I don’t understand how I’m supposed to feel when I am dying. Here I am in hospice. Doctors say I have days, maybe a week or so left. I feel very weak. I’m existing only on liquids. But generally, I feel fine. Like this could go on for months, which I hope it doesn’t. It’s rather tedious.
It’s a gift I suppose to have the opportunity to say goodbye to so many close family and friends one-by-one, but when that’s all done then what? I pray most nights not to wake up, for a peaceful nontraumatic ending. Those around me will know where I have gone.
In the meantime, I’m finding the simplest of pleasures in what is allowed for me. The impossible brightness of a fresh pink rose on a gloomy morning. The sweetness of a glass of orange juice. The fierce sincerity of an old friend’s final hug. The thousand dots and dashes of Morse code that run unspoken in a single glance between husband and wife.