And Then There was Death
The last time I spoke to my husband was a Saturday night before bed.
We hugged and gave each other a smooch on the lips.
My husband put his hands on my shoulders and said,
“Now tomorrow morning we will go to Trower’s for sure!”
Several Sundays were missed because of bad weather.
He drove to Trower’s, a twenty-minute drive, because his cigarette brand was not sold in any of our local stores.
We used to go to Trower’s for breakfast, but that was before my husband became more depressed and weaker due to cancer, and vascular disease.
He began to withdraw from society, except for Trower’s.
He had given up his life-long hobbies making reproductions of Kentucky and Pennsylvania muzzle loaders and playing the banjo. He no longer practiced Buddhism.
On several occasions he said he wanted to die but didn’t want me left “flapping in the wind.”
I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I was always silent, just holding his hand.
If I would have assured him I would be okay,
would that be like giving him permission to kill himself?
If I said I wouldn’t be okay, that would put an extra burden on him.
What had we been through in the last two or more years because of his illnesses?
Endless doctor appointments, Cat-scans, bloodwork, X-rays, radiation treatment, stent surgery.
Bad reactions to several antidepressants.
Falling, requiring a hospital stay which revealed nothing.
Physical therapy to gain strength.
He didn’t become strong.
He became weaker, falling several more times.
On one occasion, he fell against the bedroom door, and I could barely get the door open
to lift him onto the bed.
I wouldn’t allow him to smoke in the house, only in his room.
I had uncontrolled asthma.
He didn’t resent this decision except on very cold winter days when his open ventilating window made the room unbearable.
But at least he smoked his half a cigarette very quickly: a half a cigarette every hour.
We had many disagreements about his smoking,
but since he had been smoking for more than 60 years,
the thought of him quitting was out of the question for him.
“The damage is done, I’m 80 so how many years do I have left anyway? I have to have one pleasure.”
I would rant and rave about the insanity of lethal corporations and government regulations that outlawed heroin and weed, but not cigarettes. My only coping mechanism.
“Well, it’s your choice to smoke, but at least I don’t have to enable your addiction by going with you to Trower’s.”
I eventually went with him, but I didn’t drive,
rationalizing that at least I wasn’t a total enabler.
On that last evening I ever saw my husband alive, I resigned myself to drive him in the morning to get his cigarettes rather than having him die in a car crash.
His decreased depth perception and slowed reflex problems didn’t bode well for a successful trip.
“Goodnight, sweetheart.” “Me, too.”
When he wasn’t out of bed by 6:30 am, I knocked on his door.
Since there was no reassuring answer that he was awake, I opened the door.
His head was sticking out of the covers.
I touched his cold head. I moved his head. There was no response.
I kissed him on the forehead and said, “I’ll always love you.”
I walked out to the living room to call 911.
“This is it!” I said to myself, as I ambivalently welcomed death into my house.
About the Author: Connie Woodring is a 79-year-old retired psychotherapist who has been getting back to her true love of writing after 45 years in her real job. She has had many poems published in over 40 journals including one nominated for the 2017 Pushcart Prize. She has had ten excerpts from her novel Visiting Hours, published in various journals. She has had five excerpts from her non-fiction book, What Power? Which People? Reflections on Power Abuse and Empowerment, published in various journals. Her memoir was published in White Wall Review.
Image Credit: Jean Pierre François Lamorinière “Landscape with Herons at Sunset” Public domain image courtesy of Artvee
As It Ought To Be 