Barry was on hospice all of one day. It was, on the one hand, astonishingly fast, and, on the other, prolonged suffering and agony from Huntington’s Disease. His death was awful to witness. I cannot wait for the hospital bed to be removed because every time I see it (in the middle of my living room), I see how he looked in his last moments.
He passed with me holding his hand, telling him how much I love him. I believe he waited for the home health aide to leave so he could be with me alone. He was incapable of communicating. He was struggling to breathe. I had just given him another dose of morphine and was waiting for the hospice nurse to arrive. She arrived, despite the icy roads, and, within one minute, declared him dead. I asked, “Are you sure?” and she said, “Oh, yeah, I’m sure.”
Huntington’s is a bad way to go. Before the home health aide left, I commented that, if I saw a dog in that much suffering, I would have it put down. I am having him cremated because I want nobody to remember him the way he looked at the end. I want people to remember the good things about him, not the ugliness of the Huntington’s.
I have been widowed all of 48 hours. I have hardly stopped to breathe. For the past week, it has been nothing but a parade of people coming into the apartment and me signing tons of forms. He was rushed onto hospice and had not even seen the hospice doctor yet. I am waiting for things to calm down. It may be a while.