garbage

All the blinds are down, the curtains drawn. It's five in the afternoon, and Rich is wondering why it isn't yet dark because it must be night, why is the clock a lie.

I'm squeezed onto the edge of the bed, my head on his shoulder. His door opens, and the nurse's aide comes in, just to empty the garbage, she says. Rich shakes his head, disgusted. I pass her the mostly-empty bin over the bed. It's on her list, I say. She's doing her job.

"They're bothering Rich and Candace," he whispers. "For garbage."

Once, he called garbage his life. A world of work, achievement, fulfilling obligations, meetings, plans.

It's wearying to explain to visitors that, no, he doesn't want entertainment, or distractions, or the latest on their lives. He needs help dying. Few want to hear this. Fewer know how.

I don't know much, but I'm learning. I know small talk is now more than annoying pinpricks, they're bullets. And so I filter the nonsense I almost say, which is mostly everything I read or write or do. Only those at the edge know how to die, and I'm not there yet, and can't pretend. But I can look at my life, and know its worth is measured in what is not said.

So I touch him, I love him, I watch him crawling into another world, as the garbage flies over our heads.

Candace

nothing more

Every night, I thought: I will never leave this place happy.

Until last night, when the crescent moon was lying low outside the Hospice door and the Big Dipper was rising in the northern sky.

Because yesterday Rich realized he was mortal. He would die, soon. And all of the blah, the blahs, and the blah blah blah began fading away.

Before leaving, I closed his door and joined him in bed.

Logistically, not easy.

"Put down the railing," Rich suggests.

Though I did this before, and watched the nurses a dozen times, the metal doesn't budge.

No matter. I crawl up and in and soon once more I'm lying on his shoulder, his left hand still moving and stroking, and I fall into the infinite, knowing this will never end.

"I have no evidence for this," Rich says, later, "but love goes on forever. Until the end of time, whenever that is."

I keep my head buried in his shoulder, wetting his T-shirt.

"It's now too late," he says. "To show how much I love you. That you're the most important thing in my life. Always have been."

"Me, too. Always."

We both know this. Always have. And always will.

I start unravelling my body. How did I get into this position, and how can I get up without hurting him and turning my spine into a damaged pretzel?

I remember my yoga practice. How we end the asana is no less important than how we begin. When done properly, what was outward moves inward, and the transformation begins.

We kiss good-night. I leave.

By the next crescent moon, by the time Dipper moves out of the northern sky, by the time Orion first appears...will we be apart forever, or still in this infinite moment...

I laugh at myself. Still not realizing. No difference.

Candace

how I loved you

Soon you'll leave me, off you would go in the mist of day

Never, never to know how I loved you.

Five years ago, almost to the day. Rich was having some pain in his shoulder, but it couldn't be serious. He was too healthy, too strong, I couldn't imagine...

Still, I knew something.

Carousel was playing (I'm the Broadway fan, not Rich) and If I Loved You began.

He was ironing his shirts. I had to hug him, and I couldn't stop crying.

This was not my normal behavior.

"Oh, you love me so much," he said, momentarily putting down the iron.

"No, no, not enough, and now you're going to leave me, and you'll never know..."

I sounded silly, I knew; there was no reason for my outburst, but suddenly all our years together compressed into a day with barely an hour remaining, and how could I not have known what I had, what I took so much for granted...

"We'll have lots more years," Rich said, hugging me back.

He was lying, but didn't know it.

I don't cry much in front of Rich these days, though the buckets are filled at night.

He worries about me living without him. I assure him I'll be fine.

But I'm lying, and he knows it.

Candace

traveling light

"Monday was a good day," Rich says, and yawns. It's about 7:30, and he's ready for sleep.

It's not because he remembers the details. He doesn't remember that one of his graduate students successfully defended his dissertation today, and came to Hospice bearing Champagne and cake, celebrating with Rich and accompanying friends and faculty.

He doesn't remember the singer who performed in the Hospice concert a month ago, and who made him cry, and today returned to perform just for him, and he smiled and even sang along a bit -- and as soon as she left, said how wonderful she was playing the harp (which she did not have).

