The Last Breath

©2008

That last moment of my husband’s life, I stood beside his bed. It was the final moment of our twenty plus years together. My sister-in-law and my middle son were on the opposite side of the bed. My eldest son sat at the kitchen table. I had been sitting with my husband most of the morning. Just sitting, holding his left hand, letting him know I was there. He took a sharp breath and my sister-in-law asked me if he needed more medicine. I’d been battling for two days with his medicine dosages. He seemed to need more to keep the pain at bay, so when I called hospice, they told me how to give it to him so that it would get the pain to a controllable level.

I leaned over him and asked if he needed more pain medicine. He took one deep, shuddering breath and that was it. He stopped breathing with his hand in mine. He had always been strong throughout the years, but he lay there now so frail and gaunt. I was glad I stayed beside him almost constantly those last three days. One time in those last days, I remember he said, “Sit beside me, I’m so lonesome.”

Mixed emotions flooded through me. The pain of loss, yet relief that he is finally pain-free. Such a tumult of undefined pain. My husband had chosen not to go to a hospital, as he wanted to be in his own home with his family.

I often thought of the people who were there that last moment. Did we all have a special purpose and reason to be there? My parents, two of my children; my youngest was outside. A friend who was there had driven 1000 miles to see my husband one last time. Another friend sat silently supportive at our kitchen table with my oldest son. My husband’s sister. Her husband whom my husband had known since he was in his early teens.

Everyone was there, moving around, yet it seemed unreal, what happened in those last moments. He was lying there, the man I’d married almost 21 years before. I’d always thought we’d be together forever, or close to it. He’d been like a rock in our lives. A constant force. I didn’t think he’d leave us like this.

He died at 11 a.m. and was cognizant up to the last 18 hours. Months before he had signed a “do not resuscitate” order. There was no need to call anyone except hospice. I touched his forehead and I leaned over and kissed him there.

When the hospice nurse arrived, I watched her put the stethoscope to his sunken chest. It seemed to take forever while she listened for a heartbeat. I held my breath. Crazy thoughts went through my head. He is dead. His suffering is over. Don’t tell me he’s still alive. Don’t tell me there’s a heartbeat. The nurse wrote the official time of death as 12 p.m. There was no more heartbeat. The vibrant life that had been my husband was extinguished.

From then on, I had accelerated moments of feeling lost, like all the rules had changed in life and no one had told me what they were.

At various times after his passing, my life felt defined by how much time had elapsed since my husband died. It’s like I had a ticker in my head. I became consumed by finishing everything we had talked about doing the last several years around the house. We needed a new driveway so I hired a local contractor to assess and fix the water drainage problem, then redesign the driveway. The very large barn behind the house was badly in need of paint, since it had not been painted in thirty or so years. Considering the large size of the barn, this was a bit of an undertaking. It took me approximately a week to prime and paint that building with a professional sprayer, although I did hire someone at a very reasonable price to do the scraping.

Other projects soon occupied my time. We had removed many trees from our backyard years before, and those stumps were an eyesore that I decided also needed to be removed.

I recall before the end of that first summer, I had a sudden, inexplicable need to clean out the bedroom my husband and I had shared. I went through every nook and cranny and I offered the kids whatever they wanted of their father’s for keepsakes. Their father used to collect coins, so I split up his small silver dollar collection so they each had a stack of their own. My children were hesitant to take mementoes they still considered to be their father’s, but I told them their dad would want them to have it.

At some point I decided to put my own stamp on the house and property, so when I painted the barn, I also painted a mural on the large front doors. It was incredibly satisfying seeing the finished product every time I pulled into my driveway. Feeling good about this creative activity, I kept the momentum going and did several more paintings, which almost served as therapy.

In looking back, I kept myself busy so I didn’t have to think too much about my life and the emptiness invading every portion of it. But eventually, you wind down, because you can’t live on that adrenalin for long. I had health problems that surfaced about six months after his passing. Even though I was no longer caretaking, I was exhausted from the continued frenzy of activity. I had three boys under twenty who needed me.

So I finally listened to my inner voice and was forced to realize I needed to take care of me. My husband's last breath had not been mine. I had many more years ahead of me.
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