Once Jack settled down and waited for his passport to come, he quickly lost consciousness. By the time the hospice nurse arrived, his death rattle song had begun. Brief periods of apnea laced in with the rattle. “He’s already deep in the death cycle,” she said softly. We were on either side of the hospital bed, and I was stroking his head. “It’s going to be soon. Be prepared.”  “Today?” I asked. “Maybe,” said.

We discussed how best to get him his meds. I tried a slurry but he could no longer swallow. We changed his sheets, and it was amazing to me how hard it was to even move him. He was still like a tree, but now a fallen tree.

The hospice nurse left, and I pulled a chair up next to him. I had already told him everything I had to say, but I wanted to repeat it. Right then. It felt terribly important. So I thanked him again for being such a wonderful husband and partner. For bringing me here to the farm, for giving me this home. For loving me deeply and unconditionally and for teaching me how to do the same. For everything he gave to my sons. The love, the ski lessons, the motocross lessons. The basketball court. The love of fun and adventure. As I spoke, I had to time my words with the apnea. His rattle was so loud I couldn’t hear myself over it. I saw his jaw muscles moving just a little. “Don’t try to talk,” I said. “Just listen.” The movement stopped. His eyes remained closed. “Things are going to suck from here on out,” I warned him. “Nothing is going to get better. If you can go now, you should.” The words stuck in my throat like cotton balls, but I got them out.

I remembered running into a friend in the grocery store a few months ago. Turns out her husband had died of brain cancer seven years back. “Make sure you are there at the end,” she said. “You’ll be glad.”  Then I remembered another friend whose mom had been dying of Alzheimer’s.  She had been determined to be there at the end, but her mom slipped away when she escaped for a moment to the bathroom. I’d heard from several people that the dying choose to go in a moment of privacy. I watched him and thought about him. He used to say I knew him so much better than anyone, and I was the only one with whom he could truly be himself. Knowing him, I realized that he’d rather go when I was out of the room. He was a man who fiercely protected his privacy, even from me at times. So I slipped out of the room. Every fifteen minutes or so I’d check back with some tender words and caresses, then slip away again.

I have a neighbor who is like an earth-angel to all of us. Shannon has good nursing skills, having taken care of her own son years ago when he had cancer and was on hospice. Part of her tribute to Nick’s memory is helping others in my situation. I’d had her number by the phone for weeks. I was to call her when this time came. She was here quickly.

The weather on October 27 was uncharacteristically warm. I still had the umbrella up on the patio table. We sat on the patio with the baby monitor on.  His rattle was so loud and powerful we had to put the volume on low so we could hear each other. We found things to talk about as the twilight grew. “His periods of apnea are getting longer,” she noticed. And then, at about a quarter to seven, I interrupted her with a gasp. It was too quiet. We both raced in, sprinting the twenty feet or so. He had left his body. But he was still there. I felt his spirit everywhere.

I spoke to him, but I don’t remember what I said. I felt relief and I also felt regret. If I hadn’t stopped the steroids I would have a few more days of him. Crazy, horrible days, but days nonetheless. Once again I heard Dr. Fratkin’s words in my head. “Eventually, Carolyn, the steroids will stop working. Then we’ll taper them off. He will probably just go to sleep and not wake up.”

He had fallen asleep five hours before. Five hours. The final five.

Shannon took over then. She called Hospice, who came and made the pronouncement. Shannon had thought to note the time of death. 6:52. I called Jesse next door and he came right away. He’d checked in many times that day and said his own private good-byes. He brought the dogs in as we’d planned. We had heard that it was important for them to see Jack dead so as not to wonder where he was forever, not to look for him forever. They whined and cried and mourned, and Jesse and I locked our eyes in pain and grief.  I felt this ridiculous concern that the dogs would hurt Jack when the jumped on the bed, sniffing him, trying to rouse him. We couldn’t take it anymore and Jesse took them back out. Shannon called the mortuary, a specific one in Yuba City since Jack had donated his body to science.

Shannon asked me if I wanted to bathe him, and I said no. I didn’t want him disturbed. I just wanted his exhausted body to rest. She went outside and Jesse went home for awhile. I crawled in bed with him and lay my head on his still-warm chest. I talked to him and cried and felt him all around me.

Too soon the man was there to take him. I chose to go outside, while Jesse and Shannon stayed with him to make sure he was treated with the respect he deserved. Jesse saw him safely into the hearse, saying one last good-bye there as I watched from the patio. Shannon went home. Jesse and I collapsed into each other in the moonlight, his sobs igniting mine.

We felt Jack all around us. Six months later we still do.

Fly high, my love.