But what matters is that Rich has bravely given up the fight. The assaults of anger and frustration are over, the illusion of walking home are gone.

He gestures to his toiletry kit, where he once stuffed his cellphone, toothbrush, toothpaste, assorted food, the nurse's call bell.

"Don't have much..."

He says more, but I can't hear. His voice is weak, a whisper. He repeats, for me.

"...in my kit now. Only chocolate."

"You're traveling light," I say.

He nods, smiling.

"All you need is chocolate and lots of love, and you have lots of both," I say.

He smiles again.

A good day? Not too long ago, both of us would have been terrified to consider this: His body mostly frozen with paralysis and swollen with neurological edema, his mind grasping little, no more hope in sight.

Except that Rich is leaving in the peace that was -- is -- our love, before and through all of this, and that will remain, even when his body is gone.

That will not be a good day, because I still love him so much. But my kit, too, is almost empty.

Candace

memory

I'm stirring the tomato soup while John does the milkshake: Big scoops of chocolate ice cream, milk, a bottle of Boost, and chocolate syrup to cover the Boost taste.

"Reminds me of my childhood," I tell John, adding milk to the tomato can. "The soup still smells the same."

"Must have been everyone's childhood," he says, turning off the blender.

John is one of mine (and Rich's) favorite hospice aides. But he's been assigned to the field for the past two weeks, and this evening shift will be a one-off until he comes back to the residence, at least a week away.

"Thanks so much for helping me," he says.

It's selfish, purely. I miss cooking meals. I miss eating by candlelight. Lighting the candles was Rich's job, mostly. The last night before entering the Hospice residence, leaning into the walker, he struggled to hold the matchbox in one hand, the match in another, but he got a flame going on the fat beeswax candle, one more time. Its last time, but we didn't say anything. His last meal at home.

Nothing happens anymore without a memory attached.

I select a pottery cup from the cupboard. Nice, John says; he pours the milkshake, sets out a napkin, I choose the spoon. This is the first meal for a new resident.

The sooner the resident in Room #4 eats, the sooner Rich gets on the commode. It takes two, sometimes three pairs of hands; sometimes I help, sometimes I wait in the lounge, recovering with a tea.

Tonight I take the tea. In a brown mug, bought in England how many years ago, Rich's mug, I bring it so I don't overtax the Hospice kitchen.

Rich doesn't recognize the mug. Today was a day he couldn't pretend anymore, and I wish I could. Do they let you do suicide in Hospice, he asks. Why are the confusing me, he wonders. What an elaborate system they have! How do they make the clocks run like that?

John enters, and Rich smiles. For the first time today.

"We should drink Scotch together," Rich says.

"Anything you want!" John laughs.

I finish my tea. I notice the soup is returned to the kitchen, uneaten. Rich is off the commode, in bed.

We kiss. He smiles. I lean my head into his shoulder.

"I miss this so much," I say.

"You could get a mold," he says.

So practical, still.

"Not the same," I say. "Not the same."

Accidently, I set off his nurse's call button. She enters, smiles, turns off the light.

"Just like Italy," I say.

We shared a story here.

He rolls his eyes.

"Whatever. It all merges."

With John and millions of others, I can talk about tomato soup memories.

But what happens to a memory shared with only one other?

Candace

blank

I have not been writing. I can't. It's not because there is nothing to say, but because there is too much that cannot be said.

So I will offer a litany of appreciation.

To the indefatigable friends supplying Rich's dinners.

To the nurses who who are there when I'm not and do what I can't.

To all who have travelled thousands of miles to be with us.

To all who have travelled from across the street to be with us.

To the musicians who play for us.

Most of all: To Rich, who in dying is forcing both of us to discover what it means to love, and to live, and to die, and even if we never get all of it "right" -- we at least got it, and what a wonder that was.

Is. Not "was," not yet, and perhaps not ever. Rich is still here, and maybe that's all I need to say.

Candace