Afterward, I go to Rich, and I close the door on the world. For a little while longer, it will be "us."
Two days ago, the Hospice "Women Singing" group gathered in the Great Room. Rich was in his chair, eyes half shut, but still eating a dozen forkfuls of a pasta casserole, a thin wedge of quiche, a few crackers.
As they waited for others, the women talked among themselves, and I looked at Rich. I knew exactly, word for word, what he would say.
He did, exactly.
"Men wouldn't be giggling."
Of course not, I agreed. They would be doing more important things while waiting, such as planning a war.
Rich nodded, approvingly.
I never was much for giggling and Rich never was much for war -- except when ruthlessly playing Risk -- but we had our script for almost every circumstance, playing the parts that made us laugh.
Today the words are cut further, limited to I love you and I love you too, as he grips me with his left hand and moves in and out of sleep. No food today, no juice, he doesn't leave the bed.
"Your eyes are still so blue," I say. "Ocean and sky, together."
He opens them, and looks at me.
"I'm ocean and sky," he says.
So this is why I can still laugh (not giggle).
But this is why I also cry.
Candace
3 comments:
I am sitting here weeping with you, and wishing that we were geographically closer, and sending you both all my love. ~Ann
Your scripts will still be with you even when no one is there to say the words. They'll be in your memory and in your writing. I'm thinking of you, marveling at you both. Such a monumental task, life ending. Thank you for sharing the passage with me, with us.
Candae thank you for letting us share this journey with you and Rich. I am sending you PEACE and LOVE! Take care of YOU!!! We have never met but I feel blessed to read your updates as Chordoma has touched my life also.
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