Casper worked on that last Saturday night, as she was trying to make sense of what her brain was doing to her. Despite heavy doses of medications delivered via a sub q pump, her Lewies were battling back to remain in control of her mind and her thoughts. Casper was having none of that. She needed to make sure she was taking care of her family, and that all was well and they would be okay. She needed to make sure I would be okay in particular, and that I would know how much she loved me. Casper's grief in facing her own death is painful for her, and for all of us. It's a pain that tears at your chest and takes your breath away. She's experiencing it as physical pain at times, and at others as confusion and fear. Recently, as the meds have allowed her to relax, it's been more a realization to some degree that she is fading and that she needs to tell all of us, and especially me, how much she loves us and that her love is forever- "On this side or the other side. I will always, always, always love you."
For Casper, this incredibly hard process is bundled in tangled brain paths, old memories, noises she hears in our room, the words we tell her. She tries to make sense of it. Sometimes she's totally clear- and still her need is to connect and to make sure our love will never end. Not now- and not later. The Casper who could not make herself smile a few months ago no matter how hard she tried is once again smiling when she sees me, taking my hands in hers and kissing them, wrapping her arms around me- from her hospital bed. Last night nothing would calm her. I'd spent the night before in the bed with her, but two of us in one hospital bed is not a good fit. So last night her nurse figured out how to rearrange the bedroom and the hospital bed is now next to our bed. My bed. And we spent last night cuddling on two beds, wrapped around each other. Casper's fears disappeared. My heart tore into a million pieces.
Because it's not just Casper who is already grieving. Last night came the ugly and very real memory of having to learn to sleep alone and missing having my love next to me. It's palpable this feeling of grief and pain. It's worse than losing Linda. She worked nights. It was unusual for us to actually share a bed and sleep- even on nights off she was up all night, sitting up. I learned how to sleep with lights on, and Linda watched TV with headphones held on by a baseball cap. But Casper- she was home every night. We haven't ever been apart in our time together. I was held as I went to sleep every night, snuggled against her after she double checked that the kids were all in and the house was locked tight. Last night was the first night we were not in the middle of drama and I slept in our bed. And I realized that this will be my world.
I went grocery shopping and items leaped out at me that Casper would want me to bring her- the Ghiradelli chocolates out for Christmas. New ice cream flavors. Soft chewy brownies. Yams to be made with pecans and brown sugar and real butter and marshmallows. Good coffee. A new soft shirt. I won't be needing those things now. I won't be cooking for her anymore. She hasn't eaten in nearly three weeks.
The car needs to be washed- Casper won't be fussing at me. I did bring home a Christmas tree and add some lights and sparkle. My Casper loves Christmas, and she smiled when she saw it. I was afraid to look too closely to see if she knew that we weren't that close to the holidays but I wanted her to have a tree. I cried all the way home tonight realizing her magic would not make our yard look like elves had visited and that I won't be sitting with her watching the kids open their gifts next month. I signed up for the company holiday party. Just last month Casper agreed to go in her wedding tuxedo we just purchased. It's an incredibly lonely feeling- one that wrenches my heart for her and for me. I needed a new pair of shoes- and as I was putting them on I realized Casper will never see them or recognize them. I came up the stairs and realized she would never again walk out of our door- or in to wrap me in her arms after work. She won't call me anymore when the radio plays one of our songs and tell me to change the channel so we can listen together.
Grief is such a long and complicated thing. It's a creature that flexes and bends and swoops in when you are not looking. It can make driving a car a hazardous activity, and walking into our closet hurt as I see her clothes and remember the feel of her favorite red shirt as we cuddled, the blue Western one as we sat at a concert, the Hawaiian one she bought for our Hawaiian wedding ceremony. How am I supposed to get my pajamas on (and in a hurry since we have nurses in our room around the clock and no door on our closet?) when I cry as I walk in?
And tonight I will feel my heart tearing into little pieces as we try to snuggle, as I watch her color fade more, as we hold on and tighter. Casper just told me she's lonely. She wants to know we are still "us"- and always will be. Afterward that same grief will become a part of the remembering, and I will know only after being loved so much would I miss so much.
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