Unconscious on pain medication, her kidneys failing, fluid building up in her lungs. She struggled for breath for most of her last day.

I sat by her side, held her hand, told her that she didn't have to fight anymore. That it was OK to let go. She wouldn't.

Late that night, I was sitting in the hospital room's recliner, exhausted and naively thinking I might be able to get some sleep, that she would probably wake up again once some of the medication wore off, that this was a temporary situation. The doctor had said, around noon, that she likely had "days" left, not "hours".

Then, I heard little whimpers escaping in her breath.

I went back to her side, held her hand. I told her, three times:

"
We all love you.

You have been the best wife.

You've done a great job.

But you can go now.

You are free.
"

And then she stopped breathing.

I choose to believe she heard me.

Goodbye to my amazing wife of very nearly 30 years. The person who worried about me mowing the lawn in the NC heat. The person who would care when I noticed a stupid new red light on the only road out of town. The person who liked my apple pie but only tolerated my pork chops and sauerkraut. The person who made it fun to be me. The only other person who knew the now-useless encyclopedia of inside jokes and references we collected together. The person who decorated and designed this suddenly-too-big house. The person who filled the closets and dressers with dresses and shoes. The person who was with me more than half my now-hollow life. The subject of so many college-age poems. The subject of so many recent songs. My plus-one. My far-better half. My emergency contact. My beneficiary. My shared account-holder. My sunshine, my only sunshine. My beautiful friend. My best friend. My reason. My everything.

Fuck pancreatic cancer.