Starlight, Star Bright

This is something I have never attempted to put into words before. Not fully anyway. Sure there are some jottings in my journal of that time and a few scribbled notes on loose scraps of paper, but nothing that fully encapsulates my last days and hours with Jennifer.

When the doctors have tried all that medical science has available, and when the cancer has finished its cruel game of remissions and returns and made it plain it intends to win, then there comes a time when very final things have to be said and done.

The head of Oncology spoke with me in private and told me it was time to give up hope. He told me that all that remained were drugs to dull the pain; palliative care until death came to take away all Jennifer's pain and suffering forever. He asked if I wanted her to be told that the battle was lost. I replied that she probably already knew but that it was something I wanted to tell her myself.

When I entered Jennifer's room that morning, she did her best to smile and be her usual cheerful and optimistic self. One look in my eyes and she knew what I had come to tell her. I never had to speak. She simply said: "I'm so tired, darling. can we just go home now?"

The people at the hospital had already spoken to me of the wonderful work done in hospices; of the dedicated people who make someone's last days on Earth bearable. I knew this was not for Jennifer. I knew she would want to spend her last days at home, surrounded by the people and the house she loved.

So we brought Jennifer home to die. I spoke with the older children and explained that the end was nigh. School was cancelled altogether. Having learned that their mother had only a week, perhaps more, before leaving us forever, I was determined that they would get to spend as much time with her as she could bear. I spoke with Jennifer and she agreed that she wanted them at home too. Her greatest concern was that they not see her in pain or without her funny little beanie and the make-up she applied to relieve the pallor of her face.

Of course I no longer went to work. I cared nothing for my legal practice while this monstrous injustice was being visited upon someone I loved so dearly. With the help of four wonderfully caring nurses who worked shifts to cover the entire twenty-four hours of each day, I did what little I could to ease Jennifer's suffering and that of the children.

Almost every night I heard children crying in their bedrooms and I would lie beside them and just hold them tight until they fell asleep. Grief does not discriminate; boys of seventeen need to be hugged just as much as little girls do. There was no false hope I could give them. The only gifts I had to give were strength and love.

Inevitably, even our almost three-year-old daughter and seven-year-old son became aware that the family was being overwhelmed by something even worse than the previous two years of illness and debilitating medical interventions. I remember telling Mr Seven that Mummy was going to leave us and go to Heaven. I took him outside and assured him that, even should she leave us, his mother would always be a star in the sky looking down on him. He found this re-assuring. I knew it wasn't really true but there is only so much detail you can give to a little boy who still believes in angels and fairies; a boy who thinks God is a really nice man who lives in the skies above us and does everything for a good reason. I also promised him that his father was not going to die too and that I would be around to love him forever and ever.

One thing I had not expected was the rank cancerous odour that permeated Jennifer's room and, eventually, the entire house. None of us spoke of it but that odour made it impossible to spend even a single second unaware that death was near at hand. Various family members and friends came to say their final goodbyes. Jennifer's mother moved in with us for the duration, There are few things sadder than outliving one's own child. I felt desperately sorry for my mother-in-law and very grateful that she knew how to comport herself in the presence of Jennifer and the children. Only when alone with me did she ever break down and weep inconsolably. Again, as with the children, the only things I could offer her were strength and love and a shoulder to cry on.

Although euthenasia is illegal in this country, it is accepted that increasingly high dosages of pain releif medicines may eventually still a person's heartbeat before the cancer does. The day came when all of us - Jennifer, the doctor, the nurses, our children, her parents and siblings, even me - accepted that the next administering of drugs would almost certainly be the last. I prepared the older three children and that afternoon they came into our bedroom to talk with their mother one last time. The two younger ones only came in for a short while before being taken to the house of our nearest neighbours to spend the night. We made no attempt to tell them this might be the last time they saw their mother. It would have been beyond their comprehension and far more than Jennifer could bear.

My wife summoned the stength to tell the older children how much she loved them. She somehow endured their painful hugs and tears. She even managed to smile and joke about how she expected them to catch up at school and help Dad around the house. But most of all, she let them know how greatly she loved them and how she'd never be more than a moment's thought away forever.

After that, the doctor came for a brief visit and then I sat with just the nurse and Jennifer's mother and we waited and watched as Jennifer's wasted figure and still fluttering heart ebbed away before our very eyes.

There was a beautiful sunset that night. As had become our habit, I went to the window and described it aloud for Jennifer. The nurse murmured that Jennifer could no longer hear me but I continued talking anyway because I felt talking might help delay the inevitable. She could no longer see or speak, but who can be certain she could no longer hear?

