THE HOSPICE STAFF had placed the hospital bed in the middle of the living room as directed by the patient, my ex-husband, Ron, who wanted to be in the center of activities instead of tucked away in the bedroom. When the filtered sunlight through the front window became too bright for him, drapes layered the sheers. No longer could the Japanese maple’s leaves flash patterns on the carpet and on Ron’s bald head.
The following week, Ron’s wife met me at the door. On her way out for a much-needed break that my visits provided, she shook her head unable to stop her tears. I stepped inside and the shades pulled down behind the drapes confirmed my fears. The three-deep coverings that won the battle to block the daylight signaled cancer’s victory coming too quickly. I gasped at how much thinner and older he had become within a week.
While Ron slept, I tried to pet the dog, Velvet, but she avoided me, slouching belly-level when she crossed the room to the kitchen. Often she’d jump backwards a step at what was invisible to me but startling to her. I hoped what she saw were guides for the transition to the other side. I wanted to see them, to connect with them, to know for sure there was life after death.
Hospice nurses appeared for an hour, encouraging discussions with Ron about death and beyond. In the past, he and I had shared unusual dreams about our twenty-six-year-old son who had crossed over fifteen years ago from injuries in a theater accident. Now Adrian’s pictures lined the living room walls to remind Ron that he would be waiting to help his dad pass to the other side.
“Your mother will probably meet you too,” I said.
“Good. I’d like to see her again.” Heavy medication caused Ron to go in and out of being present for several minutes. This time when he faded, he stretched out his right arm as if reaching for someone. When he woke, I asked him if he had seen Adrian or his mother.
“I don’t know.” Ron could continue our conversations at the point where we left off before the morphine took him away again, but he had trouble knowing what he experienced when he was out.
“I’ve seen Adrian several times but not lately. Or, maybe I have. Who knows?” Our son had appeared to him during the time when the sheers let the leaves dance everywhere. Maybe the stronger drugs dimmed the visions.
“Remember how he used to turn Tanya’s TV on and off for several months after he passed?” Tanya, Adrian’s fiancée, also said the phone rang, but no one would be on the other end. She was sure it was Adrian manipulating the TV and phone lines.
With his eyes closed, Ron nodded and smiled. During the many decades I had known him, he’d had a habit of rubbing his arches with the opposite foot. I wanted to remember this moment of contentment amid the ravages of his bone cancer.
“And I told you about the pantry, right?” I asked.
“Tell me again.” He didn’t open his eyes or stop the foot rubbing.
“I was dusting Adrian’s bridge that he’d made with tooth picks. I heard a rustling in the pantry. I thought maybe I had closed the cat inside and stepped towards it, but there was little Buddha by my feet with her head tipped, ears perked, and eyes fixed on the pantry.”
Ron, with his eyes still closed, squeezed my hand.
“I opened the pantry door and found that the brown grocery bag filled with other folded grocery bags had been turned over. I stored it open side up on the floor, but it was upside down. I thanked Adrian for showing me he could still be with us in this dimension.”
Ron drifted out again. I waited until the morphine let him come back to me in its predictable cycle. Ron opened his eyes and grinned. “Upside down, huh?”
“Yup. And after you pass, I want you to visit me. Show me you’re still around. Promise?”
“I’ll try.” His face had a flash of acceptance.
The last time I saw Ron, his conscious state had dwindled to less than a couple minutes an hour. When I left, I clasped his forearm, not wanting to let go. I had known this man for most of my life. He touched me, his eyes met mine, and he said, “Thanks for everything.” Overcome with grief, I was speechless.
After he passed, I waited for a message from him. I craved a sign that he and Adrian could play with TVs, phones, and grocery bags.
A few days later Ron’s wife, Joanne, called. She had awakened in the morning to voices in the living room. She discovered the radio was tuned to Ron’s favorite station, but she had not turned it on.
Weeks passed with no message for me. I met with Mary, our mutual friend who had healed Ron of stress symptoms when he worked as a commercial artist. He was frustrated that the job took time away from expressing his own art. She helped him find resolution back then and during his last days.
In the healing room of Mary’s house, we talked about what happened on our visits during Ron’s passing. I asked her if she had received any messages from him. She laughed and said she’d had hiccups at her house during the hour he passed on.
“I can’t relate. I don’t get hiccups.” I hoped I didn’t sound disappointed.
Mary said, “Me either. I didn’t know until the next morning that he had transitioned. Joanne called to tell me that Velvet had come into her bedroom minutes after she left Ron, which was a little before midnight. She followed the agitated dog, who led her to Ron and she found that he had passed away. In the end, Velvet was brave enough to be with him and then to summon her. Later, Joanne said she had quite a bout with the hiccups. What better way for Ron to let us know he was okay on the other side: Jaw and throat cancer. Hiccups. Get it?”
Ron did it. He connected, but not with me.
At least I had his artwork. I was able to salvage all of his watercolors, oils, and sketches when Joanne offered to let me take them from his house, which would be put up for sale. I found peace in matting and framing many of them and intended to have a showing of his artwork, maybe at a café. Or, if I had the money, I wanted to rent a small studio to keep them on display permanently, but I knew that would be costly.
Then a call from Ron’s life insurance company confirmed I was beneficiary on one of his policies that he had started when we first married. After the news, I said aloud, “Now I have money to exhibit your art.”
Overjoyed with plans to find a space, it took me a few minutes to realize…I was having hiccups.
No comments yet.