When I went to bed that night, I was cold.  Really fucking cold. It was a cool Nov 2 but more than that, emotional fragility and exhaustion had driven icicles right to my bones. I had also been spending most of my time with Jack in the basement where he had the heat cranked. The pilot light within him had already expired as he inched towards death. 

In that chilly bed, despite fatigue I’d never experienced before, I struggled to sleep. I was wearing the beautiful pyjamas I’d bought in case Jack moved to a hospice. I wanted to be sure that if I stayed with him there, I would not embarrass myself, or more likely, Jack. He was fussy about that kind of thing. While he wouldn’t have cared what he looked like, he would have wanted me to look decent - clean, evenly trimmed nails, and so on.  Funny the things he cared about. Still cared about. 

Instead, I was wearing those PJs at a friend’s house — one precious night of respite. 

It had been a rough few days with Jack. On Halloween, we’d taken a trip to the Shangri La Hotel so he could replace their steam sauna boiler. He was no longer able to lift the equipment or even walk, so I rounded up a couple of young men to replace his muscles and learn from his brain.  If they passed his exacting professional standards and showed interest, they could be the long-term solution to Jack’s worry about how his clients would manage after he died. He was fiercely loyal to them, particularly his premiere client, the Shangri La.  

Jack exited the elevator from the hotel parking Blundstones-first in his wheelchair. His shoulders crumpled a little from the weight of his leather jacket; his black knitted beanie perched on a still-jaunty angle; his silver beard was braided as he liked me to do. He smiled at staff he knew but could no longer greet them with an amusing quip. I followed him; my hands pushing the wheelchair protruded from the winter coat I’d thrown on over a sweatshirt and jeans. The sweat from the effort of getting everyone here soaked into my wool hat before it dripped into my eyes. Our two muscular young helpers followed with a trolley loaded down the steam boiler, Jack’s aluminum toolbox, and their own tools. People stood at the bar beside the elevator having pre-party martinis. No-one had costumes as convincing as ours. 

Explaining how to disconnect the outgoing boiler and install the new one to his potential successors would always have been a struggle: Jack was a doer, not a teacher. I was not surprised therefore to see him manoeuvre his body from the chair onto the floor to get a look at the electrical hookup. I knew not to help him from my court-side seat in the ladies’ change room: as he lost his ability to do things, his snappishness had increased. As his wife and caregiver, I was the most frequent target.

He lay on the floor shifting his glance between the high voltage hookups and a set of mechanical drawings beside him. After a few moments, he looked up, his eyes cloudy with confusion and fear.  

“I don’t remember how to do this,” he said, using the whisper only I could now make out. 

Death had taken out his central heating, compromised his communication systems, and was now chipping away at his circuit board. The first two affected the quality of his life. This new development, however, could change the quality of his death. He wanted control over his exit and so ten days earlier, he’d been deemed eligible for a medically assisted death.  Would he make the decision to die with medical assistance while he still had the required mental capacity to consent? 

My heart broke for us both, right there in the Shangri La change room.   

We left the Shangri La with the job incomplete, my excuse to Jack being we had to get to his CT scan that evening. I assured him we’d go back, even leaving the distinctive aluminum toolbox in the mechanical room for next time. I lied. The toolbox had had its last trip on a service call. As had Jack. 

The next morning I placated his client and connected them to the boiler manufacturer in BC, all without Jack realizing. The process of engaging my admin and advocacy skills refroze my emotions. 

Later that day, maybe it was the heat from the water thawing me a little but I became aware I was sobbing incoherently standing under the shower-head, shaking, close to falling down. Instead of calling 911, I called a friend.

“Not necessary. I’ll be OK.” I kept repeating as I tried to catch my breath through sobs. She knew I so clearly wasn’t OK and was trying to convince me she should come to help. She kept me on the phone until she finally wore me down. 

“I’ll be there shortly,” she said. 

That Halloween had broken us both. Jack knew his professional life was done. I knew, after a lifetime of doing everything myself, I had to accept help. 

I don’t know how long my friend was getting to our place or how she got there. I was just fucking relieved when she arrived. 

Calling her burst the dam and empowered me to ask Jack’s stepdaughter, Alexa, to backstop me.  

“Can you come and stay with your dad for the night?  I just need one night when I can sleep without worrying. Just one night. I can’t do it. I need a break.” I babbled a bit. 

She didn’t hesitate.  Yes.  

Next call to a neighbour.

“I need a night away from here. I need to sleep soundly. I will come after dinner and I won’t stay for breakfast.  We can drink some wine together, but mostly I need sleep.”  

“Sure,” she said. “Anything you need, anything at all.” Like everyone else, she was ready to be asked, but unsure what I needed. 

And now we both knew - I needed just a few hours off.

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