The rule on this first full day as a widow: pajamas all day. Daughter Summer and I aren’t allowed off the couch except for coffee and tea breaks. And bathroom breaks. And food. And to answer the door. But no one will be allowed in unless they’re wearing pajamas. Although we might make a few exceptions.
Puffy eye gel – just what we’re needing at the moment
My beloved friend and husband went home to heaven this evening at 6:30. Monday, November 17. One of my fears while at Hospice House was that I would be in the shower room, or making a cup of tea when Hubby took his last breath.
As it turned out, he waited until I was in the bathroom. I think it was his final prank. But it didn’t work, because Daughter Summer pounded on the door and I was at his side holding his hand when he went forever without taking a breath. And then he took a jagged breath. And then he went forever without taking a breath.
It’s wintumn here in central Oregon, wintumn being that time of year when winter snow clings to autumn color.
Daughter Summer and I continue keeping Hubby company on this last phase of his cancer journey – listening to him breathe, massaging his feet with coconut oil, swabbing mouth and lips, reading out loud to him, stroking his forehead, the soothing background sound of football on TV.
We’re back at Hospice House after breaking out for two weeks. And love keeps pouring in the front doors. Chai teas and Americano coffees. Dark chocolate and sweet breads.
And these groovy socks with the manufacturer’s tag: “Life’s too short to wear matching socks.”
After the only working nephrostomy tube fell out Tuesday, we were told to expect renal failure. But yesterday morning, Hubby perked up. Perhaps because Son Jeremy and DIL Denise joined Daughter Summer here in sunny Bend.
Nurse Melinda says Hubby has tenacity. (I think that’s a nice way of saying he’s stubborn.)
He’s broken all the rules, she said. Maybe there’s still something he wants to teach us.
I’ve been sitting in this favorite yellow child’s chair — a garage sale find — a good part of the day. To be near him. To catch every word he says. Hubby has let his filters down these past few days. He is childlike at times, in an endearing way. He scolds me, rolls his eyes, stalls when he doesn’t want to take his meds.
Hubby is on oxygen. Packing a pump. Wicked thrush on his tongue. Only one neph tube draining. Leg weeping from edema, soaking everything. Clothing changes and dressing changes and flushing of tubes. Around the clock.
Being hooked up to oxygen involves a bulky machine with miles of tubing. But it also puts out a soothing background noise – like a stream, water burbling over rocks. We now have a water feature in our living room.
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.
Copyright © 2025 Marlys Johnson
