Love and grief.

It is my birthday, seven days since the funeral service for my husband, 14 days from when he died in my arms, as our little dog Chelsea lay between us.

I am here, Arthur, in our room, the dogs are with me, and my whole being aches for you. You promised me when you lay sick in that A & E bed, that you would be here for my birthday. Now I know your body could not hold out that long, but I am here, I am having my birthday with you.

I love you.

Last Rites.

The hospital called at about 1am this morning to say my husband's condition had worsened and that they did not expect him to survive this hospital stay. I came straight in. The fluid has built up in his lungs and they think his kidneys are not working.

I must be matter-of-fact in writing this, I am in the room with him as he sleeps and I do not want to weep. I am determined he should be comfortable and have dignity. He has had morphine for pain. I instructed the doctor to recommence the i/v antibiotics as he cannot take the oral ones now. He has slept all night.


I do not know if he can hear me say 'I love you" and "I am sorry', or if he knows one of the dogs, Chelsea is sleeping by his side, or heard the Anglican give the Prayer for the Dying. I half-hope he did not hear the last one, or he will be frightened, maybe. Or maybe not.

He has a single room and caring staff. Last night he complained of an earache and the doctor said there was a build-up of wax and the EN&T could not do it till the next day. Arthur got distressed by the pain so he was given a shot of Fenadril??? and later had 1 and 1/2 Temazapan, and later some morphine so he is sleeping heavily. I am watching his catheter drain, and not a great lot of urine has been voided so my hopes are fading.

I played some of his music he lives, Handel's Largo, that he told me he played on the violin for his mother as a schoolboy. He had to give up violin studies to go to work on the fishing boats at 14 years of age. He really regretted that. Many years ago I bought him a violin and he played that Largo for me.

My son said he would come out from London to help, my mother and my other sons will help me too.

But now is the wee small hours, I am still his wife, I still care for him. I am writing this part of his story. Not an end, but a passing. I must pass him on, in his time, to his Mother, Father, only sibling - his brother and other loved ones who have gone before. I have taken a lock of his hair and tied one of mine to his wristband.

Our love will be forever.

 He is groaning a little, I must tend him now.

The First Box Packed, and I Accept Reality.

Arthur is was eating and taking sips of fluids last night. His colour is better and he is talking. He complains of not being able to sleep and the staff woke him to reposition him, but otherwise he is looking okay.

This morning I started packing the kitchen up. I have finally accepted that this is nearing an end. Last night Arthur said he had not lot of time left and he wants to spend it with me. For the first time, I agreed with him. It was a profound moment. I have feared it for so long, cried bitter, frightened tears and told myself that we had years yet to live and love. Now I know we do not.

I am truly helping Arthur close his life with dignity and comfort, as much as I can. Today I packed up the first box, my kitchen implements and cooking pans I know I will not be using in this house again. I will cook Arthur no more pastries he so loved, much preferred to sponge cakes. His food is now pureed or soft. I will not be him cooking rock-cakes, roast dinners with Yorkshire puddings or pancakes, or mixing him a shandy or a gimlet drink.  When I made fruit mince pies at Christmas, when he would steal them from the cooling racks, trying to look innocent with mouthful of rock-cake.

Will these memories comfort or sadden me in the years to come?


Truly now, I am also helping myself to close my life as Arthur's wife. I am preparing to be his widow.

Visit, Thursday.

Arthur is awake today, and his colour is better. The speech pathologist ordered moderately thickened fluids and foods for him. He has a urinary tract infection back and has pneumonia of the lower lung. I sat with him for about 6 hours then I visited my mother. 

While I was there, someone we knew from the soccer club came in, he recognised us. This man {beddall?) is 64 now. Arthur told him he remembered how good a player the man was for City in his hey-day.They talked and afterwards this friend said he would tell other people from the club.

I talked to Arthur and reminded him he has to be home for my birthday. I made myself appear happy around him. We talked about Manchester United and the EPL title. I said he needs to get back home to see the dogs. Arthur turned his head, and with his still-clear and beautiful blue eyes looking to mine, he said, "I just want to see you, you are all I want to see."

My whole body and soul aches with grief.

Now Arthur is in a ward.

I rang the hospital this morning, Arthur has had a good sleep and they are waiting for the doctor to see him. /He has a catheter in. I expressed my concern about him getting another UTI but the nurse said he had a dry pad and when the scanned his bladder, he had about 600 mls of urine in there but Arthur didn't feel it. I am now scared his body is ceasing to function. I need to get myself to a point where I can be with him when he goes through this, if this is finally his death occurring. If I am scared and horrified, what must Arthur be feeling when he is awake, although he is very sleepy. 

Last night I asked him to promise me he would be there for my birthday at the end of this month. He said "I promise."

I feel a part of me is being taken away.It is impossible to describe the deep devoted love we have for each other. We in a lot of ways were not compatible, the differences not just in age, but it is amazing what works when two people really love and care for each other.

