I walk in and find Bill lying in bed, a thin white sheet covering his deformed frame which looks more like death than life. I reach out to comfort him, attempting to rub his outstretched arm, but quickly snap back in shock when I feel bones where tissue used to be. His muscles have atrophied, and now even his fatty tissue is wasting away. There isn’t much left of my husband.
The nurse tells me he has a bedsore that's become infected, so now—on top of the morphine for pain and the medications to keep him calm—they’ve added antibiotics, hoping to keep him from developing sepsis.
Bill opens his mouth as if to speak. Nothing comes out. But I notice his teeth, discolored from so many drugs. Bill always took good care of his teeth. He would be horrified to see them now.
Sadie, the hospice nurse, says they’re trying to find out why Bill is so combative when the aides try to bathe him. It has become so bad, they are now waking him at 4 am to give him his pain medications in hopes he’ll be more docile when the aides come at 6. They are not sure whether his combativeness is pain or something else. He can’t tell them.
“Hi, Bill,” I say. “How are you? Are you okay?” His eyes move, but I can tell he isn’t really seeing me. He looks like he’s trying to speak, but no sound comes out. I lean closer, hoping to catch a word, a phrase—anything—but still nothing.
I wonder what’s going on in his mind. He’s in a strange place. He can barely move. He can’t see; his eyes lost most of their vision years ago. That part isn’t new, but it must be more frightening now.
I feel completely helpless. What can I do? How can I make this better? How can I help him? But the horrible truth hits me again: I can’t. There is nothing I can do. I can only watch him die, one cell at a time.
I want it to stop. I want to shout at someone, anyone: Please make him better. Please stop this torture. How much more does this man have to endure? How much more do I have to endure?
But there is only silence.
I pick up my purse and leave my husband of 55 years in the hands of the hospice nurses. My soul can take no more . . . not today.
