Jerome is Dying

My friend is dying.

Did I tell you that my friend’s name is Jerome?  His middle name is Charles.  That’s where I got the Carl from.

When I started writing about Jerome’s dementia/Alzheimer’s ordeal, I was thinking that there might be a reason why it could be better if I was “discrete” – in a sort of “better safe than sorry” sense.  So I wrote about Jerome as Carl.

Now, I think it’s better if I lift the veil.  Speak the truth.

Jerome is dying.  My friend – my love – of 36 years – is leaving this life.  He’s leaving this world.  He’s leaving me.

I can’t write these words because my vision is blurred by my tears, and my pen shakes from my sobbing.

Death is transforming.

That observation seems something of an understatement.  But an enormous chunk of that understanding came home to me yesterday.

I eat too much.  That may seem non sequitur, but it’s not – it’s context.  Nothing comes between me and my meals.  I can’t recall skipping a meal, unless I was so stuffed from earlier eating that I’d be ill if I ate more.

Yesterday, my lunch was not large.  But it just did not go anywhere.  Come dinner time, I felt so stuffed that my imagination was in full disaster flight.  What could be wrong with me?

But it seems to me that my emotions are derailing my appetite.

Jerome has stopped eating and drinking.  He is now in a hospice bed.  His eyes are half open, but he sees nothing.  His mouth is half open, but he eats nothing.  His hands are moving – he will grasp my fingers – but I think he feels nothing.

For quite a while now, I have been completely unable to talk about this, to anyone, without crying.  But beyond that, life must go on.  And it seemed that I was moving forward fairly smoothly.

But yesterday showed me that there’s more upset beneath the surface than I was aware of.  If my emotional distress can disturb my eating patterns, that’s a pretty impressive disruption.

Yesterday evening, since I couldn’t eat, I lay on the futon and read.  I was nearing the end of Gaudy Night – Harriet Vane was being asked about her relationship with Lord Peter by Miss de Vine – and suddenly, out of the blue, I was seized by spasms of uncontrollable crying and howling; the tears flowed like a cataract.  After a bit, the storm abated enough that I could put my book and glasses down and go to the bedroom, where I could lie on the floor and breathe deeply, to try to get myself under control.  But that didn’t work.  I wound up half under the bed, crying my eyes out.

When my sobbing subsided, I sat up and asked myself whether I should call someone and talk.  I was alone in the house with Cleopatra (Cleo), our cat.  Her purring can be soothing, but when I talk to her about Jerome, she just gives me this funny look, and goes to nap on the bed.

Everyone I’ve called, to tell them that Jerome is in hospice, has urged me to remember that they are there for me.

But I’ve come to realize that that’s what people need to say.  And, at the same time, the reality is that everyone has their own life – their own challenges.  And these challenges tend to fill their lives to overflowing – rather like all that forgotten stuff fills the spare closet.  Just because I have a difficulty, their life challenges don’t put themselves on hold.

I need to counsel myself.  I need to solve my own problems.  I need to survive, because I need to take care of Jerome.

And I need to take care of myself.  If I can find a way, I need to succeed and thrive.

Death is transforming.

Jerome started his journey about two years before I started mine.  And now he’s started to walk the final path of his hero’s adventure.  He’s going home.  He’s going back where he came from.

Hospice will see that he’s as comfortable as they can.  And I will tell him that I love him – that I will always remember him, and I will always love him.  And I will say goodbye to my friend.

Jerome’s path will end.  I’m wondering whether my path will change.

I want to get back into writing.

And after my difficult day yesterday, I’m thinking that I should make some other changes.  I’m thinking that I want to move away from inflexible routines that consume too much of my day.  I want my life to be more about living, learning, and writing – less about routines and errands.

In Shipping News, Quoyle says, “If a piece of knotted string can unleash the wind, and if a drowned man can awaken, then I believe a broken man can heal.”

If my sorrow can shift my eating patterns, then I wonder what other changes – for the better – I can make.

Time will tell.

I will try.

Wish me luck.

And say goodbye to Jerome.