He Dances with Angels

HE DANCES WITH ANGELS

The night my husband died in my arms did not come as a shock to me. I was prepared, or so I thought.

I had known since Thanksgiving that my husband of six months was going to die, but it still hadn’t registered. When the hospital sent Constantin home on Thanksgiving Day, they informed me that he was terminal and there was nothing more they could do for him.

Three weeks before Christmas, Constantin asked me to get a Christmas tree. I went with my daughter to select a tree, and we trimmed it and placed it where my husband could see it. I wanted to call Hospice because he was having difficulty breathing, but he was adamant; he wasn’t dying so he didn’t need Hospice. He made me promise I wouldn't call them or his brothers. It was difficult but I had to honor his wishes.

The following week, I lied to him. I told him I was going Christmas shopping, but I went with my sister to the funeral home to make arrangements. I picked out his casket and the location of the mausoleum. I chose to have an open casket, which in hindsight was probably a mistake (he had lost so much weight). The tall, fit body he had was gone, his pepper gray hair had begun to thin, and his bright hazel eyes clouded over. Making funeral arrangements was all so surreal, as though I was making the arrangements for someone else, but it had to be done. I also broke my promise and called his brothers in Greece. His older brother was so angry that I had not called sooner, but after I explained, he understood. They arrived two days later.

I had taken care of Constantin the last three weeks — changing his feeding tube, bathing him, changing his diaper — doing everything the nurses did for him at the hospital. Even though he was happy to see his brothers when they came to the house every day to help, there were some things he didn't want his brothers to do for him. He was so stubborn and prideful. He was in pain but wouldn’t take morphine; he wanted to remain coherent for his brothers. He couldn’t sleep, so I stayed up with him and read to him constantly. I wanted to be with him every minute. He promised me he wouldn't die, that the hydrazine sulfate pills   he was taking three times a day would work soon.

The cancer had spread through his entire body and he was in pain and couldn’t breathe. Three weeks ago, he adamantly refused Hospice, but today he couldn’t breathe. The fan by the bed wasn’t helping and I couldn’t watch him suffer anymore. Another one of my promises had to be broken; I called Hospice and asked them to bring over an oxygen tank as soon as possible. It was delivered and set up within a half hour.

The Hospice nurse, a stout African-American woman named Lillian, came to our house within the hour. At the door, she took my hand and said, “You need to understand that we can only make him comfortable. We cannot do anything to prolong his life. Do you understand?” I nodded yes. “Okay, then let’s go make your husband comfortable.” Nurses must be God’s angels.

Lillian smiled and took my husband’s hand. “I’m here to make you comfortable. I’m going to wash you up and change you, and then I’m going to give you something for your pain that will let you sleep.” He smiled, and I could see his body relax. Lillian cleaned him and gave him a shot of morphine and he fell asleep. “He should sleep for a few hours,” she said, and I was happy that he could finally relax and feel no pain.

But then, Lillian turned to me and asked me to sit by her. She looked in my eyes and softly said, “It won’t be long now. You need to prepare yourself.” I am prepared. I brushed away the tears and climbed in bed beside him and put my arm across his chest. His body was warm and I could hear the steady beat of his heart. I wanted to stay awake and listen to it. As long as it was beating, he was okay. But the muscles in my body relaxed, and I, too, fell asleep.

It was close to midnight on December 14th when my husband awoke. He put his hand on my arm and woke me. “I’m thirsty,” he whispered. Lillian offered to get him some water, but I told her I would go because I had to get his pill. He had dropped the dosage to one pill a day because his mom told him to in his dreams. He said he saw her holding one finger up and assumed she meant to take one pill, but later I realized that she meant one week - she was telling him she would see him in one week.

I went to the kitchen and poured a glass of water and brought it to him with his pill. I sat beside him, put my arm around his neck, placed the pill in his mouth, and gave him a sip of water. He sipped the water and then smiled and stuck out his tongue showing us that he hadn’t swallowed the pill. He still had his sense of humor.

I smiled and gave him another sip of water. He started to gag and spit up the water, and then he started coughing. Lillian came over and took him from me. I lay at his feet, stroking his legs. His eyes opened wide and he looked at me, still coughing, and then he opened his mouth and gasped for air. I heard the last breath leave his mouth and watched as his body went limp on the bed. At that moment, I pictured him floating above me, looking down and telling me that everything was going to be fine.

“He’s gone,” Lillian said, and I sobbed — deep, guttural crying that I had held back for so long because I wanted to be strong for him. But I didn’t have to be strong anymore, I could let go and he wouldn’t hear me.

Lillian let me cry and when I finished, she touched my shoulder. “I have to call and report the time of death,” she said. “You should go to another room before they come to take him away.” Why would she think I wanted to leave? I’ve been with him every day for the last two years. “No, I won’t leave him,” I said. When she walked out of the bedroom to make the call, I sat next to the love of my life and stroked his forehead, and then I kissed him, and whispered, “I love you.”

The men from the funeral home arrived, lifted him onto the gurney, and put the white sheet over his head. I pulled back the sheet and kissed him one last time and again whispered. “I love you,” but I didn’t cry. Lillian took the wedding ring from his finger and handed it to me. “You should keep this,” she said. She then told me to take some clothes to the funeral home the next day, but I told her I would give them to her now.

I went to his closet, and the scent of his cologne filled my nostrils. I took a deep breath. I will never wash these shirts! I took his black tuxedo, white shirt and black tie off the hangar. It was his favorite tuxedo; he had worn it to most of the charity balls we attended. You see, Constantin was a dance instructor before I met him, and he taught me how to dance - beautiful waltzes, swing, mambo and more - every dance he knew, and we went anywhere we could just to dance.

“He always looked so handsome in his tuxedo,” I said as I placed them in a bag and handed them to Lillian. She smiled and took my hand. “I’m so sorry.” I walked her to the front door and thanked her for all she had done to make his last hours bearable.

The house was so quiet. I called my daughter and mother first, and then I called his family, but I only asked my mother and daughter to come over. They loved Constantin so much and were so sorry they hadn’t been with me when he died, but how could they have known it would be tonight.

I couldn't sleep in our bed, so I closed the door and slept with my daughter in her bedroom. Before I fell asleep, I asked Constantin to come to me in my dreams, but I was so exhausted and immediately fell into a deep sleep. I don’t know if he came to me that night, but I do know that he is with his mom. I am comforted knowing that he is no longer in pain, and I am so sure he is in Heaven dancing with angels.

Word count (including title): 1523