The final stages

Jay and I are sitting bedside with Casper. She is in the final hours of life. Or at least we think she is. Because this is Casper, after all. She's fooled us before. She has a will beyond anyone's imagination. She was never afraid of death, but she was not ready to leave me behind. Her role was to take care of me, the kids, and the family.

And now she has no choice, and neither do I. The Lewies have taken their toll, and tonight, or early tomorrow, they will take Casper.

Her breathing has been labored for several days on and off. Agitation has been an issue as the Lewies have continued to create distress - as if they hadn't done enough damage already. There are two CADD pumps running around the clock providing morphine and a sedative in an effort to allow Casper some peace. We've had days it's been possible- and moments of craziness. Last night the agitation was out of control again although Casper was comatose. Today and tonight it's been under control most of the time, and we have watched her slip further and further away.

Fuzzy, her ever faithful poodle, has been beside herself for days. We've had to medicate her to stop her from crying and screeching and tearing at Casper to please, please wake up. Fuzzy has clawed at her hands, licked her face, tried to breathe into her mouth- anything to make her Casper wake up and be Casper again. Just now Fuzzy jumped off the bed and refused to go back after days of refusing to let herself be moved away. We've had nurses having to do assessments with a stethoscope in one hand and a poodle in the other. Casper's nurse has even made sure Fuzzy was able to feel her petting her by holding Casper's hand and stroking Fuzzy from a coma.

And now Casper is breathing the shallowest of breaths. Her body is no longer stiff from Parkinson's symptoms. She's free of pain. We've said our goodbyes. Now we wait.

Her body, which has been varying from hot to cool in weird patterns, is cooling.

Her fingers and toes are mottled- a china like blue to purple.

Her catheter bag is empty, after draining her body of the very fluids supporting her cells.

Her skin is flaccid. Dehydration is clear.

She can still hear. We are sharing stories about her and so is her night nurse, who has known her for more than a decade.

We've watched the DVD made for the memorial and cried at the memories and the loss we are facing moments or hours from now.

I am doing all I can to memorize the feel of her body as I run my hands over her, stroking her for what will certainly be one of the last times. I am remembering the times we spent, the caring and the cuddling and the enormous love we shared. I am hoping Casper is hearing me talk about the whales and the rainbows of Maui, the joy at our wedding, the love I felt in the strength of her arms. The romantic she truly was.

And we are now waiting for the angels to take her home.