The Quiet Goodbye

The sounds were so familiar. With my eyes closed I knew exactly what they were. I’m sitting in the pale yellow vinyl chair that has become a part of me the last 2 weeks. The sounds. The labored breathing in and breathing out of oxygen Aaron made through the mask that made him look alien to me. The beep of the thermometer every 4 hours. The steady pump of the blood pressure cuff. The soft chatter in the hallway. It seems like these sounds have been part of me since I can remember, and yet so new.

It was only two weeks ago that Aaron told me he had no more fight. Originally diagnosed with colon cancer that seemed at the time very treatable spread to his lungs. He endured so much through this treatment that shows no mercy. After a year our hopes have been crushed, stepped on without a care. The doctors were suggesting plan B. Aaron told me on a particularly difficult night of coughing fits and labored breathing that plan B was hospice. Holding him tightly in a grip of desperate love and anguish I said OK.

I use what little energy I have to pull open my eyes. Aaron made it through another night. Afraid of sleep, I try to fight it. Sleep won this time. His breathing is raspier than usual. I stand up and lean over him seeing something is different. I run to the hall and call a nurse. The nurse looks at Aaron with knowing eyes. The “death rattle”, she murmurs. This was my cue. I attempt to hug him and say the things I have played over in my head for just this moment. They fall flat. And then the breathing stops. The world went quiet. Too quiet.