

Thinking about it now, over 8 months later, I can still feel the tension in my own body. When he couldn't relax, I couldn't relax. When he didn't feel good, I didn't feel good. I never realized how connected we were. In every way possible.

The next morning, before they came to pick up his chair, I sat in it for the first time ever. I thought about the time, a few days before, when he tried to push a button on the control pad. He kept pushing and pushing and he just dropped it and gave up and said, "I broke it." He didn't break it. He wasn't even pushing a button. This smart, strong man was so sick that he couldn't even push a button.

Then I thought even farther back to when they first delivered the chair. He felt bad because my Mom had spent "so much time" sewing thicker cushions for a rocking chair we owned to make him more comfortable...and he only used it for a day or two. (I reassured him that she didn't care if it only made him feel better for a couple of hours...anything she could do for him was worth her time.) It was a classic example of how concerned he was for others' feelings. In a less dire situation, I have no doubt he would have still sat on the cushions that were sewed specifically for him to let Mom know how much he appreciated her thoughtfulness.

So, I sat silently in his chair for a few minutes. I guess I just longed for that connection. I couldn't imagine how it was ever comfortable for him. While sitting there, I noticed one of the hairs from his head barely sticking to it. I picked up that single strand of hair so tenderly. I was so afraid of dropping and losing it. I safely Scotch-taped it to the front of the folder from Hospice...the folder that holds every piece of paper from that period in our lives.

As much as I wanted to keep all of his things right where he last left them, I couldn't wait to get rid of anything that pertained to his illness. Especially that chair. But once it was gone, the room felt so empty.

That room and this house were still filled with stuff. But he was gone.

The house was truly empty.