The Last Goodbye

by prettybluebirds

The year 2018 was a tough one for me. There was no doubt that my husband was dying. Desmer, my husband, had spent most of the previous year in doctor's offices or the hospital. At eighty-nine, Des had remained a go-getter until bleeding ulcers and colon cancer struck him a double whammy and knocked him on his butt.

I am sixteen years younger than my husband and was his sole caregiver. Years of farming left me in good physical condition, so it had been no problem for me to care for Des and lift him when he needed aid. "We can manage just fine, thank you," I answered those who suggested Des should be in a nursing home. On top of that, I promised Des I would never send him away and intended to keep my word. He wished to die at home.

We were doing fine. Des liked to go for rides, so I would help him into the truck and drive around the countryside or maybe stop and get ice cream. Our dog, Pup, rode with us, and we shared our ice cream with her. It was a quiet, good time. Des knew his time was short, and I think he liked to ride around and observe the places where he spent most of his life.

Then catastrophe! In early May, I woke in the middle of the night with the most excruciating pain I had ever experienced. I mean, seriously, I have had broken bones that were nowhere near the level of pain I suffered at that time. It was in my lower back. I don't believe even childbirth hurts as bad. I gasped with pain and struggled to get out of bed. Pain shot down my left leg when my feet hit the floor, and I had to lean against the wall until it eased a little. It seemed to let up after I moved around a bit, so I hoped it was only a nasty charlie horse and would go away soon. It didn't.

I fought the pain for a couple of weeks before I gave in and went to a doctor. The doctor, Norma, gave me a prescription for the pain medicine called Narco, which gave me a lovely high but didn't do much for the pain. My life became a nightmare of misery and sleepless nights. It was almost unbearable, but I continued to care for Des through it all.

Norma then referred me to an orthopedic surgeon and ordered an MRI scan to determine what was causing my pain. It took two months to secure an appointment with the surgeon, Mark, who pointed out three herniated discs in my lower back. Then more waiting. Mark suggested shots in my spine, which didn't work; he tried various prescriptions, which didn't work; I felt like the proverbial guinea pig. Finally, Mark tried steroid therapy which helped tremendously but was unsafe as a long-term solution.

At last, Mark said, "Do you want me to fix your back?" Duh, why did he think I was there in the first place? Mark scheduled surgery for January seventeen, 2019.

Desmer's health continued to decline, so I did my best not to let him know how much pain I was suffering. I still took him for rides until he became too weak to make it to the truck. In November, I called an ambulance to rush Des to Mercy Hospital when his pain became too much for him to bear. He was there for two days and begged me to take him home daily. I explained to the doctor how Des wished to die at home, and he agreed to release him with Hospice care and morphine for the pain. On December first, 2018, my friend and partner of thirty years died quietly at home.

My back surgery took place at the appointed time, and my life improved considerably. Yes, I missed my husband, but he undoubtedly was in far more pain than I was, with no hope for a cure. I'm sure he is free of the agony he endured for so long.

The last year with my husband was indeed one of the schools of hard knocks in life. I learned two things from that long, challenging year of pain and sadness: I'm stronger than I thought I could be, and a person can live with a lot of physical and mental pain for someone they love.

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School of Hard Knocks contest entry