Journal entry for March 31, 2018

One of the last things she said to me when she was lying on her side, toward the end was, "I'm really sick, aren't I?"

"Now you tell me?" I feigned incredulity, but I knew it was dawning on her that this was serious.

"What do I do?" she asked.

I told her, "You need to get fluids, antibiotics and nourishment."

"OK."

But it was too little, too late. She'd gone a whole day with no water. Even a tiny syringe full would make her choke. She had two doses of antibiotics in two days, but started way too late.

All I could do was lay there with her, watching her breathing get slower and slower. She never regained her ability to speak. It was like she was asleep, but maybe she could still hear me. I wanted it to be some mystical experience where she would show some indication that her spirit was intact somehow.

But all there was, was breathing. And then a gasp. And then a little more breathing. And then one more gasp. And then no more breathing. No miraculous apparitions or signs from heaven. Just life and then death. Like a switch. On, then off, never to turn back on.

I didn't cry so much then as I do nowadays. I can only think of things that make me sad, such as her asking me, "I'm really sick, aren't I?" Oh, honey....