Maybe I am being too pessimistic, I remember when I came out of an operation and I couldn't urinate. Maybe it is just the tiredness that is effecting him.

I am so sorry I never recorded his memoirs or wrote his stories down.

Back in Hospital

I had the locum doctor out last night. Arthur has an infection in one lung again, due to inhaling food or drink again. The doctor gave him an antibiotic and told me to call the ambulance to take himto hospital in the morning. I called Arthur's doctor this morning and she agreed so the ambulance came and now he is in a cubicle in casualty.

I told Arthur he will get an IV drip with antibiotics and fluids and will be back home in a week. I so hope I am right. 

He cam home and I am glad he is home and I do not want him to go away and now he is in hospital again. I rang my Mum and she was upset because she is guenuinely fond of him. She saiod he is fading and that it probably won't be much longer. I said I do not think he will see another Christmas and I agreed.

I am so sad.

This is heart-wrenching. I still cannot understand that life has to end. Why? Why must we be parted, how is it that all there is left is some water, minerals and electrolytes of tears? I am afraid to see him in hospital and I must get past this crying. I must be cheerful and optimistic. I must let him know that this is just a normal hospital admission for a course of antibiotics. I can't give into my fears, fear must not rule me.  

He must be so scared, death is so lonely. I tried telling him, a couple of nights ago, in the dark as we talked and held hands, he goes to wait for me and the dogs, he goes to be with his Father and Mother and brother, even his first wife who died so many years ago.  He goes to be with God, in Heaven as Jesus promised. He is not a great believer, but I told him he knows I am smart and I know it is right. My faith is shaky, and I ponder a death that is the extinguishment of everything, as the atheists say, a real end, a nothing. I hope they are not right.

He must be so frightened and yet he will not burden me with it. He once said a few years ago, talking about life, all good things must come to and end, and I said not yet.  I was right, and so was he  but I am no more ready for this than I was then.

He says little things to me, like so and so might be worth something one day, I must make sure I don't lose it. Always he worries that I will be alright, when I will have life and he will have left his here on this fragile earth.

He knows Anthony is alright, but he does not ask to see him. I will arrange a visit by Anthony when Arthur is on a ward and better. I think he doesn't want to be upset by saying goodbye to Anthiny each time he visits. Arthur hate saying goodbye.

So do I.

So Frail.

I am truly sadly shocked at Arthur's condition. He is home, he came back on Wednesday. He slept two nights in the hospital bed in the lounge room. The day and night brought cold so I bought an electric blanket to put over him. Arthur took a sleeping tablet on both nights but it didn't help much. It was strange for us to be sleeping in different rooms.

My middle son, the only one of my children who helps me (the others live in other cities), came today and lifted Arthur into our bed and propped him up on pillows. He looked a lot happier. I made him some soft food (egg custard) and crushed his pills for him to swallow, and he had sweet tea to drink.

Arthur is sleeping a lot. He shows little interest in television, or what is going on in the wider world and that scares me. He did watch some of the news last night, though, but no programs.  Normally by Friday he has mapped out his weekend football viewing choices and set up the recording schedule on Foxtel IQ. I hope this is just tiredness from the move home. I fed him his food and passed him his drinks, and made him comfortable. He has me and the dogs for company and I hope he picks up soon.

The AXXXX co-ordinator and OT came out with the first service visit and assessed him. He is at maximum service level now anyway. The nurse came came today because Arthur had a dressing from the nursing home, on his bottom. She found a small skin break and applied a fresh dressing.

While the respite worker was here I went back to the nursing home to get Arthur's gear. At Arthur's suggestion I bought a bowl and filled it with fruit for David, his room-mate. David was younger, still mobile, and they were good together. They talked but respected each other's need for privacy. When Arthur was leaving, David gave Arthur a little Buddha statue and also a little clock and tried to give him his watch, until the staff stepped in. I bought David a little dog statue. They have each something that is important to the other. David wished us luck. He said he would not be leaving the home until he was dead. He said he was in another one before, but this one was nicer. David doesn't smoke, is very friendly and respectful. He has family who visit, and he talks of his mother, and what she was wearing when she died. David has a clear understanding of death and seems to accept it as a reality.

Arthur is sleeping now, without a sleeping tablet. He is next to me, with the dogs all around, under the wool quilt. I have my computer next to the bed and I can type in the warmth. I am more relaxed with him here, and for a little while I can pretend nothing has changed, just for a minute. As my memories fill in the present moment, they lure me into thinking tomorrow the sun will come, and Arthur will wake me with the sounds of vegetables being prepared for the evening's meal, the scent of the grapefruit he has squeezed and the aroma of coffee with toast. I remember those Sundays when Arthur would make me breakfast in bed, as I was getting up early for work every weekday.  Or maybe I will think it is a Saturday morning in the local soccer season, in the 1990's and we are going to get up early to pack the car to go to the soccer club (where Arthur was the Team Manager for over 25 years) for the day. 

But it will not be. We will wake to morning of the 7th of May, 2011, when the only thing we share is pure love, and pain.