"This is not the update wanted to give you. Your husband died about fifteen minutes ago. I'm so sorry."
The rest of it is harder to say. He wasn't alone. The respiratory therapist and I stayed with him until the end, squeezing his hands, telling him it was okay to go.
The rest of it is harder to say. He wasn't alone. The respiratory therapist and I stayed with him until the end, squeezing his hands, telling him it was okay to go.
We told him he fought well, had been so brave for so long, and he could rest. We wiped his brow and watched as he slipped away, out of his body and the devastation of the illness and into a bright light or a calming dark that wraps around you like a prayer.
Souls linger.
Souls linger.
Some longer than others. Mostly just a few seconds, counted by the sudden tingle deep in my spine, a shifting awareness that there is more in the world than I can see. A few seconds where the veil opens and the naked truth of the world is almost revealed before it closes again.
He was gone before his heart completely stopped beating. There were no compressions, no hasty administration of hail-mary medications that would only postpone the inevitable. Just him and the two of us, murmuring to him in the darkened room.
I'm glad we could spare him this last torment, that amidst the wreckage covid leaves in its wake there are still moments of mercy and peace, bitter and hard won though they may be. And under it all a deep sense of something misplaced, like part of the world tilted away.
This should not have happened. These deaths didn't have to happen. I keep saying this like I will find meaning in it but the truth is as simple as it is hard to swallow: they died because we failed them. We placed our petty conveniences on a pedestal, clung tight to ignorance -
And made our neighbors a sacrifice. Each life a brilliant light, lush and shining and gone forever; each leaving something dark and cold in the world where they used to be. Each leaving others to carry the love that now has nowhere to go.
He had young daughters.
He had young daughters.
Another has a two year old son. One just married. One finally out of an abusive, decades long relationship. Many of them are pregnant. They are more than numbers.
They all leave behind people who will never be okay again. They take something with them when they go.
They all leave behind people who will never be okay again. They take something with them when they go.
So much love with nowhere to go. Sometimes I think it will crack the world in two.
They deserve better.
They deserve better.
*all patient information, including but not limited to sex, race, time of hospitalization, family members, etc has been changed. I am not discussing any actual patient but combinations/fictionalizations of many.
*all patient information, including but not limited to sex, race, time of hospitalization, family members, etc has been changed. I am not discussing any actual patient but combinations/fictionalizations of many.
To clarify:
The opening sentence is words said by me to the spouse of a recently deceased patient. I've said some version of these words more times than I care to count.
The opening sentence is words said by me to the spouse of a recently deceased patient. I've said some version of these words more times than I care to count.
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