Safe

I've just come in from the garden. It's currently a place of hope and abundance.  Dozens of plums are ripening on our young tree. I popped the first fully ripe, sun-warmed blueberries into my mouth today. The strawberries are still producing enough for my morning smoothie. Some cherries have been spared by the birds. Chard and spinach and beets beckon with dark green leaves.  Sweet Walla Walla onions are fully bulbed and have their skins. The tomato plants are strong and lush, starting to get out of control as their fruit steadily grows larger. I'm nursing melon and pumpkin plants, hoping to take full advantage if Seattle's summer is unusually warm. Weeds mock me everywhere, and there's much much more to do, but the garden is a peaceful haven right now.

It was a sort of oasis for me a year ago, too, though it was much more neglected then. On this day in 2011, I lingered in the back yard, marveling at how so many things could continue to grow while Sandy lay dying less than a mile away. I welcomed the scent of tomato leaves on my hands and the feel of weeds tumbling from my gloves into trugs. I wondered how I would be able to stand to garden without Sandy, and when I would ever find the energy.

That was my last time home before she died. It was Saturday. After she'd stopped eating and drinking and talking Thursday morning, we'd been surprised when she started talking again Friday afternoon.

One of the ways we calmed her that night was to help her imagine
herself in different places. I talked her through a specific, peaceful
day we spent in Santa Barbara in March 2006. It was a memorable
day in its own right, but I knew she'd also be able to remember
photos I took of her lying contentedly in the sun at the bird refuge.

It was initially a gift to have her interacting with people again, but that night was hellish. Changes that were occurring in her throat due to dehydration and dying caused a gurgling sensation that apparently triggered vivid memories of the time she almost drowned many years before. I was alone with her Friday evening when she suddenly looked me straight in the eye — stern and demanding — and ordered, "Help me!" I'd been feeling so conflicted about letting her die that my first impulse was that she was angry that I wasn't doing anything to save her. I called the nurse, who told me that such outbursts were usually related to past events; it was unlikely that she was asking for medical intervention.

The nurse was right. It soon became apparent to me that she thought she was drowning. Sandy threw her arms up as she screamed for help, reliving that nightmare over and over again. Laura and I, along with a very attentive nurse and some powerful drugs, worked to calm her well into the early morning hours. We kept assuring her that she was safe, she was in a safe place.

She was safe, in that the experience she was having wasn't happening at that time, in that place. She was not going to drown. But even as we told her she was safe, I felt my brain hurt. How can you tell someone they're safe when they're dying? Aren't we hardwired to want to survive? What was her fear of drowning about if not the fear of dying? What the hell does "safe" mean anyway?

She'd calmed down enough to get some sleep, and then in the morning, she was mainly talking to people we couldn't see. At the time, I thought they were hallucinations. Now, after reading more about near-death experiences, I suspect she really was seeing and talking with spirits of friends and family members who had preceded her in death. At any rate, they made her happy. She seemed delighted by her conversations, which were largely unintelligible to us.

When I was assured that she'd probably not die for about 48 hours, I decided I should go home and shower and spend a few hours with the cats. I was exhausted from the night of calming Sandy, and from the previous four-plus weeks. I ended up spending about eight hours at home. For the first time since we'd gone to the hospital, I felt comfortable being home alone. Each other time I'd been back while she was at the hospital or Bailey Boushay, the empty house had been a reminder that I'd soon be a widow. But this time, I ached for my routines — for answering email in my office, eating a real dinner I made myself, watching a favorite show on TV, laughing as the cats performed their goofy antics. I indulged in all those simple, daily comforts, and I enjoyed the cats' love as they were super-clingy, having had little time with their people for weeks.

That was the only time I came home with a real understanding of when Sandy would die, with the knowledge that I would be spending nights in our bed again soon. Oddly enough, I think that knowing that calmed me because I still, subconsciously, expected us to return home together when the whole ordeal was over.

That night, I returned reluctantly to Bailey Boushay House, not certain she'd even know I'd been gone. I was wonderfully surprised to find that she knew me, could focus on me, said she'd missed me, and even responded passionately to my kiss. We went on to have our final conversations that night. I wouldn't trade that time for anything short of having her back. Tonight I won't be seeing her at Bailey Boushay, but maybe if I'm lucky, she'll visit me here.