Hubby’s playful spirit is still in evidence through the shutting down of his body. He ordered French toast for breakfast. Drenched in syrup, he said.
The attendant leaned in close to confirm that she had heard him correctly. Drenched?
How about just drizzled in syrup, said his wife.
We’ll see when it gets here, countered the patient. You can see who won that battle.
This rather suspicious text message: “The marketing porch fairies have landed.” I know about the Porch Fairy. And the Knitting Fairy. But Marketing Porch Fairies?
I text Daughter Summer who is out running errands. Warning. Something on the porch. Not sure what. She sends photos: “Two grande Chai tea lattes, a pumpkin pie and candle holders … with candles, of course.” Love the pumpkin theme.
Understandably, Hubby gets a little nervous when I approach him with anything sharp. One of Hubby’s nephrostomy tubes clogged up. Last night I played night nurse. All night. Dispensing meds through Hubby’s port. And I did a darn good job of not poking the patient where he shouldn’t have been poked.
We checked into Hospice House this morning—no room in the inn last night—which means the medical care for my favorite patient is now off my shoulders and squarely on the shoulders of those who know what they’re doing.
It has been the season of saying a long, slow, sweet good-by to Hubby. Wednesday was hard. He slept the entire day, ate very little, was confused during the brief times of wakefulness. The sleeping, the not-eating I can handle; the confusion is frightening.
It seems that he makes a greater effort to be awake when we’re expecting visitors. And look who showed up on our front porch. Sis-in-law Cheryl and Niece Angie. Hubby has been more awake; he’s eating. And most importantly, no confusion. Ah, hope. Sweet gift.
One of our cancer team members is a positive attitude. And nothing says positive attitude like counting blessings. Not only do I keep a written list–constantly adding to it–but also a thanksgiving list rolls through my head. Like when I make a prescription pick-up. I find myself breathing thanks that the car starts. Whispering gratitude for the freedom to move about town, the hospice team, the availability of meds, the pharmacy that fills the scripts … you get the idea.
Despite hard things, there’s still so much to be grateful for (for which to be grateful?):
1. A generous package in yesterday’s mail that included the smell of Yuletide Cinnamon candles—it’s never too early to light a Christmas candle—and the reminder that, indeed, all is well with our souls
I’m now working full-time from home, and there is no shortage of visitors. Co-workers bearing banana shakes, mango smoothies, dark chocolate. This text from a friend: “Hiya – can I drop off a little something sweet to yous this early afternoon?” All in an effort to entice Hubby to eat.
We got home from SunRiver to find a moose on our front porch. Perhaps I should explain. A friend, visiting her old stomping grounds, wrote: “Trying to figure out how to bring some Alaska to you and hubby. Any requests?”
Hubby asked for Baked Alaska, and I requested a live baby moose. We’re both easy to please. Apparently something got lost in the translation. Because we found this hand-crafted, moose-shaped, metal garden ornament planted in a rather large and beautiful fall bouquet. On our front porch. (If I can’t have a live moose, this is definitely the next best thing.)
When we were growing up together as a married couple, Hubby’s job programming large IBM computers required he work in cities. He chose to commute a little so we could bring up our kids in smaller towns and semi-rural areas. From time to time we’ve wondered out loud what we did wrong, because our children love big cities and crazy traffic and a faster pace of life. A friend, upon hearing we’d raised them in small towns, said, “Well, that’s what you did wrong.”
I’ll say this about having city kids, though. It’s easy to keep them amused when they come to visit. We simply introduce them to the local wildlife.
You’d never guess the photo shoot took place on a sidewalk. On a busy side street. Sis-in-law Cheryl wrote, “You guys even make living on the street look like fun.”
We didn’t make it to Alaska to celebrate Hubby’s birthday and our anniversary. Hubby wasn’t up to it. Instead, we rented a cabin at SunRiver resort with wood-lined ceilings and nothing but trees out the front wall of windows.
I brought homework with me this birthdayversary weekend. The hospice social worker handed me a booklet on death and dying. “This would be good to read,” she’d said. Here’s what it says about sleeping:
Interestingly, the normal sleeping pattern during the dying process is virtually identical to the normal sleeping pattern of newborns: off and on around the clock.
This describes Hubby’s sleeping pattern. To a tee. But he isn’t anywhere near the place described in the booklet.
Copyright © 2025 Marlys Johnson
