Christmas Eve - his angels arrive

Thursday evening the 23rd, before retiring for the night, I told Dennis, "I'm going to sleep in the bedroom tonight. I have not been sleeping well at all out here in the living room, whether it's in the recliner or scrunched up on the couch, I'm just not sleeping well and I need some good sleep to keep my strength up. I have to be able to function and help you as much as I can. I hope that's okay with you. I'd rather sleep here with you, but the sleep I'm getting is very fleeting. Okay?"

"Sure babe, I understand. I'd like to sleep with you in the bedroom, but that's not possible either. You go ahead."

"If you need anything at all, just holler. I'll keep the bedroom door partly open so I can hear you if you need me."

When I got up the next morning, I was more refreshed than I had been, so I had made the correct decision. I peeked into the living room and his eyes were closed, so I figured I'd let him sleep. I nuked some coffee, grabbed the paper off the front porch, and went into my chair. Just as I sat down, he said, "Good morning."

"Well, hi there. I thought you were still asleep. Can I get you something?"

"Could you make me some tea? And bring me my acidophilus and bifidus too?"

"Coming right up. It's Christmas Eve, I have the day off. I'll do whatever I can for you today."

After making his tea, he wanted to go to the bathroom. "Can you just put the tea in there? I'll drink it in there."

"You got it. Here, let me help you get into the bathroom." I placed his walker in front of his chair and helped him stand. Placing my hands around his waist, I was surprised that my hands seemed to be resting directly on his hip bones. I knew he had lost a lot of weight, but it seemed like I was helping a skeleton into the bathroom. I got him into the bathroom, lowered his sweatpants for him and helped him sit on the toilet. "Just call out when you're ready to get up and I'll be right in."

After surviving his bout of colon cancer back in the 1990s, his bathroom routine in the morning had become quite a chore. With only two-thirds of a colon, it took him a lot longer for his morning bathroom time than the normal person. He would be in the bathroom for one to two hours, so leaving him sitting there was a rather normal routine by this point. I went back to the living room to finish my coffee and read the paper. I thought I heard him call out, so I popped my head around the door and asked, "Did you call for me? Are you ready?"

"No I didn't. I was just talking to my legs. They won't listen to me any more. They don't do what I tell them," he said, on the verge of tears.

I went over to him, put my arms around him and said, "I know dear. I can tell you're very frustrated. I wish there were more I could do for you." It hurt me so much to see him in such mental anguish. There was no pain with ALS, just the frustration of not being able to do normal things anymore.

I helped him get back to his chair, where he remained the rest of the day, only getting up to go to the bathroom (with my help to and from his chair). Around 5pm, I asked him, "What do you want for dinner?"

"I'm not all that hungry tonight. Could you just make some chicken broth soup?"

"Okay. I'll chop up some garlic to put in it as well. You always like it that way."

After finishing our soup, he just wanted to rest. I had noticed that his breathing was becoming very labored, so I asked him, "Do you want me to give you a dose of morphine? I can tell you're having a hard time breathing."

"Not right now. I just want to try to nap for awhile."

So while he napped, I continued watching the college basketball game that was on. Just before seven o'clock, his eyes opened. He looked over at me and said, "I think I'd like my heroin now."

"Do you mean your morphine, dear?" I replied.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. That's what I mean," he said, smiling at me with that twinkle in his eye (he kept his sense of humor throughout this entire ordeal).

I measured out a dose for him and administered it. "Thanks, babe. I'm just going to try and rest for awhile again. I love you."

"I love you, too, dear. I'm right here if you need anything."

I don't know what made me do it, but I decided to call our friend Carl. Once he answered, I said, "Carl, it's Rick. I have a very bad feeling about Dennis. I really think he's about to pass. If you want to see him one more time, you'd probably better get over here as soon as you can."

"I'll be right over, Rick."

While waiting for Carl to arrive, I decided to make a pot of coffee, so I wouldn't have to do it in the morning. I nuke my coffee every morning anyway, so it was no big deal to do it. I went into the kitchen, put the water on the burner, ground the beans and waited back in the living room. I heard the tea kettle start whistling, so I hurried back to the kitchen for the first pour. When I got back to the living room, Dennis had opened his eyes and appeared to be staring off into the distance, looking at the ceiling. At first I thought he had died and I wasn't there for him, but then I noticed that his chest was still moving, so I knew he was still here. I went back to the kitchen, did the second pour, then back to the living room. He was in the exact same position, his eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling.