Now that she could no longer see me, I held Jennifer's hand and let the tears flow quietly down my cheeks. Before she slipped away, I am sure Jennifer heard me tell her I loved her and that she was the most beautiful person I had ever known. There was one long sighing breath and then she breathed no more. I kissed the hand I'd been holding and kissed her forehead too. I then left the room and embraced the three children waiting outside. We hugged and we cried but also, I think, we rejoiced a little that Jennifer's suffering was at an end.

The next morning I went to our neighbours' house and told my two youngest children that Mummy had gone to Heaven. My youngest daughter didn't really understand but Mr Seven did and I hugged him tightly while he cried.

Jennnifer's funeral was an event. She herself had specified that no black be worn and the children helped me select music that evoked their mother's life and vibrancy. When you looked at the overflow of people from the chapel and out into the grounds, you realised how many people's hearts had been touched by this warm and loving lady. As well as great sadness, I felt great pride to have been this woman's husband, lover and friend. And I know my children felt proud to be hers too.

My words at Jennifer's funeral touched on many aspects of her life and her character. Though grealy moved, I managed to keep my voice steady until the very last part. I had told Jennifer of the children's concern about loss and the finality of death and, together, she and I adapted some words from one of her favourite writers, Debi Gliori. These I spoke out loud to everyone but they were aimed most specifically at our children.

I had no need to read the words. I already knew them by heart. Through tears and with a voice that trembled and occasionally faltered, I said:

Ask me about when we're dead and gone.
Will you love me then? Does love go on?
I tell each one of you to look out at the night,
At the moon in the dark and the stars shining bright,
To look at the stars, how they shine and glow,
Though some of the stars died a long time ago.
But still they shine on in the evening skies
Because love, like the starlight, never dies.

Comments

Thanks for sharing. i have tears streaming down my face imagining how you must have felt dealing with the unimaginable loss to yourself and your children.
as far as your loss goes, it is a merciful thing it was able to happen in such a fashion.
how does one ever get over this sort of loss?
 
My eyes are filled with tears at this reading, and how difficult it must be for you to relive this. Wish I could be with you now, to help comfort you and perhaps give you some strength.

Your Jennifer surely was a wonderful woman and partner and mother and daughter, and how lucky you all were to have her in your lives for however brief a time. She lives on, in the twinkling of a distant star, in the persons of your children, in their hearts and yours, forever.

It is not everyone who can claim to have experienced a great and abiding love for another, and you are one of them. I remain impressed with your strength of character, and thank you for having the courage to share this very personal part of your life.
 
This is something I could only read once. I have not lost a spouse - but I have lost a mother, so I related to your children. Especially the older ones. Unfortunately I understand that grief too well.

I cried the whole way through. All I can say is that I am here for you. Lots of love to you...
 
I am humbled with gratitude for this courageous depiction of an intimate and anguished moment. I cannot really imagine how darkly saddening and how brightly liberating it must have been to recall and to write about this episode. I have lost a father, a mother and a brother, under circumstances wrenchingly different than your final days with Jennifer. I envy and dread a similar future that, in some shape, awaits us each. Sincerely, I thank you for gathering and sharing your thoughts.
 
Thank you for sharing. You put to words alot of the emotions my family went through when my mom died 5 years ago. I stayed by her side till the last breath. My brothers and my father couldn't handle it and my mom had months earlier made me her medical power of attorney and made it clear that all decisions regarding her care were to go through me. I stayed strong till she was gone, all through the arrangements for her funeral, even went to the funeral home to help with her hair and makeup because I knew she would want me to make sure she looked perfect. I arranged for the cremation and had her ashes interred near our daughter who had died 3 years before. I then went into shutdown mode for the next few months, barely keeping myself together from one day to the next. 4 months after her passing I discovered I was pregnant with our 4th child. He was born in August the same birth month as my mom and all 3 of my other children. His initials are hers and he looks and acts like she did also. He brought our family back out of the darkness. I shared this for the first time, thank you for sharing also.
 
prettyswinggirl, I admire the courage you displayed at such a tragic time and I can understand all too well how you went into "shutdown mode" afterwards. I am so glad that your son epitomises family continuity and evokes the memory of your mother every day. I, in turn, thank you for sharing.

And, to goodwood, tamuning, LaFemme, justmeincal and lgtrmusr - my thanks for validating the need we all feel to pay tribute to loved ones lost.
 

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