I cried for Cash. For the loss of his beautiful life. I cried for myself. For the loss of my beautiful friend. And I cried for the love that Luc and I share. For the simplicity of it, the strength of it. I cried in gratitude for all that we have, at the same time that I cried in sorrow for all that we never will.
Afterward, we got dressed and went into the house. The sight of Cash, so pale and thin, tapped a wellspring of grief deep in the heart of Luc, and something gave way.Finally.Like a levee breaking, his misery rushed over him as surely as Katrina rushed over New Orleans all those years ago.
Through the veil of my own tears, I was glad to see his. Notgladglad. More like relieved.
He’d been trying to stay so strong, so tough, but I knew from my parents’ deaths that the only way to truly deal with grief is to give in to it. Surrender to it. Let it pull you under and tumble you around and finally spit you out.
You’re bruised and cracked and changed once you’re on the other side. But you’re still whole. And in that wholeness, a healing can begin.
Now the two of us are sitting beside Cash’s bed, listening to his labored breathing.
“The coldness is moving up his arms,” I say to the hospice nurse on duty. This one’s name is Pam.
The chill was only in Cash’s hands and feet this morning, but it’s spreading and making the skin of his arms and legs look blotchy and mottled.
“It’s normal,” Pam assures me, gently checking Cash’s IV before rubbing some ointment on his chapped lips. “This is simply part of the process.”
You never think of dying as aprocess. Mostly you think of life as a light switch. One minute, it’s on. The next, it’s off. But it doesn’t work that way for everyone. For some, it’s more like a campfire that slowly extinguishes itself. A little more of the light and the heat slipping away every day, every hour, every minute.
“Should we get some gloves to put on his hands?” I ask. “Maybe add another pair of socks?”
“No.” Pam shakes her head. “He’s not feeling the cold, or else he’d be shivering. This is just his body shutting down, inch by inch.”
“How much longer d’ya think?” Luc asks, both of his hands wrapped around one of Cash’s.
Compared to the sickly pallor of Cash’s skin, Luc’s glows with a healthy tan. Where once they were of a kind, both brawny and strong, now Luc seems a mammoth of a man, dwarfing Cash.
“Not much longer now.” Pam’s expression is kind. “I doubt he’ll last the day.”
Luc closes his eyes, and the pain in his face matches the pain in my chest.Oh, Cash… My beautiful, brave boy. My first love. My friend…
Laying my head on the bed, I place my hand over Cash’s heart. That strong, courageous heart that lived a life without excuses. That big, bold heart that taught me how to stand up and be brave, how to take risks, give my all and screw the fear.
It’s amazing how much can change in the span of a few weeks. A month ago, Cash was sick but not dying. Luc was my friend but not my lover. And I didn’t know my own mind, much less my heart.
I think of that as I listen to Cash breathe. Of how life seems to come in fits and starts. For years, it can go on much the same, and then something happens and everything changes.Youchange.
Hours slip by like minutes as I try to will the breath into Cash’s lungs. As I try to will the blood to pump through his veins. But by the time the sun sinks low, shining its dappled light through the cypress trees outside, his breathing has gone from labored but steady to noisy and irregular. The strong beat of his heart beneath my palm has turned thready and light. And then, silence…
I lift my head, staring at his sunken cheeks and bruised eyes, trying to see the life in him. When I’m about to admit the unimaginable, that Cassius Armstrong has actually died, his chest muscles expand, and he takes a huge, rattling breath.
“It’s called Cheyne-Stokes breathing,” Pam explains gently. “It means he’s nearing the end. Help me prop him up on some pillows. It can make things easier for him.”
Luc and I both rush to do as she instructs, and once Cash is situated, she pulls a syringe from her bag. “I’m going to give him a small dose of morphine,” she tells us.
My heart feels like it’s caught in a merciless iron fist. I’m not surprised my voice comes out as a bare whisper. “Is he in pain?”
“I doubt it. The morphine is to help make his breathing easier.”
“Do it,” Luc says, and we watch her administer the medication.
After she’s finished, she softly touches Cash’s cheek and whispers soothing words to him. “Talk to him,” she tells us. “Touch him. Help him along.”
Luc holds his hand, while I squeeze his shoulder and smooth his hair back from his face. We speak words of love and laughter and life, and listen in agony as his breathing stops and starts like a rusty motor winding down.
“Where are you going?” I ask Luc when he gets up.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he reassures me, pulling down the copy ofLeaves of Grassthat I gave him for Christmas.Taking a seat, he opens the book and quietly begins to recite “I Sing the Body Electric.”
