The end of the world (as I know it)

Thursday felt weird all day long. Everything was really quiet. Time seemed to pass more slowly. Fido didn't want to go on walks (but deigned to be led around the yard), perhaps sensing the strange vibe given off by the humans in the house. Danielle could still squeeze my hand that morning, which was reassuring, at least.

Torin was finally well enough to return to school, and my parents came by after dropping him off. They spent much of the day here, which was nice, because most of the times they'd been here previously, they spent almost all their time wrangling Torin, rather than spending it with Danielle.

A friend sent me some advice that really resonated, based on his experience losing his mother to brain cancer. I decided that I needed to act on it.

I spent all afternoon just talking to her, reminiscing about fun times and travels and anything else that came to mind. I can't count how many times I said, "Remember when..." It was really nice to relive some of that, and I sincerely hope she was able to hear and took comfort from it.

However, I also made a point to say what I previously had not: goodbye. I told her that she didn't need to worry about us; no matter how hard the coming days would be, I would do everything in my power to give Torin the best life possible. That my guiding mantra in parenthood would be, "What would Danielle do?" That Torin would know her from all the stories her friends and family I would tell him growing up. That he and I would love her forever. That I didn't want her to suffer, and that it was okay to let go. And I finally said the words, "Goodbye, my love."

Torin came by for a bit after school. I told him Mommy was sleeping, and that he needed to give her another kiss. She wasn't able to kiss back, and I'm not even sure she was aware he was there, but I hope so.

Not long after my parents took Torin home, Danielle's breathing became very strained and gurgling; fluid in her lungs, her dad (a retired physician) said. By now, she no longer responded to touch by squeezing our hands back. The house was quiet again, except for her death rattle. I have never in my life wanted diametrically opposed things so equally and strongly: to flee the noise, or stand vigil; for her to hang on, or for it to just be over.

In the end, I took a walk to clear my head (Fido again wouldn't go far, so I took him back in and went out on my own), and when I got back, I sat in one of the recliners at the foot of Danielle's hospital bed. The feeling of helplessness was very stark. I couldn't help her get better; I couldn't help her with her day-to-day activities; I couldn't help her be entertained, or comforted, or even loved, for now she was in a coma.

I was feeling really drained, and almost went upstairs to take a nap, but it was after 7:00pm and didn't want to make it harder to go to sleep later. Soon after deciding to stick it out, Danielle's dad came to listen to her breathing, and, right before going out on a walk himself, quietly told me that he didn't think it'd be much longer. He was not wrong.

At just about 8:00pm, Danielle's mom happened to move over to a chair next to the bed; I don't know whether it was serendipitous timing or whether she sensed a change in Danielle's breathing. I hadn't noticed anything, but I nevertheless stood up from the recliner to move to the other side of the bed. I don't think I'll ever forget the next few moments.

As I sat and took her hand, Danielle began raising her own head, and I commented something mostly unintelligible about it to her mom. Danielle's right eye, which had been the only one she could control for several days, seemed to be looking right at me as she gave a great, gasping breath, and then was still. In shock, I looked at her mom and said, "Oh my god, was that it?" There were two more "aftershocks", smaller last-ditch efforts by her body to resuscitate itself, but by then I was bent over her crying, so I only felt and heard them. Was she aware, in those final moments? I'll never know, but I hope not. If she was, then my face was the last thing she saw.

The time that followed was strange and surreal. I was constantly shifting between adrenaline focus, hopeless wandering, and whole-body wails. I first called her dad, who asked if she had stopped breathing before I even said a word. Then I called hospice and became flustered because the lady answering the phone asked me for my last name, not Danielle's (whose is hyphenated), and so she couldn't find our account. An innocent mistake, but at the time it was really, really unhelpful.

Having done the things I knew needed doing, I reverted to mostly the other two modes - sobbing, or wandering aimlessly. Her parents, having been around the block and having seen death before, held it together a lot better than me. They suggested I take a walk to clear my head, so her dad I and took Fido out. The walk did help calm me down a bit. My dad drove over to lend emotional support; my mom really wanted to come, but someone had to stay with Torin.

The next couple hours were mostly spent in quiet. I sat at her bedside the whole time, grasping her hand or holding it to my face, kissing her lips, rubbing our noses together, and touching foreheads - all the little signs of affection that we show each other every day. I repeated a lot of my promises to her and said more goodbyes.

The funeral home folks eventually came to get her. They asked us to wait in the other room while they got her on the gurney and straightened up her bed, upon which they left a lovely (though, as I discovered later, fake) rose. Then we had one more round of goodbyes, which for me were a little more of what I'd already been doing the last couple hours. I didn't see the other goodbyes, because my head was buried in my dad's shoulder, sobbing. Then they wheeled her out of the house - of the life - we built together, forever.

Rest in peace, my love. Your legacy lives on in all of us, particularly in me and in Torin. Years ago, you asked me, knowing that I am not religious and don't believe in a life beyond this one, to nevertheless look for you, for signs of you watching over us, once you were gone. I will watch for you, my love. I will always be watching.

Despite the emptiness and horror I now feel, I want to state clearly that I firmly believe that Torin and I will be okay. I have a vague idea of what it will look like to be a self-sufficient, single father, but I know it will be a long road to get there. I have no idea what that road will look like, but Torin and I have the support of his four wonderful grandparents, not to mention countless offers of aid from the myriad other people whose lives Danielle has touched - one less thing to worry about.

Writing all this has been very difficult, but also incredibly helpful to me. I'll never forget that day, but I have a little hope that, by immortalizing the memories with words, maybe they won't keep replaying in my head quite so often.

I intend to continue writing. The effects of cancer don't end when someone passes. There is a perfectly Danielle-shaped hole in my life, and in Torin's life, and in the lives of many others. Danielle started this blog over eleven years ago, in part, to shine a candid light on what going through cancer is like. I want to honor that by continuing to document the pain, loss, and someday recovery, of her most beloved.