MAID minus two - Saturday, November 17, 2018

The factory set ring of the iPhone beside my head knocks me out of the state that is reserved for the mentally and emotionally wiped out. As I get it to my ear, I note the time: 12:17. I’ve been asleep for about 45 minutes. 
“Tessie, is Jack OK?” 

“He wants you.”

With the phone wedged between my shoulder and ear in that position that makes chiropractors cringe, I’m already halfway down the stairs in the hospice-ready pyjamas I bought last weekend on a brief outing with a friend. The hospice move seemed likely then. But scheduling MAID for Monday meant I declined an open bed yesterday. The timing was perfect - if they’d offered it a day or two earlier, I might have invoked my POA for personal care and moved Jack, contrary to his wishes. Hospices don’t allow MAID and Jack wants to stay right here. I turned it down holding my breath that the 56 hours of PSW care that came with putting him on a waitlist wouldn’t evaporate. But Tessie still came last night allowing me to enter the state of unconsciousness from which she’d just pulled me. 

“Jack!” I exclaim as I enter the basement. “What’s up?” He’s never asked for me during the night before. 

His look is tortured, troubled, confused. 

“Are you in pain?”

He shakes his head as expected. Jack’s cancer has been pain-free, fingers crossed. Or Jack has withstood it silently. You never know with someone so stoic. Instead, his suffering comes from the serious worry that he’ll choke to death on food, drink, or his own saliva.

“I missed my appointment,” he replies.  

“Jack, I would never let you miss an appointment,” wondering what he’s talking about. I’ve always been the one to manage the calendar; he is not well-suited to such things.

He pulls me closer, “Dr. Weiss?” His wide eyes seek comfort. Tables have turned - Jack’s the first person ever to label me panicky but he’s been right. Now I have to muster the calming voice he’s so often used on me.  

“No, Jack, he’ll come Monday. Today is just Saturday. I promise I won’t let you miss your appointment. Want me to crawl into bed for a sec?” 

He nods. I make the now-familiar but still awkward horizontal scootch from the foot of his hospital bed, into the gap between him and the edge of the bar. It’s the bar where we’ve hosted so many parties or just enjoyed an evening brandy together during our seven years here. I haven’t even had time to consider that he will die beside the bar. It’s just the spot where the bed fit, equidistant between his smoking room and his bathroom. 

He falls asleep quickly with my arm around him and after a few moments, I reverse out of my spot, wave goodnight at Tessie, and go back up the stairs. Jack has always been an erratic sleeper, emblematic of his lack of inbuilt schedule, so different from my ordered life. Jack prepared me for tonight with many late-night wake-ups in our years together. I fall into bed and I’m out. 

___

The day begins anew a few hours later. I walk and then relieve Tessie from her post. As she’s leaving, I hesitate but decide against telling her she won’t see Jack again. Her employer, St. Elizabeth’s, is a faith-based agency and on principle, won’t have any part in MAID. While the nurses are also St. Elizabeth staff, I haven’t felt their judgment about Jack’s MAID decision.  Tessie reads her bible during the night though, suggesting to me MAID might not gel with her views. While it’s likely she will never see us again, I wouldn’t want to put her in an uncomfortable position if Jack fails the capacity test on Monday and we need her services again. 

She leaves saying, “see you next week.”  

“Thank you.” I reply, nodding but not comfortable lying.

We are two days away from Jack’s planned death but the morning is remarkably unremarkable. We eat a little. Jack smokes a little. We watch a little Netflix. I do a little Sudoku. We talk a little.  

Alexa calls me mid-morning. After years of most of the communication being to 416-917-9997, Jack’s cell number which will be forever etched in our memories, she’s taken to ringing me. Talking to Jack is tough now. Indeed, for such an avid cellphone user, several times he’s announced his phone wasn’t working, all worrying evidence of his deteriorating mental acuity. 

“Hi, how’s daddy today?” she asks. 

“Yeah, he’s OK. No change really.” I don’t tell her of his midnight anxiety about missing MAID. I know the things he would and wouldn’t want his kids to know. “You are coming later, right?” 

