much better if I know that Nate won’t be in this alone. And that my daughter will have a wonderful woman in her life. Promise me.”
Nissa nods as she wipes at her eyes. “I promise.”
Knowing what kind of reaction my announcement will incite, I wait for a couple of minutes before I tell Nissa my plans. And when I do, she starts to sniffle again, as I suspected she might. Hospice is a dirty word, a painful word. And they all know what it means. I don’t have to explain it.
“I’m going to call hospice today. I want to do it before Nate gets back. It will kill him. I know it will, but it’ll help him, too. More than he realizes.”
“It’ll help you, too,” Nissa insists.
“It’ll help me, too, yes.” My own comfort is far down the list. I’m more worried about those I love. “Nissa, I…I…”
I’m not quite sure how to continue.
“What?” she prompts when I don’t finish my sentence.
“I don’t want you to stop coming around. No matter how hard it gets to watch, don’t let Nate go through this alone. Please.”
Tears bite sharply at my eyes, but I will myself not to cry. For me, the time for grieving is over. My fate is sealed. It’s pointless to spend my last days mourning the future. Or what it might hold.
“I’ll be here. Every day.”
I nod and we sit in silence for a minute more before I reach for my phone. I smile as I hold it in my palm. The kitchen. I left it in the kitchen, probably when Nissa arrived earlier, which is something I have no recollection of.
My fingers tremble for a moment as an intense pang of regret lances through me. It’s sharp and cutting, more like a jagged piece of metal than something smooth and well-honed.
It’s regret, regret that I’m missing out on so much of these last days with my family.
Even though it’s beyond my control, I have no idea what I’m saying or doing half of the time. I can’t remember all the times I’ve held my child or kissed my husband. I can’t remember if I’ve told them I love them today. I can only hope I’ve done it all.
A lot.
Gathering what little strength I can manage to garner these days, I flip through my phone’s directory and find Dr. Taffer’s contact information. I click on the number and leave word with her secretary that I’ll be contacting hospice.
I’ve been on the ordering end of hospice care enough times to know that all my oncologist will have to do is forward some paperwork and a diagnosis and I’ll be in.
My condition permits it.
My love for my husband dictates it.
My next call is to Wendy, the coordinator of my favorite hospice center. I listen as Wendy sniffs discreetly, as though she might be holding the receiver away from her mouth. She wouldn’t want me to know she’s crying for me as she puts in the last request I’ll make of her.
The last hospice request of my life.
********
When I wake to Nate sitting on the edge of the bed, I’m not even aware that I’d been asleep. “Hi there, beautiful,” he says, love permeating both his voice and his gentle smile.
“Well, hello, handsome,” I reply, returning his smile despite the disorientation I feel. I have no idea what to expect from one moment to the next, and it’s very disconcerting. I feel like I’m always playing catch-up, like I’m always a step or a moment or a day behind.
I’m always questioning things. What have I missed? How long have I slept? What have I been told that I no longer remember?
I search my memory for evidence of coming into the bedroom, of lying down, of drifting off to sleep, but I find nothing. Not a single reference point to which I might cling.
The last thing I remember is pretending not to notice Wendy’s soft crying. And then…nothing.
Just a blank.
“I’ve got a surprise for you. Come see.”
It’s getting harder and harder to mount much enthusiasm for anything really. I’m just so tired all the time, I feel like I only have the energy to do the basics, like walk and breathe and hold a bottle to my baby’s mouth. The change has been swift and sudden.
At least I think it has.
“Great,” I exclaim with as much eagerness as I can muster. I don’t argue when Nate helps me to sit and then to stand. I don’t argue when he helps me down