Coming to ending despite the Lewies

It's Saturday, December 7th. Pearl Harbor Day. Casper has been bedbound for more than six weeks.
She hasn't had food in almost 36 days.
Her last drink of water was a week ago.
She's still here.

Why?

There are theories: she's too young. Her heart is too healthy. She has no other health issues. My favorite? "She's not ready to die."

The reality?

Casper isn't afraid of death. She didn't want to die and leave me and the kids behind, but she was never ever afraid of death. She was terrified of being bedbound, lifeless, and unable to remember those who loved her. That was what she was afraid of.

Casper was talking until this afternoon. She could still tell me, and her brother, that she loved us. She still kissed me- and meant it. But she's also been agitated. Uncomfortable. Her breathing has been ragged and course and hard to listen to. She's needed suctioning and meds to dry secretions, more pain meds, more sedatives. Her vitals are up and down and all around.

They are the Lewies' last revenge. The evil Tribbles inhabiting my Casper's brain and causing her death are causing chaos as she tries to die. She can't find a way out of this world.

Casper can tell me that she's seen her parents and her Aunt Myrt and Linda, and they are waiting for her. She's said she wants to go. But her body can't follow. She's laying in the hospital bed, stressing for air. She's on high concentrations of oxygen and her doctor has doubled her meds today in an effort to make it better for her.

Nobody can defeat the Lewies. And they won't let her go.

We have said our goodbyes. Her family and friends have as well. Still she grips my hand tight, and turns to the sound of my voice, mumbling occasionally in response.

I hope someday this awful disease will be better understood. That some researcher will unlock its codes so it can be defeated. At the very least I hope it will prevent fewer families from having to decide individually about the need for sedation and the guilt that comes with that. That pain can be better managed because their ugly little paths will be manageable. That the fear and anxiety of the Lewies will not cause patients so much heartache and sadness.

And tonight I hope my Casper can finally slip the bonds of this earth to a place of rest and happiness, where she can smile again and move and not have pain as her constant companion.

Miss her? Like none of you will ever be able to imagine. Her smile. Her strong arms, Her sense of humor. Her total and unconditional love. Want her to stay here? Not a chance. Because I want her to be the Casper I remember. In a better place.