MAID minus three - Friday, November 16, 2018
The day starts as any other - I get a walk in and relieve Tessie from her bedside position. Then meds and smoothie. I clear our schedule of the now unnecessary blood work appointment leaving the morning mercifully open, broken up periodically by two fingers in the air from the smoking room. The request for me to dole out cigarettes has tapered but hasn’t stopped. A few days ago - before the decision to book MAID - he’d emptied a carton and sweet-talked me into going to the store to buy another. I used his debit card but the act still felt dirty, like somehow I was complicit in this addiction that’s killing him.
Alexa texts me early to let me know she’s spoken to her brothers, Bartek and Mikolaj, about Monday and they are organizing flights to Canada. I tear up when I read it.
I tackle the pressing and important question when I see a moment of alertness: “Who do you want in the room when you die, Jack?”
“You,” he pauses. “The kids.”
“Of course. And I have great news. The boys are booking flights!”
“Nice.” He’s had a fraught relationship with the children of his first marriage, men who grew up from the boys he left in Poland in 1986. His weak grin tells me he’s thrilled they’ll take the time from their busy lives to come one more time - they were just here a month ago.
“Anyone else?” I nod encouragingly.
“And dear Stanley.” He’s barely audible.
“I know he’ll like that.” My heart’s breaking thinking of telling his 90 year old uncle of Jack’s decision. Stanley and his wife were at our elopement two and a half years ago. They came to sit with him a couple of weeks ago when I took time away for a work commitment. He’s Jack’s father figure and a good friend to me too. I will make this call - Jack’s done all the telling he’s going to do.
“Jolka,” he continues, using his pet name for his sister here in Toronto.
“OK, I’ll invite her.” Another difficult call for other reasons. Jolanta and I are not close. I’ve found ways to let the siblings hang out in the last weeks but her views on alternative cancer treatments don’t mesh with Jack’s or mine and I feel she thinks I’ve given up on Jack. I’ve left every recent encounter feeling judged although I can’t imagine that’s her intention.
“That’s probably good, Jack, right? With Dennis [Alexa’s husband], Brigit [Stanley’s wife], and Roma [Jolanta’s daughter and her support], that’ll be 10 of us.”
He nods. “Enough.” The thinking has exhausted him. He’s asleep in seconds.
Truth is, I’m anxious about how many people I want in the room on Monday. I know we could hold more - a month ago, we served dinner for 65 from this room. Jack would probably be happy with that number on Monday. But this is not a party and I’m feeling overwhelmed. I don’t need to say it. He always senses my limits. (Damn, I’ll miss that.)
I move to the first floor to let Jack rest and make the calls, leaving the soothing sound of Netflix for company. Stanley and Jolanta understand Jack’s decision. The doctor is scheduled for 6 pm so they will be here in the early afternoon. I’m selfishly planning a quiet morning with Jack before I have to share him with those who knew him long before I joined the clan, and in some cases, even before I was born. Final tally - 9 plus Jack. (Stanley will make the trip from Barrie solo.)
I turn then to my own needs. First call - my niece. I don’t have the kinds of family bonds Jack has but Laura, just 10 years my junior, is a close friend. I call her during the workday - she will understand the intrusion.
“Laura, Jack’s made his decision to die on Monday. I am going to organize the celebration of his life on Thursday. Can you come on Monday and stay for a few days? I’d really like your company.” For this, she’ll ditch work and leave Stratford where she and her wife live. She and Elizabeth can figure out logistics.
Quick texts to friends, Liz and Mieke, to confirm Jack’s plan and ask if they too can be on standby for Monday night. No surprise - I’ve already warned them I would need my people nearby if this came to fruition. I’m worried about Alexa and Tomek and what support they will need - their mother, Ingrid, perhaps? I let Susan, a neighbour and good friend, know of Jack’s plan and ask if she will host the supports - Mieke, Liz, Ingrid (if she wants), and Laura - so they can all come to the house after Jack has died. Of course she agrees. Susan, Mieke, and Liz were three of the four powerhouse women who worked tirelessly serving at Alexa and Dennis’ wedding reception. More recently, they have come to Jack-sit, allowing me mental health breaks . You don’t get better friends.
“Jack, I’ve brought us soup,” I announce, descending the stairs an hour later, a steaming cup of Knorr pickle soup in each hand. He sits up a little and we eat together. His analytic side has enjoyed calculating the way food should hit the back of his throat to ease it going down. His early successes have waned. Nearly each of his sips now is punctuated by paroxysms of choking. We’ve gone from “live to eat” to “eat to live” in just a few weeks. While I once upped my cooking game to meet Jack’s increasingly exacting palate, I now reach for packaged food, often Polish. I caught Jack chuckling, seeing me delight at my once form-fitting jeans now sagging off my bum. He laughs because I’ve regularly railed about the unreasonable body standard women are held to. Regardless, this is not a recommended weight loss strategy. My collar bones are like bookends to our relationship - they last emerged in the lovesick stage when we first met and now they protrude again at the heartbreaking end.
After our meagre lunch, we wait for the nurse. When we were first assigned at-home nursing in October, they came weekly. Our primary nurse was a merry Russian woman, assigned, we guessed, because Russia is near Poland. Jack laughed about it because although geographically close, he could not have felt further from Russians, having lived under a Soviet-style regime until he emigrated. Despite his initial hesitation, Jack and this nurse share a worldview that I dont’, stemming from early years of deprivation and totalitarianism. I like to see him kibitzing with her as he always has with women. He walks the line just short of flirting. It’s never bothered me - Jack couldn’t be more committed to us although this feature did not fly well with wives #1 and #2.
Nurses come daily now to take Jack’s vitals and give him a shot of Lovenox, a blood thinner to stop clots like the one they found on November 1. We are not on someone’s regular roster anymore but each arrival is warm and professional. I can’t imagine the toll it must take on them to care for only those who are near death. They’ve offered to teach me how to shoot that needle into Jack’s belly but I love to have these nurses here, even for a short period of each day, so I am not on high alert for a medical crisis. I can relax from the role of caregiver to partner.
His vitals are pretty constant but each entry in Jack’s medical chart confirms my own observations: flagging energy and inconsistent lucidity. I am worried about the capacity test on Monday.
I look at my phone’s calendar and see that I decided days ago he should shower tonight. It’s been some time since he’s bothered with hygiene. Thankfully he put a bench in the shower stall when we first moved in - it doubles as a steam sauna - so it’s a safe environment when he gets there. But I don’t have the energy for the battle to convince him it’s necessary followed by the physical struggle to get him from bed to the shower stall.
Instead we sink into an evening of Netflix. I wait anxiously for Tessie’s arrival. She doesn’t know it, but this will be her last overnight.