“Yup, late in the afternoon.” She pauses and then restarts, “my mom wondered if she could come this afternoon.” It’s my turn to pause at this unexpected turn of events. 

Ingrid and I had a rocky start. Our time with Jack did overlap a bit, if only technically, although I don’t know if she knows. Jack and I met in October 2009 while they still shared a house. I’ve no reason not to believe Jack’s assurance that they had not shared a bed for some time. By February 2010, Ingrid moved to her own condo. She remained co-owner of the house and made it clear there were to be no women there. I can’t blame her - her kids still lived with their dad. 

The first time I encountered Ingrid was brief and unpleasant. Jack and I had met at a cinema closer to his house than to my condo. After the show, he invited me for a cup of tea before I went home. It seemed risky, but Jack assured me no-one would be there for this, my first trip to his house. When we arrived, we sat on the porch playing with Kora, his beloved boxer. 

Suddenly he said: “Shit, Ingrid’s here.”

There was no way out of this: Ingrid and Tomek were in the driveway. Tomek got out of the car and beetled past me into the house with a “hi Celia” in my general direction. Thankfully, we’d met months ago at a Sikorski event. This would not have been a good first introduction. 

“Celia, I’d like you to meet my wife, Ingrid,” Jack said as though we were at a dinner party and I was someone else’s partner. 

I stood up, extended my hand and said, “nice to meet you,” playing along with this absurd charade. “I think I’ll be going.” I went on, and darted to my get-away-car. I backed out hearing her shout at Jack. I drove away with heart pounding and tears flowing. I hate conflict. 

Jack was in deep shit about that incident and I went back to the house only twice more in the two years before we moved in together. But With Jack and Ingrid sharing children, our paths have crossed many times since and we’ve found common ground. Only Ingrid understands what it is to be the non-Sikorski at a Sikorski event. Only Ingrid knows what it’s like to be with this lovable, complicated, and sometimes irascible man. And only Ingrid knows what it’s like to have this man as your first love.

“Hang on, Alexa. Let me ask your dad.” I mute the phone and move to the bed. “Jack, Ingrid would like to come to see you today. Is that ok?” He’s been selective about who he wants to see. He hates to see his current physical and mental state reflected back to him as pity and sadness in his visitors’ eyes.

“OK. If she wants,” he replies. “If you’re OK,” he adds. He remembers my nervousness about much earlier meetings.

“Yeah, I’m good.” I understand. If I were in her shoes, I’d want to see him too, the man who fathered my kids and with whom I built a life, even if it didn’t last. 

___

I spend two hours chatting quietly to Ingrid as Jack sleeps in the bed beside us. It’s a comfortable conversation between two middle-aged women who’ve led entirely different lives but who are connected forever by this man. I offer her a chance to be at Susan’s on Monday night so she can provide support to her kids. She agrees. She says goodbye to Jack. 

Tomek arrives soon after his mother leaves. The kids are amused that Ingrid and I have developed a relationship so he and I share a little laugh about her being here. He settles into the basement. He’s filling in for Tessie for the next two nights. No more strangers caring for Jack. I feel a weight lifting. 

Alexa comes too and brings her girls. They are little - aged 4 and 2 - so they don’t understand cancer, death, or MAID, but they love their dziadek. Even they try to be quiet in deference to the heavy air but things quickly devolve into the usual giggling and carrying on of little children. Alexa puts on a Netflix kids’ show and we all enjoy the distraction.  Jack tires very easily though and Alexa takes her cue, has her girls say ‘bye for the last time, and leaves. 

I go for my nightly walk with my neighbour, Janice, who has walked me through Jack’s illness and will one day remind me of more details than I will remember. This period has a surreal element to it that she masks beautifully, helping me normalize it. We walk, I talk, Janice listens.  

Later, Tomek returns from the corner store with All Dressed Ruffles for him and Sour Cream and Onion for me. He knows how I take my chips and with that, I feel like family. 

I go to bed without having to wait for PSW relief. Tomek stays with Jack. He doesn’t need to hear Jack’s now-mantra, “leave me alone.” He knows it.