By Michael Riordan
I tell myself I’m fortunate. There they are. I still have all this. Everything that ever went wrong in my life is erased in an instant because there they are: my children and stepchildren, still growing up in front of me; all the grandchildren with their waxy faces and perfect eyes of wonder. They romp around, oblivious to me. I make an easy exit to my daughter’s front porch where I sit and close my eyes, and the sun blankets me gently. The ones inside don’t need me much right now. I’m alone and want to believe I’ve run out of all the mistakes I can make and that I have made it through the last of the hard times. I just buried Stella, my wife.
I think of her—who doesn’t have any of this anymore. It jars me and nearly overwhelms me as most thoughts of her do. I abandon my foolish, fleeting happiness. I become again the lonely man that I am. The sun then, knowingly, shifts behind a cloud.
I wrote a note to my thirty-year-old stepson a few days before his mother died. I wanted to let him know how proud she was of him—just in case his mother was too weak to tell him herself. I wanted him to know that I would be around if he needed anything. In the note, I included an idea I got from scientist Carl Sagan on TV—something about how nature might have had us all live a thousand years or more, but it dictated that the lifespan of our species would be relatively short. Sagan, a religious skeptic, said that the only way we can be immortal is through the genetic legacy we pass on through our children. We all know there is a lot more to it. The way my late wife lived—and the way she died—was instructive and inspiriting.
Her son was the first to speak to me the morning she drew her final breath: “Thanks for being such a good husband and for taking care of my mother.” I heard him, but I didn’t acknowledge him just then. I had stepped back, away from the absolute stillness of Stella in the bed where she had died moments before. Her eyes were open, and I had positioned myself so that it seemed she were still alive and looking directly at me and me only. The grimace had left her face, and her eyes seemed larger and unclouded. The pain was gone, but she had to die to get rid of it.
Dying can happen like this:
Somebody from hospice calls and tells me they will be bringing the bed in the next half hour. I ask Stella to shift temporarily to the lounge room as her son and I strip the bed she has been sleeping in. We upend the mattress and base and drag these to the garage. I return with a broom and dustpan and hurriedly ready the room for the arrival of the strangers.
Earlier in the week, I had contacted the hospice representative. Stella was clear and resolute about wanting to remain at home. The hospice people wanted to interview her, “assess” her, and they wanted to send somebody as soon as they could. When I told Stella about all this, she said, “Not now. I will let you know.” I relayed this back to the palliative care people by phone, and they suggested I go to their office and get things going without Stella knowing about it. I told them I would get back to them.
For a long time, we were able to avoid all this—these last appalling steps. So, now I’m doing the unthinkable and getting the terrible things done. I had even bent over a computer in my office and looked up “How to Care for a Dying Person.” Stella had shown me the way to endure hard things throughout her ten-year illness. She had even turned to me a few weeks earlier and said simply: “Michael, maybe my work here is done.” I just looked at her.
I have already told her two children what their mother wanted, that I would honor her wishes completely. Stella is insistent, but we are concerned about her suffering. We aren’t sure about deferring hospice. I consider going behind Stella’s back, making something up and sneaking over to the hospice office. I decide I can’t betray Stella’s trust. But whenever the pain breaks through, I ask her again if it is time to bring in some help. “I told you I’d let you know,” she replies weakly but firmly.
Earlier, I watched Stella doze next to her mother. They were leaning back on a two-seater couch, slumped together like rag dolls. How is it possible that we are doing this? I asked myself. Stella suddenly opened her eyes, still gripping her mother’s hand, and said, “I love you, Mom.”
So, it’s really true. We run out of time. We run around clutching a handful of sand, just as we have been told, until it all falls through our fingers.
It is about half past four in the morning and I am propped in the leather armchair I had dragged into the bedroom to be next to her. Stella has been drifting back and forth from wakefulness to drug-induced sleep. As instructed, I push through some additional morphine whenever she is agitated. I make notes on a little pad and turn back to Stella, continuing to stare and watch for things.
Her eyes open. I ask if she would like some ice cream. It has come down to either a cool drink or vanilla ice cream to refresh her parched mouth and throat. “Yes,” she replies. I quietly shuffle past her mother who is snoring in the spare bedroom. I pull out a small tub of ice cream from the fridge and scoop some into a bowl. I return and sit next to Stella who is aware enough to be waiting for her snack. The sweet, smooth chill of ice cream always seems to help a little. I lift a small melting chunk to her mouth and she takes it in all at once. She cleans the spoon with her lips, and swallows.
“How’s the ice cream?” I ask.
Stella expresses her last words clearly: “Great.”