She Is Gone
At 11.30 a.m. on Saturday 20th May 2017 Rosemarie died.
The greatest love of my life, the light of my world extinguished, opening a hole which filled rapidly with the darkness of loss and sorrow.
I had thought that with three years to get used to the idea of her dying it would somehow not be so bad, but it made no difference in the end. I wept uncontrollably, buried under an avalanche of sadness.
My son and I had taken shifts overnight. I slept from 9.30 p.m. Thursday until 3 a.m Friday in a spare room provided by the Care Home. By 3.15 I had taken over and my son went to get some sleep. He said that not much had changed; she had been given an injection of glycopyrronium at 2345 and the Glandosane spray at 2 a.m. Other than that he had kept up swabbing her lips and gums regularly.
It was quiet and peaceful. I sat in one of the world's most uncomfortable chairs and held her hand gently. She was tilted almost vertical in the bed and her head slumped down and to her left. Her breathing was laboured and rattled increasingly loudly, a sign she was due some more Glycopyrronium.
Dawn slowly stole in through the window and the dawn chorus began in the trees outside. A shaft of sunlight crept across the wall by her bed.
At 5.15 the night nurse came with the next glycopyrronium injection. Rosemarie did not respond in any way. The nurse left; the room seemed incredibly calm and intimate. Her breathing slowly quietened, but was still shallow and laboured.
At 6.45 two care workers came in to check her pad and change her. This seemed pretty pointless because she had not eaten or drunk anything for nearly 72 hours. They thought it might 'freshen' her...
This involved flattening the bed, and as she became horizontal her eyes opened. There was no movement of the eyeball and no sign of her seeing anything, but nevertheless it was nice to see her blue eyes again for the first time in three days. The manhandling distressed her though and I was glad when they had finished changing her. They sat her up again and her right eye closed completely and her left eye half closed.
Strange things started happening to her temperature. Her face and neck and left hand became very hot, but her forearms had goosebumps. I started cooling her with wet wipes run under the tap, with limited success. Then her temperature would go down for no apparent reason, and then shortly go up again.
Time started to speed up as the place began to stir. The shift changed and the new nurse popped her head round the door.
I was offered breakfast and I suddenly realised how hungry I was so gratefully accepted. I ate baked beans and fried eggs with one hand while holding Rosemarie's hand with the other.
At 10.15 my son returned from his sleep and I updated him. At 10.30 the nurse called in - the nurse had changed, for some reason - and I asked for some of the paracetamol pessaries in the hope it would bring down her temperature but he didn't think it would help. I asked for some flannels because I thought they would be kinder to her hot skin, and another dose of the spray. I could moisten her lips and gums but whenever I attempted to moisten her tongue or the roof of her mouth she would clamp her jaw firmly round the swab and it was very difficult to get her to release it.
He returned a few minutes later with the flannels and the spray. We talked about the non appearance of the pump and agreed that if it had not arrived by 12 we would start the morphine.
By 11.15, after lots of application of wet flannels, her temperature began to come down. Both her eyes were open again, but she was not blinking and there were no tears. She was slumped against the pillow and I was worried that she would touch her eyeball against the material. I held her hand and stroked her face.
Her breathing became more shallow and quicker, and every ten breaths or so she would stop breathing for a couple of seconds. I was holding her hand and telling her how much I loved her and how she wasn't alone.
She took a shallow breath, held it, and then, with a quiet grunt, was gone.
Having won, the horrific disease released its iron grip, and the muscles of her face relaxed, her contorted features flowing into the calm peaceful expression of the woman I had loved for so many years. Her brow cleared, her eyebrows relaxed, and her mouth untwisted.
My son and I held each other as the tears flowed. After a while I tilted the bed back and my son went outside to call my daughter.
I leaned over and kissed her forehead, and my world filled with an emotion too big for words.
The greatest love of my life, the light of my world extinguished, opening a hole which filled rapidly with the darkness of loss and sorrow.
I had thought that with three years to get used to the idea of her dying it would somehow not be so bad, but it made no difference in the end. I wept uncontrollably, buried under an avalanche of sadness.
*
My son and I had taken shifts overnight. I slept from 9.30 p.m. Thursday until 3 a.m Friday in a spare room provided by the Care Home. By 3.15 I had taken over and my son went to get some sleep. He said that not much had changed; she had been given an injection of glycopyrronium at 2345 and the Glandosane spray at 2 a.m. Other than that he had kept up swabbing her lips and gums regularly.
It was quiet and peaceful. I sat in one of the world's most uncomfortable chairs and held her hand gently. She was tilted almost vertical in the bed and her head slumped down and to her left. Her breathing was laboured and rattled increasingly loudly, a sign she was due some more Glycopyrronium.
Dawn slowly stole in through the window and the dawn chorus began in the trees outside. A shaft of sunlight crept across the wall by her bed.
At 5.15 the night nurse came with the next glycopyrronium injection. Rosemarie did not respond in any way. The nurse left; the room seemed incredibly calm and intimate. Her breathing slowly quietened, but was still shallow and laboured.
At 6.45 two care workers came in to check her pad and change her. This seemed pretty pointless because she had not eaten or drunk anything for nearly 72 hours. They thought it might 'freshen' her...
This involved flattening the bed, and as she became horizontal her eyes opened. There was no movement of the eyeball and no sign of her seeing anything, but nevertheless it was nice to see her blue eyes again for the first time in three days. The manhandling distressed her though and I was glad when they had finished changing her. They sat her up again and her right eye closed completely and her left eye half closed.
Strange things started happening to her temperature. Her face and neck and left hand became very hot, but her forearms had goosebumps. I started cooling her with wet wipes run under the tap, with limited success. Then her temperature would go down for no apparent reason, and then shortly go up again.
Time started to speed up as the place began to stir. The shift changed and the new nurse popped her head round the door.
I was offered breakfast and I suddenly realised how hungry I was so gratefully accepted. I ate baked beans and fried eggs with one hand while holding Rosemarie's hand with the other.
At 10.15 my son returned from his sleep and I updated him. At 10.30 the nurse called in - the nurse had changed, for some reason - and I asked for some of the paracetamol pessaries in the hope it would bring down her temperature but he didn't think it would help. I asked for some flannels because I thought they would be kinder to her hot skin, and another dose of the spray. I could moisten her lips and gums but whenever I attempted to moisten her tongue or the roof of her mouth she would clamp her jaw firmly round the swab and it was very difficult to get her to release it.
He returned a few minutes later with the flannels and the spray. We talked about the non appearance of the pump and agreed that if it had not arrived by 12 we would start the morphine.
By 11.15, after lots of application of wet flannels, her temperature began to come down. Both her eyes were open again, but she was not blinking and there were no tears. She was slumped against the pillow and I was worried that she would touch her eyeball against the material. I held her hand and stroked her face.
Her breathing became more shallow and quicker, and every ten breaths or so she would stop breathing for a couple of seconds. I was holding her hand and telling her how much I loved her and how she wasn't alone.
She took a shallow breath, held it, and then, with a quiet grunt, was gone.
*
Having won, the horrific disease released its iron grip, and the muscles of her face relaxed, her contorted features flowing into the calm peaceful expression of the woman I had loved for so many years. Her brow cleared, her eyebrows relaxed, and her mouth untwisted.
My son and I held each other as the tears flowed. After a while I tilted the bed back and my son went outside to call my daughter.
I leaned over and kissed her forehead, and my world filled with an emotion too big for words.
posted by Other Kosh at 7:23 pm
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