remember me

Original date 20 March 2011

I don't want to remember how he looked that last hour, struggling to breathe as his body tried desperately to hold on to life.  I put my head on his chest to hear his heartbeat one last time before it stopped forever.  I closed my eyes and smiled as I listened to his heart beat frantically and then slow, fast and slow, fast and slow.  There was no reason to it anymore.  It used to beat for me, but not anymore.  This wasn't my heart anymore.   I didn't want his family to see me cry.  I had to be strong for them.  I was a Marine's wife after all. 

There's no crying in the Marine Corps.

I don't want to remember the moment I knew he was gone.  I was startled awake at 4 am.  I went to his side, and held his hand.  The room was warm, not hot or uncomfortable, but more like sitting in the sunshine.  I kept telling him it was okay to go, I'll be alright.  I had his family now,  and my family.  I won't be alone, and Jesus is waiting for him.  I told him to save me a spot next to him, so he had to get there first to get a good place.  He held his breath and then sighed.  I didn't feel a change, but I knew he was home.  I don't know if he smiled for I had closed my eyes.

I don't want to remember the phone call from the radiologist when he said the cancer has spread despite radiation.  Radiation was painful this time.  His face was swollen from the steroids they used to help ease the swelling in his brain.  His mask barely fit, and left red crisscrossed welts on his face.  His facial hair was falling out, so he had a defined line of demarcation down the center of his face.  It was comical.  The radiation weakened him, and he was tired.  The doctor called that last evening, the last day of treatment.  The cancer is too aggressive to control with radiation.  They can't pinpoint anything, and they feel that this isn't the right course.  He will call the oncologist and discuss his findings and see what the next step is.

I don't want to remember the look on the oncologist's face when he said there was nothing more he could do.  He was sad, rightfully so, for we tried so hard.  He was very compassionate, and very sorry.  He gave Brian some options:  do you want to continue treatment? You will have to stay in the hospital since we will be super aggressive.  Do you want to stop treatment? We will set up hospice at home.  Brian didn't want to be in a hospital anymore, so he chose hospice.  I couldn't choose for him.

I don't want to remember the breaking of my heart knowing he's lost this battle.  I don't want to remember the look on his face when he realized he's lost this battle.

I want to remember his smile.  I want to remember his laugh.  I want to remember the look in his eyes when he tells me he loves me.  I want to remember the look on his face when I burnt dinner and the smoke alarm went off and we had to turn on the fans and open the door and he laughed so hard at me because I was trying not to cry. I want to remember the feel of his hands on my face when he said it was okay, we'll order a pizza.  It was our anniversary.   I want to remember the feel of his hand in mine as we walked in the park.

I want to remember the look on his face when he held his niece, his namesake, for the first time.  I want to remember his snoring.  I want to remember his sighs. I want to remember his voice as he explained Star Wars to me....so patient and kind as I struggled to understand the different characters....I still don't get it.  I want to remember how he loved me.  I want to remember how I felt when he said he loved me.

I want to remember how patient and gentle he was with my sister's children...how he let them climb all over him and he would tease and tickle laughter out of them.  I want to remember the sound of his voice when he prayed. I want to remember his voice when he said "please remember me." 

I want to remember the look on his face when he went home....so at peace, finally.