The Last Hour

I have spent my days readying our lives for a future without Philip. My brain is on board but my heart is not buying any of it. It is sequestered away. Fifty times a day I ponder the inconceivability of Philip’s gone-ness. I purposefully go back to our last hours to convince myself. I picture our last embrace but there is no convincing. It is all too impossible. The truth is hard to swallow. The pit of my stomach churns in an effort to spit it out.

So, I thought, perhaps, if I write down our last hour together, maybe I will convince my heart to move on… 

That last hour begins in June of 2020 when  Philip received a diagnosis of Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia. He treated it like it was no big deal but I was an explosion of fear so we gathered our boys. We would face it together.

Fast forward to December 31, 2020. Philip had continued to work and bike the whole chemo time. He was a fit fighter with excellent tumor reduction and we were looking forward to the scans that would prove he was cancer free. We greeted the New Year with celebration!

Two days later, after a hunt with friends, he came home sick…He was admitted and then intubated 2 weeks later.

My sister, Sally, so sensitive to the Holy Spirit, came out to hold me up on February 4. The next day, the boys and I had plans for our first in person visit with Philip since he had been hospitalized a month before. Sally and I had just finished dinner when the ICU called. We needed to come. It wasn’t good.

Joe and I went in first. Sweet Joe wore his Prime baseball hat and brought another for his dad. We turned it inside out to make it a Rally cap; something the baseball team did when they were behind but determined to win. 

Dave and Pete came next. We were only allowed two visitors but our lovely RN “S” made an exception for us. Heidi and the grandkids were there by phone. After a time, the boys made plans to return in the morning. I stayed.

“S” in her beautiful compassion encouraged me to stay as long as I wanted, (also not the rules.)

As Philip’s oxygen levels dropped, I rubbed his back, head and arms. I hugged him. I read him letters written by David and me. I read him the incredible texts from his family and friends throughout the month of struggle.The playlist I had created to sing myself through cancer, I now sang to him and then, I sang him into the arms of Jesus as I let him go. 

He was gone shortly after midnight on February 5.

I did not want him to go but it was the right thing to do even if it was going to happen with or without my consent.  Of course,  I cried so hard, my abdominal muscles spasmed in my core until I could physically cry no more.

I remained silent for a time, holding his hand, grateful his suffering was over. Living in a kind of bereft nothingness while, at the very same time, feeling the immensity of the gift I had been given. The gift of saying goodbye; of being present at such a lovely, sweet, gentle passing.  

After awhile, I wasn’t  sure what to do next. How long do I stay? Will I regret it if I leave?

When I looked up it was 1:11am. It’s what I have always called my party minute or triple Pillars two dots. In college, we would take that one minute to party before going back to work. It was just like him to go in time for his ultimate party minute. 

I picture him tossing a penny into the hand of Jesus and with his brilliant smile and a wink telling Jesus “Well done, Good and Faithful Servant. Thank You, Jesus, for Your service.”

Anne

March 24, 2021