No more words, too weak, except five this morning, said loud and with unfathomable effort. To me, resting on his chest, where I still find a peace more soothing than the goosiest down pillow.
"I-am-ready-to-go."
Yes, I murmur. Thank you. I will miss you so much, so much.
How we live is how we die. And Rich never took on a task he couldn't complete with success and integrity. The last item on the list, checked off.
Tonight I will be sleeping at Hospice, until the end. The staff has arranged for a bed next to Rich, so we can be together one or two more nights.
Then I will go on, ready or not.
Candace
4 comments:
hello Candace,
here thinking thinking thinking
(praying, loving you)
love, Sarah
Both of you are in our hearts.
BTW - I can't imagine that you put them there, but in the "blog archive" panel, there's a pattern in the background of crosses.
Jane
You will go on, and we will be there for you, with you. Holding you in thought, with love, Heather
Candace, I have been away for some time, caring for elderly parents across the continent (one recovering from surgery, one who can't be left alone); and so just tonight have again caught up with your blog... thinking what an irony, and mystery, that some depart so [relatively] young and others, for no fathomable reason, live so long. Perhaps by now, some 48 hours+ after you wrote this entry, Rich has indeed moved on-- leaving us those stunningly stirring words about his being "ready-to-go." Or perhaps again tonight you are there on the cot by his side... Whichever the case, know that a whole cloud of companions, including me, continue with you both from points afar-- grateful for the difficult and profound gift of your sharing these posts with us.
Deep peace be with you both tonight~
Gail
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