El Apartamento de al Lado

I want to tell you that your serenity and humor were a gift throughout our time together.

We didn’t do traditional wedding vows, but we definitely lived the full gamut—better and worse, rich and poor, sickness and health, loving and cherishing—and here we are at the till death do us part phase.

I was listening to a podcast recently, and a Buddhist hospice chaplain talked about whispering into the ear of the dying, “Don’t panic.” It reminded me of how peaceful your transition was. When friends and hospice workers came to the apartment to visit, they always commented on how soothing it felt in your room.

I thought, too, about the time you were at Emory after a craniotomy, when you started tanking. I knew you were tanking, but the neurology ICU doctor completely ignored my concerns and discharged you to step-down. These things always seem to happen on weekends or holidays. This was a Friday afternoon, and despite my insistence, the ICU neurologist refused to address what I was seeing.

So I called the neurosurgeon’s outpatient clinic before they closed for the weekend—and by some miracle, I got through to someone who relayed my concerns to the neurosurgeon, an amazing healer. He contacted the hospital staff directly. His PA came to the room and spoke with me, and shortly after that, the neurosurgeon himself called.

He told me that if I was concerned, then he was concerned, and that we should do a scan. He ordered it.

It took a while to get the scan done. When the results came back, they showed pneumocephalus—large pockets of air trapped inside your skull, pushing your brain around and creating dangerous pressure. You had the worst midline shift I had ever seen, and I had seen many frightening images of your brain over the years.

The ICU staff rushed into action. Treatment for pneumocephalus is slow, but it began.

I think it was the second day after treatment started when you regained consciousness. You opened your eyes. I asked how you were feeling, and you said you were glad to see me.

You told me you knew I was waiting for you—that you knew I would be here when you got back.

I asked where you had been. You said you had been in the apartment next door for a long time, but you didn’t mind waiting. You even laughed, remembering how funny that seemed to you, since you are always so impatient and hate to wait.

I asked what the apartment next door was like. You described it as luxurious and restful, all white, with walls of windows filled with light. I know how much you love light. You said you spent your time there simply enjoying it—looking into the light—until the door between that apartment and this room opened, and you knew it was time to come back.

Holding your hand, high-pressure oxygen rushing into your exhausted brain, I told you I was glad you came back.

It was a sweet, shivery moment. I felt humbled by your confidence that I was here for you, and by your desire to come back to me.

Now, when I question myself as a caregiver, I can return to that moment. I can remember the significance of your trust while you were still in this world.

After the three days of horror at Mission HCA, I am grateful that your final days were peaceful—filled with beauty, light, and music—and that your presence and the environment you created were calming to everyone who entered the room.

In moments of guilt and self-doubt, I can take refuge in that peace. I can take refuge in the sad sweetness and tender magic of your final breath, and in your last heartbeat with my head resting on your chest.

Thank you for making our final moment together in this world loving, connected, and filled with light.

Namaste―

A Sanskrit word of greeting meaning “I bow to you” often translated for Westerners as “I honor the place within you where the entire Universe resides; I honor the place within you of love, of light, of truth, of peace; I honor the place within you, where, when you are in that place in you, and I am in that place in me, there is only one of us.”