Not Even

My best friend died yesterday morning. She has been dying by inches, visibly, for the past six months. Well, the last five years, really, but there were hiatuses in the first years. Times when her hair grew back - mouse brown instead of graying blonde, straighter than a stick, but kind of elfin and cute. Times when she gained some weight back onto her 5'9" frame: got back up to 130 lbs and regained a butt. Bought flattering new pants. Time when she went back to work, but that didn't last long. Times she could eat at mealtime and wash her food down with a luscious glass of wine.

The last time she tried radiation/chemo, to try to reduce the new lump in her chest, she had to wear a mask during the radiation app. It made her claustrophobic, so they gave her Atavan or Valium or something, to take the edge off the panic. And then they burned her chest, so severely that it took months to heal. And the tumor grew, began blocking her esophagus. She had trouble swallowing, trouble breathing.

Earlier in this obscene parts harvest, she'd lost a portion of her intestines. That time, the radiation scarred the area such that her intestines couldn't be reconnected and she was left with a colostomy bag. Late last summer, because of the swallowing difficulty after the latest radiation scarring, the doctor inserted a feeding tube. In December, when the swallowing of mucous began choking her and her breathing was gurgles and gasps, she was given a tracheotomy. Only there was too much scarring in her chest for the insertion to take place where it ordinarily would. As a result, the placement was precarious and could potentially fall out.

All she wanted to do was go home to her cat and her own bed. Home she went, with 24/7 nursing care, machines that rattled, rumbled, hissed and sighed, non-stop, to keep her breathing. The cat wouldn't come into the room where the machines lurked. She couldn't get comfortable in her bed, even with a donut cushion to sit on and a ton of pillows for back and side and neck support. Because of the tracheotomy, she could no longer talk. Increasingly, writing her requests and comments tired her.

The first time the trach tube fell out, 911 was called and she was transported to the hospital, where the tube was reinserted. The second time, her son was called and he came over, found her flat and unresponsive, reinserted the tube and brought her back to consciousness. That was the day she told him she wanted to die. The third time the trach tube came out, she'd chosen her 4:30 a.m. time well and had managed to slough off this mortal coil before anyone could snatch her back.

I don't believe she's gone, yet. I don't know what to do without her.