Personal Journal

My Love is Gone, coninued

I cannot fathom how this has happened.
Jean lies on her bed in the room next to me, no longer breathing.
She died at 12:30 Friday morning, with me at her side, and our friends Amy and Brenda. Her final hours were tough on her body, but not on her mind or spirit, I believe.

I feel remorse for this: I wanted so much for her to stop struggling for breath - she did so for 5 and a half hours until finally I said to the women that it was taking a toll on my nerves. I don't know if they suggested or if I did, for me to go downstairs and rest for a spell, and that they would call me up when it was time.

They called me up just in time. I got to the top of the stairs, I think I took her hand, and she took two more breaths and was gone. I wonder if she felt abandoned? I feel sick for having slept. But I was there in the end, as I promised I would be.

To be angry at myself is probably common. I carried so much weight in this, I should'nt fault myself for 30 minutes rest. But I regret it right now.

The nurse came to help prepare Jean. We put her in a business suit that I picked out; gray with a pink blouse - very nice if I do say so myself. It was a blouse I bought for her as a surprise and that she wanted but couldn't get for herself one day. I got it later that same day, right color, right size.

The councilor helped me with understanding what to do next. I'm going to spend some time with her and watch the sunrise. And I'm going to make some phone calls - many many phone calls. And then she will go to the mortuary where she will be cremated - well - first I have to see if her brother wants to have a last visit with her - which I suspect he will not.

I'm angry.
I'm angry we never got to take a trip to Florida.
I'm angry she never got to see the Jersey shore again.
I'm angry she never got to take me to Vegas.
I'm angry we never got to go to New Mexico.
I'm angry that she was deprived the vindication of surviving with this cancer for more than a year and slapping one of the doctors she had seen in the face with her defiance of his prediction.
I'm angry I'm never going to walk by her sitting on the couch to have her stop me by throwing open her arms and saying demandingly, "Kissy!"
I'm really angry about that.

I'm angry that the one woman who I could relate to on so many levels is just plain gone, and I have no way to ever hear a message from her again.