Always, J.

Tuesday, April 25th

    You're in there. I feel it. I feel you. I know you can hear us. I know you are frustrated being stuck in your beautiful body that has lost all mobility. A body for the last 27 days has withered away. Starved & weak. A man who once was 6'3, D1 athlete, and a solider for the Marine Corps is now light enough for me to carry alone.

    When you are told the next journey will be hospice, it's just a word to sound better than "end of life care." You have been ready for this. You found peace in the darkness. The past two days I made myself memorize the details of your sweet face, the touch of your hand with mine, and the true love we were blessed to say we got to feel.

    Selfishly, if leukemia wasn't killing every part of your body causing you constant pain, I could care for you this way forever. I would sit with you, all hours of the day by your side. We could watch all the Lord of the Rings films, The After series movies, and re watch Harry Potter over and over until we fall asleep.

I would help you eat, drink, bathe and adjust your body in bed to keep sores away. I would do that for you for the rest my life.

    That is the problem though, it is what I would choose to do for my life because it means I could have you here on my world. I could listen to you argue about my stupid love films and hear you mock every Fabio novel I get sucked into.

    You don't want that. You don't deserve this. You can't hold me like you want to, can't fight over the remote to change the channel, can't run your fingers through my hair when I lay on your chest because I struggle to fall asleep. You wouldn't be happy stranded in a body you can't control. I know that even without you telling me.

    Leukemia took control three years ago. It will take you away from me, from all of us. I hate watching your cheeks sink in. I hate holding your hand to my face on my own. I hate the tears that stream from your eyes. I don't even know if they are from sadness or because your eyes are so dry from being half open when you sleep sometimes. You are fully awake in a body nearly paralyzed. Your voice isn't vocal unless heard through struggled whispers. The last words you were able to repeat to me were "I love you; I love you; I love you."

    Your strength is overwhelming. You are the one drifting away yet holding it together for the rest of us somehow. This entire journey you have been incredibly strong and grateful for the time you have left. I ask your family to stay close to you as much as they can be. I want to share you in these last moments with them.

    You're facing away towards the side window. It looks towards the road everyone speeds down. Your mom, Diane, is in the red chair we always have on that side of your bed. Next to her on the ottoman is your sister Michelle. She rarely cries on the surface, but her heart has been breaking. There is no denying the pain behind her eyes. When she watches you sleep, I've been watching her, trying to read what she may be thinking. I didn't realize how much you two resemble each other until spending the last few weeks with her. You both share the same calm and collected personality. You both are strong inside and out. You may have only shared the same DNA together for the last year and a half, but you and your sister are both cut from the same cloth.

    I sit on the bed with you, tucked behind your legs. I hold my right hand with yours and place my other on your leg. If the bed was big enough like you wanted, I would hold you the way you always liked, snuggled behind you, squeezing you and nuzzling my nose into your neck to make you laugh.

    Allen, your dad, paces in the open space opposite of your mom. It has been hard for him watching you this way. It is new for him. He doesn't understand how numb I've grown to all of this, watching you wither away. I want to be strong for them, for you. He settles in the blue chair set up where he can rub your back. He gently runs his hand through your hair while telling you he loves you and how much he will miss you, his baby boy.

    Two hours ago, he and I adjusted your body just like we have been doing every hour. It was time to change the position you had been lying in. He notices the purple discoloration in your knees after we pull the sheet down. With pain in his eyes, he realizes what is happening. Your hospice nurse told us what to look for when the time was coming. Cold hands, discoloration on the palm of your hands and bottom of your feet, or rapid breaths between moments of no breaths at all.

    Your body has always stayed warm; your hands stayed warm until that moment... that moment my heart broke in pieces over and over again. Around this time in the afternoon, Michelle runs to her house like she has done every day for the last few weeks to shower and have dinner with her husband Gene and their two beautiful children. After your dad and I notice the discoloration of your skin, I sent a text to Michelle. She may have only drove just half a mile since pulling out of the driveway when I told her you were turning purple. That's all I had to say. Instead of her evening routine, she grabs a clean set of clothes and comes right back.

    Together, we hold you while saying our own silent goodbyes. Your breathing is steady and growing shallow. You're not making the slight gasping sounds like before. I've grown a habit of watching your chest rise and fall the last 27 days. Your jaw moved with every breath until now.

   "He's not breathing anymore." My voice, too hushed. Your parents fail to make sense of what I said. In a silent panic, I look to your sister, and she saw it too.

    "His jaw isn't moving anymore." She explains through her pain.

Silence.

"No, there it is." Your dad's hand feels for the small rise of your last breath on your chest, kisses your head then he rests his head to yours.

    There were moments between you and I where you would wake up and ask me, "How much longer?" I would hold you and say, "I don't know honey, that is up to you and God. It's okay if you need to let go."

    When someone goes into hospice, you get the pleasure in reading about what you should say to a soul that is still holding on in every "end of life" manual given to you or through an internet search. You let your loved one know it is okay to "let go now." You reassure them that "everything will be okay." You tell them you love them, and you will see each other again someday. I told you some of those things when I thought you needed it to be said.

"It's okay son, you can go, it's okay."

    The moment your dad whispered those heart wrenching words, you were able to let go. I should have known better than to think it was me who needed to say it was okay to go because you could never really let me go. Even when I would say those words in different ways to you, it almost seemed as if it annoyed you. The love you have for me has become more evident from this moment on.

    The four of us hold you with pain for every tear shed in the deafening silence of the night. We stay this way by your side while you reach those pearly gates.

    I am not ready for this. We didn't get to do all the plans we wished for. We haven't got to build a life together. We didn't get enough time, honey. I don't want to live this life without you. There is no life without you. Slowly watching you die... happened too fast. I couldn't save you. You have been drowning in poison yet still made plans to ensure I would be taken care of when you're gone.

Life after you will be different. Pain will challenge us. Demons the darkness creates in our mind will test us. We made you promises we intend to keep. You left a true mark on this world Jay. We have a hell of a love story worth sharing.

Learning how to live a life without you is a battle we will fight in your memory.

This battle inside my head... will be my worst enemy. I have a life to live after you lost yours but without you... I don't see how I can survive. I can't cheat my way to be with you again. You made sure to leave everything behind for me as an ultimatum to fight, Jay. You have always known what I need, it is no surprise you made plans to make sure I'd survive.

Always, -S.