The angels finally came.

The last 36 hours were the worst ever for Casper. The final hour was peaceful.

 

She left this world at 4:33pm, after the most courageous, furious, steadfast, dig-in-your-heels battle I have ever witnessed, much less been a part of. The Lewies finally, at long last, lost.

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And so did I.

 

I lost the love of my life, the woman who could make my heart skip a beat just by smiling my way. I lost a future together.

 

Casper lost her life to the damn Lewy Bodies. My loss is nothing in comparison to hers. Casper lost the ability to walk, to think at times, to live without terror from delusions and hallucinations, her role as a nurse and breadwinner, her very important vision of herself as our protector and provider. Casper lost her identity to that hateful disease.

 

She spent the last 7 weeks in bed. She spent 36 days without food. She went 8 days without fluids. And still she fought.

 

The last 36 hours she was on huge doses of morphine. She had a sedative drip that should have put her under for a long surgery and recovery. She endured injections every eight, and then every six hours. Her pulse raced, her breaths were at a speed I could not fathom. For endless, endless hours. Her blood pressure and temperature could not find normal.

 

There was conjecture that she would not let go because she had stuff left to do. That she would not leave me behind. I'm going to ignore those ideas. Casper said all she needed to. She talked with all of us. She said her goodbyes. She wasn't afraid of dying. She missed her parents and aunt and wanted to be reunited with them. She saw and talked to Linda. She was tired of being bedbound.

 

She wanted to go home. We released her.

 

The Lewies wouldn't. They were so busy reorganizing her brain that she could not leave this world. She couldn't respond normally to morphine or versed. She couldn't settle down for haldol. (And yes, I am fully aware of Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome. I signed for the meds. I asked for them. Anything, anything at all, to stop the fear and anxiety. I would do it all over again without hesitation.)

 

Her brain literally wasn't processing her meds; neither was her body. That's an unscientific conclusion, but it's based on what I just lived through. 36 hours of agonizing symptoms that would not let her go home.

 

Despite all of the meds, with pupils that were no longer reactive, she was talking in full sentences until yesterday morning. She could describe her pain, where it was, how it felt. She told me she loved me. Repeatedly. She knew our code for a long and romantic kiss. She could tell us it hurt. Meds were increased again.

 

Until close to 4pm today she was breathing so hard anyone else would have passed out. She wasn't communicating, but she was, somehow, despite it all, still battling. Then, finally, she had a slow down. Her breathing slowed. Her pulse. Her blood pressure. Thirty minutes later she was gone.

 

Just like that. She was in my arms and she was gone. It was quiet, and my love was with the angels she saw and talked to and knew would come for her.

 

I bathed her with a hospice nurse. I dressed her. The mortuary came and I held our Fuzzy as I walked down after her. Fuzzy was grieving and has still not lifted her head tonight.

 

I followed her to the street as the van left. My heart left with it. I had my dearest friends around me tonight. I have no idea what we said.

 

I remember Casper's cologne as I walked back into our empty, suddenly quiet room.

 

Her smile on our wedding day.

 

The sound of her voice telling me she loved me.

 

The Lewies cannot take that away.