a wonderful life

Two to six weeks, the nurse tells me. Didn't Rich tell you?

I ask him. He says he has no memory of seeing the Hospice physician. I believe him. He can't remember much anymore.

This isn't Rich.

A friend from childhood sends me an e-mail. He remembers the boy who played a winning-is-everything game of "Risk," who was smart, who helped others, who never had a bad word for anyone.

So the man I knew, who was this and so much more (including the "Risk" strategy -- I played with him once, and never again).

I'm now taking care of the details of life that Rich actually enjoyed.

This isn't me.

Soon, there will be no more "us." After so many years, I can't imagine another way of being.

We had a wonderful life.

Before I leave him tonight, Rich sadly mumbles. I ask for a repeat.

"Our marriage went sour," he says.

"When?"

"Last few months. It's been death, not life."

"We had a wonderful life," I say.

He closes his eyes. Go now, he says.

An hour later he calls.

This is Rich. Voice light and upbeat. He will see me tomorrow, have a good night, it was a good day.

And this is what I want to remember when he goes forever, and there will be no tomorrow.

Candace