The view from 14B is really something. The whole west of the city is sprawled out in front of us. You can see for miles (and miles and miles and miles and miiiiiiles). I've seen a lot of different skies from this window.
The other day, when there were snow flurries, I couldn't see anything out the window, only white. I could make out nothing of the streets & buildings I knew were out there. Some evenings the sunset is incredible - Bright red (sailors delight!), the sky has on a couple of occasions looked like a giant jug of Tang. I can see the lake from here & everyday, since we've been here (2 months now), it has looked cold & mean. Choppy.
Right now, the sky is perfectly clear, dark (of course, it is night). I can see lit up neighborhoods far, far away.
Looking out this window is often very reflective of the kind of day we're having inside this room.
I've known for a while Gord would not 'bounce back' from this the way he has miraculously recovered from so many other things he's had to suffer through over the last 5 years. Numerous pneumonias, fungal lung infections galore, blood infections, H1N1, a MASSIVE blood clot spanning all along the whole entire length of his right leg, and the worst of it all, the 3+ years of grueling treatment (chemo, radiation, more chemo, more chemo, a short interlude - time enough for us to regroup & remember there is more to life than clinic visits & then,..... more chemo, more chemo) to 'cure' him. Not once did I ever think 'this time he won't make it.' Not like this time.
For the last 2 months Gord has begged to help him get out of here. I'd try to explain it to him & he'd nod & then say 'Okay, so get the scissors & Cut Me Out of here!' Last night I began thinking about 'what should happen next'. He's not going to recover from this, I've known it for a long time but I guess I was just holding out for some hope, who wouldn't? We were/are ALL hoping for a little tiny miracle. I know Gord's wishes, and what was happening was in no way part of them.
So this morning I came to the hospital early. Still sleepy, I curled up (as much as you *can* curl up in the hospital recliners) and slept beside him. Laboured breathing, a weak cough, infection in the lungs but not enough energy to cough out the bad stuff. Painful even to listen to. When we were both awake, we talked - like, THE talk. The talk I've been trying to have with him for a while not but he just wasn't ready (neither was I, really). "I thought about it last night. I'm ready to quit."
Treatment has stopped. Now it is about making Gord comfortable & happy. It's all I've ever wanted for him since the beginning of this nightmare. I'm so, so thankful that he helped me to make this decision.
I didn't think this was how our story was going to unfold, I really didn't.
I'm with him, beside him, not leaving. Listening to his favourites, being taken good care of by the absolutely amazing staff here at PMH who have come to know & love Gord as well.
My next post is going to be a bunch of clips I've been watching tonight from his 'boomselection' folder of favourite sound system & reggae clips. Join me in celebrating him & wishing him absolute peace and strength. Hold our dear, dear Gord close to you during this next little while. He's had one hell of a time.