The scary unknown

The room is pretty quiet tonight. Strangely, I find comfort and relaxation in the soothing noise of the bubbling water from his oxygen. We each took turns going into the room alone with Mark. At first, I was too overwhelmed with emotion to say anything. It brought me relief to know that I have already told him all the things I wanted to, and I know that he knows how much I love him.

I felt the same way the summer Mark was first diagnosed; an overwhelming amount of pressure to say all the right things and do all the right things, never knowing when it would be my last conversation or the last time I would see him. I don't do well under those pressure situations. I freeze up and I become speechless. A very strange feeling for someone who talks as much as I do.

When I finally felt like I could talk, I told him again that I love him and that he will soon be in a better place and how happy it makes me that he will finally be free of this awful disease. Pat promised him that he would take good care of me for the rest of our lives and I know that Mark believes that.

While I’m watching him resting comfortably, but breathing heavily, I keep trying to think about what this process might feel like for him. Is it scary to die? Is it scary for someone who has fought so hard to stay alive, to let go of life? I hope he’s not scared and I hope he’s not in pain. I hope he knows that even though we will miss him terribly, we will all be okay. I hope he knows that we will take care of my mom for him. Every so often, we hear him make a sound, like a moan, and it startles us all. It’s strange to hear any sound come from his mouth since he hasn’t been able to talk or make noises since his stroke.

Maybe it’s the planner in me, or maybe it’s my fear of death and the unknown, but every time a nurse comes in to Mark’s room, I ask them about his vitals, about the different things that are going on with his body and what that means in the dying process. I’m not sure what answers I’m hoping to get, but I keep asking anyway. It’s actually kind of embarrassing that I keep asking the same questions over and over again, but I guess I haven’t heard the answer I’m looking for.

I think I’m hoping someone will tell me the exact time Mark is going to die, exactly what his death will look like, what his body will do and maybe I even want someone to tell me how I’m going to feel when he does. The only thing the nurses really can say is that they don’t know. Each person is different.

The dying process is as unique as the person who is dying. That is what I read in the book the hospice gave us that outlines the dying process and the different things the body does during the process. If Mark’s death will be anything like the person he is, he will hold on as long as he possibly can. But we don’t want him to feel like he has to. My mom keeps telling him that it’s okay for him to go and that she will be okay. She is doing her part to make sure that the nurses keep giving him his meds and that she can be his voice, his advocate for keeping him out of pain. I think it brings my mom comfort to be able to take care of him, like he has taken care of her for the last twenty years.