The Last Night

This is the one I have dreaded to write.

She woke up about 1:00 AM, uncomfortable, not able to breathe. I called the night shift nurse. He asked her if she hurt. I think she said, "No." He gave her a dose of morphine, maybe mixed with Haldol.

We sat beside her bed, him on one side holding one hand, me on the other side, holding her other hand. She asked him if she was dying. Without hesitating, his craggy pirate's face calm but infinitely sad, he said maybe. She stared at him, transfixed. She was still afraid. But something was different. She wondered if she would see a light. He said some people do. Then he smiled and nodding at the large TV in front of her bed, noted that the last thing some people see is whatever is on television at the time.

Her blue eyes, now brighter than I had ever seen them and more alert, darted around the room, seeming to take it all in, as if she was saying to herself, this is where I will die. This is my last view of the world. My sister (who died not far from the motel room on the Outer Banks where I sit writing this) had the same look in her blue eyes not long before she lost consciousness for the last time.

After a while the nurse left us alone. I am not exactly sure what we said. I told her that it was OK to for her to die now but that if she wanted to stay a while I would prefer that. She leaned up from the bed, kissed me on the forehead and said that she loved me. I kissed her on the forehead and said that I loved her. She told me repeatedly to look after Yancie. I said that I would. I think she also said something about Yancie looking after me.