April 4

On this day a year ago a hospice nurse came to do an assessment. She looked at bathrooms and stairs, asked questions, talked to us. Randy was walking and talking, participating, and then said, I’m going back to bed now - it’s better if you talk to her anyway since she understands better than I do. So he got back in bed and I continued to talk to the nurse about how hospice care works and so on.

When she was ready to leave she said that looking at Randy’s level of agitation she believed he was at the end stage. And I thought, Really? He’s walking around and talking. And of course I still had at the back of my mind the time frame that the oncologist gave us: 1-3 months.

One of my greatest regrets is that I did not continue that conversation. What does end stage mean to you? How much time do you think he has left? Tell me more about what you see. But I didn’t because, you know, 1-3 months. And of course I thought that means 3 months, and that’s a promise. But if I had suspected that he had less that a week to live it would have changed so much.

When the nurse was on her way out the bedroom door Randy held up his arms for a hug and she came back to hug him. It was very odd - he didn’t go around hugging strangers. But what I thought was, Wow, he’s really out of it. And, what a good heart he has that he wants to hug someone just because she’s leaving. It reminded me of Daughter Erin who, when she was a toddler, insisted on hugging anyone who was leaving - family, friend, stranger. The pure heart of a child.

What I didn’t think was, I should call that oncologist and ask about that estimate. I alternate between thinking how stupid I was and just wishing I had done things differently. I can say, as other people do, that I did the best I could under difficult circumstances, but I don’t feel that in my heart. I just wish I could have a chance to relive that week. For me, for him, for the kids - mostly for him. I cannot shake the feeling that I let him down when he was at his most vulnerable.