Five years ago today, March 16, 2019, I lost the ability to be held in my husband John’s arms. From that day forward, I have only been able to hold him in my heart and mind.
On Aug. 29, 2016, John was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, the same dreaded disease that killed my young father. At that point, I knew enough about this illness to believe it was likely fatal.
That realization sickened me, and fearing just how he might die frequently consumed me.
This article will focus on the day of his death. I am sharing my memories of this time to help others who may be similarly situated, because I have always believed that knowledge is power.
It began late at night on March 8, 2019. We were both sleeping when suddenly he sat up and started vomiting. When I tried to speak to him, he seemed disoriented.
Thankfully, two of our sons were in the next room. I called out to them, they called their youngest brother, and then we called 9-1-1. Together, we went to the ER, where we were met by our fourth son.
Throughout the next four days, we — along with John’s best friend, Jim, and our daughters-in-law as they could — stayed by his bedside, not out of obligation but out of a desperate need to spend as much time as possible with him and each other.
On Wednesday, our young granddaughter was brought in because she wanted to give her “Bubba” a kiss. John felt her kiss, smiled as much as he could, called her by name, and told her he loved her.
By Saturday, I had us moved into a larger room where I could roll my bed right next to his and lie beside him. That morning, I placed my head on his chest and positioned the pillows in such a way that he could hold me.
Holding each other like that had always been very important to us, and each night as we did so, he would remind me of that by saying, “This is my favorite part of the day.”
Laying there that day, I also placed one ear bud in each of our ears and together we listened to our favorite songs.
Sometime later that morning I got on top of him and placed a knee on each side of his still beautiful body. Soon I laid down on top of his chest and began kissing his face and neck.
At times, I would sit up to give him a hand massage, moisten his mouth or put lotion on his lips.
At some point I felt his breathing change. I laid on top of him, our family gathered around us, and Jim took his hand.
Soon Jim said, “Oh, Joyce…” and I knew John had passed. I sat up, looked at my beloved’s face, and saw the greatest gift anyone could give their family at that moment.
To understand the magnitude of this gift, it’s critical to know that two days earlier, a nurse removed his pads, replaced his bedding with soft blankets, and assured us she could do so because he had no more water left in his body.
It turned out she was wrong.
Because at the moment of his death, John shed one single tear, giving us all that he could give to let us know, one last time, that he loved us and was sad to leave.