I Closed My Eyes

I closed my eyes and spoke to you in a thousand, silent ways. – Rumi

Doug’s last days were quiet ones. He spent his last month on the oncology floor at Suburban Hospital in Bethesda, Maryland. As he had a few short stays in Suburban prior to this last, we assumed it would be another short trip – an infection, course of antibiotics, and home.

That was not to be. Days stretched to weeks. Surgery we hoped would provide relief and an path back to treatment proved to be too much. There would be no return to chemo. We chose palliative care.

Doctors spoke in less urgent tones. Nurses kept the door mostly closed. Family and friends came and comforted and knew. His phone, which seemed at times to be an extension of himself, sat uncharacteristically still. I spent hours in a creaky recliner trying so hard not to shift positions too much lest the noise disturb.

As Doug slept, my heart spoke volumes. I tried to envision where he was and where he was heading. For as much as I did not want him to leave, and he did not want to go, it helped to think about what, and who, waited for him.

Doug loved to kayak on our trips to Maine, as did his Dad. I imagine him kayaking in a setting something like this, with his Dad right at his side. This made the hard moments a little less so.