We’ve waited.
We’ve paced the length of the house.
We’ve gone outside for fresh air, and Dessin holds me as I scream.
Because how could God punish such a kind old man? A man who has dedicated half his life to caring for my family and me? A man who visits Niles’s grave every single day with fresh flowers from his garden. A man who goes to Marilynn’s house every morning to cook her breakfast and make sure she’s eating plenty of nutritious foods. A man who went to the library and read dozens of books on herbs that he could grow in his garden for chronic pain relief and made it into a supplement Ruth could take for her inflammation.
Why would God hurt such a wonderful man so badly?
These days have been quite difficult for Sapphire as well. Her postpartum has been brutal on her, and visiting Chekiss while he’s in such a deteriorating state has sent her in a depression.
And even though I see Dessin go on walks at night, rapid cycling through his many alters—he avoids telling me about how hard this is on his system. My husband will do anything in his power not to add on to the burden of loss we all have felt. He will bottle it up. He will walk his desolate road alone if he means sparing those he loves.
If God is watching this all unfold, he is too quiet.
“I miss hearing your laugh, Chekiss,” Ruth comments, massaging his limp hand.
He nods in agreement, blinking slowly as sleep tugs at his eyelids again. Chekiss breathes as shallowly as he can muster, because he knows the deeper he takes in a breath, the harder he’ll cough from the fluid splattering around in his lungs.
“You made a promise to me years ago that you’d outlive us all, Chek,” Warrose says, and although his words are dipped in humor—the worry lines on his forehead are abysmal and haunting.
Chekiss smiles and shakes his head, patting the back of Warrose’s arm lovingly.
This goes on into the night, and we do our best to keep Chekiss comfortable. I bring him hot tea with Honey of the Valley that Ruth brought from Vexamen. But nothing helps the panic of drowning internally.
Eventually, all that’s left is me, Dessin, Marilynn, Warrose, Ruth, and DaiSzek.
Dessin checks his pulse and looks up at us with that wise gaze I’ve been hoping for and dreading. It’s a confusing feeling. I can’t stand the thought of living without Chekiss. But as I’ve watched him grow weaker, endure long nights of no sleep from choking on his on phlegm, it’s hard not to wish for a merciful end.
I sigh as Chekiss’s eyelids flutter open.
We all stiffen as he needs assistance to sit up and cough wetly, then heave and spew his soup back up into the bucket Warrose holds for him. Ruth weeps to herself as she holds one of Chekiss’s feet in her hands.
He gasps repeatedly, the sound bubbles and sloshes, thick and sticky. Each panicked breath trying to push past glue. There’s a river of mud trapped inside him. And I want to help, to do anything. But all I can do is pray to a God who won’t listen. My hands fumble and claw into my own chest, unable to breathe because he can’t.
“Chekiss, please let me take you to the void so you won’t have to hurt!” I blurt out in a long sob. I can’t take this anymore! None of us can.
But Chekiss shakes his head. I thought that maybe in the end, when it got bad enough, he’d change his mind. But my father by choice is stubborn and didn’t want to miss a single moment with all of us together.
“No!” he yells, gurgling against the slow drowning.
He spoke.
Chekiss’s eyes water as he stares ahead, blinking past tears, and completely fixated on a focal point beyond the door.
“Oh my god…” he rasps, grabbing on to Dessin’s wrist and my forearm.
“Oh, Chekiss, please, please let me—”
But Chekiss begins to cry, loud, beautiful, happy tears.
“I see my wife!” He falls against the bed with a peaceful smile. “I see my daughter.”
For the first time since he got sick, the joy in the room flourishes, and I can feel God’s presence again.
“Oh! Skylenna!” he coughs, beside himself with delight.
“Yes?” The light of heaven spills over our family, invisible to us, but not to Chekiss.
