Six of us. When I got there it was 10 faltering breaths, with 15 seconds of heart-stopping nothingness inbetween, and when I left 3 hours later it was down to 8 breaths, with 20 seconds inbetween. I had been counting, and then I noticed my dad watching the clock every time my uncle’s breaths stopped as well.
Each inhalation was an ordeal, an effort which seemed to require all his energy, yet they kept on coming. The breath made a moaning sound as it came out.
It reminded me of when babies don’t breathe in their sleep and their parents panic, thinking they’ve died. This time I think we all hoped, secretly, ‘let it be this time’. He was a fighter but he didn’t need to fight anymore. The asbestos had won this one.
I say they were his last breaths, but when I left he was still alive. I don’t think he will make it through the night though.
What a strange place to do the ol’ coil shuffle. The murmur of nurses chatting about their weekend plans, planes passing overhead every 10 minutes on their way in to land, and the chinese lady visiting the guy in the bed opposite.
He was telling her to try to enjoy herself more and not stress about work, and used the phrase ‘you’re a long time dead’. She didn’t get it so he had to repeat ’dead’ about 4 times. Nobody’s got any misconceptions, people come to this ward when they’re dying, but maybe tailor your conversation a bit when the bloke opposite is so close.
We did a toast with his favourite whiskey - ‘to his next life’ - I’m not a believer but it did feel oddly comforting.
Most of us will be there eventually.
We could be like Jim, from the next bed over, who hasn’t eaten since January and survives on water and the IV. I don’t want to go like that.
I came home to a hug from my girlfriend, and my dog’s asleep next to me on the couch. Back to normality.
I needed to just get something written, even if its just so I can remember how I feel at this point, so it doesn’t just melt away into memory.
Gonna miss you Uncle Fred, thanks for everything.
