While the majority of 2019 was difficult for us, if I had to pinpoint when it was worst, when from moment to moment I didn’t know how I could possibly survive, it would have to be Sara’s last day in the hospital.
When I saw Sara’s oncologist’s face in the morning on November 1st, I knew what he was going to say before he said it – it was time, time for hospice. We were out of options, and I wasn’t going to get her back. We talked about how long he thought she had (not much) – I don’t really remember much else from that conversation. I started making calls, letting everyone know that the ending we’d been trying to avoid for the last 6 months was upon us.
That day was actually pretty busy, between the people who came to see Sara, the hospital/hospice people I had to talk to, getting her moved back from the ICU to the floor where she’d been staying prior to that. We had people there with us basically all day – it’s what I wanted. I wanted whatever remaining time Sara had to be filled with people who loved her and who loved me.
But that night – after our last visitors had left, when it was just me and her in the room, THAT was the worst of the worst. No more busyness or talking; now it was just me and Sara in that quiet room, and every moment was filled with fear that it would be her last. Not only was Sara dying in front of me, but so was our shared future, our dreams together. I dragged the awkwardly reclining chair over next to her bedside and tried to position myself in a way that I could keep a hand on her arm while I tried to rest a little.
If I could go back in time and visit myself in those moments, sitting there with my hand on Sara’s arm, I would lean in and remind myself that YOU ARE NOT ALONE. I may have been facing returning home alone to a house where I was going to be the only human living there, and I was losing my person, my best friend – but I was still not going to be alone.
There are so many people in my life who love me and who love Sara and who want to make sure I’m doing okay. Even if I live alone, I’m not truly alone-alone. Now – not being alone doesn’t take the pain away, or even lessen it, but it does something. I feel like it almost increases my threshold for dealing with pain and for surviving it.
Don’t get me wrong, the me that sat there with Sara on that last night knew that I had people I could talk to and lean on, but in those moments as I was slowly watching the life drain out of her, It was hard to think about that. All I could really focus on was Sara, sending her my love and knowing that she would soon be gone.
We’re coming up on 9 months since Sara’s death – I still don’t have all (any) of the answers, or really feel like I have a plan or know what I’m doing. I’m just surviving. Some days are better than others but I do know with certainty that I have people I can reach out to, if I need. I’m so glad that I have people – I know not everyone is as fortunate… and I just want to go back and hug the me that was holding vigil for Sara, and whisper – they’ll be there when you need them…and you will need them, and that’s okay.