I sat down in my chair and said to him, "Are you awake, dear?"

He didn't respond, so I went to him, kissed his forehead and knelt next to him. I grabbed his hand, kissed it, looked into his eyes and said, "I love you, dear."

Seconds later, I heard what was a small gurgle in his throat and then his entire body relaxed. I knew he was gone, but said, "Dennis? Dennis? Are you still here?" I looked at the cable box and noted it was 7:45pm.

There was no response. I shook his shoulder, felt for a pulse in his left wrist. I could feel nothing. I checked his right wrist. Still nothing. I put my head down to his chest. Total silence. I felt his throat, trying to find a pulse. By this point, I was sure he had passed. With tears running down my cheeks, I said, "I know you're gone, dear. You've left this body of yours behind, the one that wouldn't do what you wanted anymore. I'm so glad I was here for you."

I sobbed softly for a couple minutes, proud of the fact that I hadn't gone completely to pieces. I phoned the hospice to let them know he had passed. They said someone would call me back within an hour. I told them I was alone at the time, but that a friend was on his way over.

There was a knock on the door at about 7:55pm. I rushed to the front of the house, the tears starting to flow. I flung open the door, Carl standing there. "He's gone, Carl."

"Noooooooo," he wailed. We grabbed each other in a huge hug as we comforted each other.

"He passed about 10 minutes ago, Carl. You just missed him."

We went back to the living room. Carl went over to Dennis, kissed his forehead and said, "We're all going to miss you, buddy. You were the best."

We sat together on the couch, Carl holding me. Dennis looked so peaceful, sitting there in his recliner. His eyes were still partially open. I got up and went over to him. I managed to get his right eye shut, but his left one would not close entirely. I gave up and went back to the couch.

As I sat back down, Carl said, "It's like he's watching us, about ready to say, 'what are you doing with your arm around my Rick?' "

We laughed. Then my tears started again. The phone rang while we were sitting there. It was the hospice representative, who said she'd be by within the hour.

"I've got to make a couple phone calls, Carl. I should call my sister and Dennis's brother John. He had called us earlier to say he and Mary would be coming into town next Tuesday, stay until the end of the year, and do what they can for us while they're here. I guess they don't have to come now, do they?"

I called my sister, even though it was almost 11:30pm her time. She has caller ID on her phone, so when she picked up, she said, "Well, hi there. Trying to beat the rush on phone calls in the morning?"

"Sorry I'm calling so late, Mary, but I've got bad news. Dennis passed away about 45 minutes ago," I said, the tears coming on strong again.

"Oh my god, Rick. I'm so sorry for you. I wish I could reach through the phone and give you a big hug. Oh, Rick."

Talking through tears, I told her it had been very peaceful, I was holding his hand when he passed, and the last words he heard were "I love you, dear."

"Our friend Carl is here with me now. We're waiting for hospice to show up, then the mortuary people. He's going to stay with me until they take his body away."

"I'm so glad you're not by yourself. I'll go over and tell Mom in the morning. I am so sorry. I wish I could do something. Take care of yourself. We'll talk again tomorrow. Mom, Rich and Jen and the kids are going to be here tomorrow, so call us here."

"Okay, sis. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

I then called John, Dennis's brother, who lives outside Phoenix. He agreed that he'd call Sandie and Eileen in the morning.

A short time later, the hospice representative showed up. We did some paperwork in the dining room, then went to the living room so she could see Dennis. Even though he died at 7:45pm, she can't take my word for it. She declared him dead at 8:50pm and phoned the mortuary so they could pick up the body. As I told her, I had only received the paperwork the day before and had not yet met with them. But because hospice was involved, it was just a formality that could be taken care of the following week. The two men who showed up were very respectful, handled the body carefully, and expressed their condolences. Carl and I watched them all the way down the front steps, and watched them place the body in the van. That was about as final as it could get.

Carl stayed with me for about another half hour, asked me if I'd be okay, then upon reassurance from me that I'd be okay, left. He said he'd be back tomorrow.

It was our 31st Christmas Eve together; we didn't make it to our 31st Christmas together. The loneliness starts.