Early in July, I was reminding husband Paul that my niece Karrie and her husband Dave were coming to visit soon.

“It will be too late,” he responded.

There followed our return to the early days of his placement in a home hospice program two years ago. The same gut-wrenching sadness struck first followed by anxiety and grief.

Paul was showing signs of the transition, but we always waited it out because he had demonstrated great capacity to rally. This time his appetite was crumbling to the point that this food lover wondered about it: “I don’t understand what happened to my appetite,” he puzzled.

This time he felt like the end of his journey was near.

Karrie and Dave came during the Lavender Weekend, did some touring, but returned each night for dinner which they usually prepared. Karrie showed photos of all her hikes plus others because Paul was so interested in them.

Paul loved them and every part of their visit.

The visit was not too late.

They left on Monday.

Paul continued to eat less, and his legs were weaker. Participating in transfers from the wheelchair to the commode or bed was becoming more difficult. He began sleeping more.

The ring

The following Thursday, his son stayed with Paul while I got my hair cut and made a Costco run. Paul was sleeping most of the time.

I decided to have one of our more indulgent dinners that is easy for me to fix: waffles and ham. I told Paul and he liked the idea.

About two hours later, I brought his dinner to his small table. He looked at it and said, “what is this g** d*** stuff. “Waffles and ham,” I said. “You thought you’d like it.” He looked at me defiantly, took off his wedding ring and threw it in the syrup.

Nothing that unusual had happened in the entire course of our journey. I was stunned and puzzled. I could have been much more hurt than I felt but I knew this was not the act of the man that loved me.

I picked it up, washed the syrup off and slipped it on my finger that would safely hold it.

The turning point

On Friday, I brought him out to the living room and helped him into his chair. He slept until he wanted to get on the commode which I moved into the living room to save his limited energy by cutting down on the number of transfers.

We were successful in the transfer. I could see from the kitchen that he kept falling asleep. I went over and woke him a few times.

Then I looked over and he was slumped, arms hanging down. I ran over and saw he was unresponsive and his eyes open and fixed. I shook him and called his name. No response.

I could not move him. I ran to the door and called our landscaper Alonso to come quick. He called his crew who were working on a project for us.

Four strong men worked to get Paul up. While he was being lifted to the chair, he began to make noises. Once he was in the chair, I climbed on him, called his name, shook him and slapped his face.

Paul woke with a start, loudly cursed, and said, “Let me go.”

Then he became fully awake.

The two other men left. They were young and I was certain they had not experienced something like this. I went to them to tell them how grateful I was and how sorry I was.

Alonso and his son stayed a while longer, their faces expressing compassion and concern.

All three of us thought Paul was dying.

Both knew Paul was in the hospice program and left me to be alone with him for final words.

I called the hospice nurse who came with another to move Paul back to the bed, where he has been ever since.

Am I doing enough?

The weekend focused on working with medications to get the right balance for his symptoms and setting up for bed care. Paul was sleeping more and had more shortness of breath. A hospital bed was ordered to be placed in the living room.

We had to give up our goal of being together in our bed when Paul died. Now, we thought he would be bed-bound long enough to develop painful bedsores. We agreed to the bed, and it arrived Monday.

By the time the bed arrived, it was clear Paul was deteriorating faster than we thought. He was sleeping and would flail and call out whenever he was moved.

Moving him now would be torture.

Our and especially my focus was his peace and comfort. I realized just how much when I thought someone implied, he would be better off dying. I left and went to Paul’s bedside and sobbed.

“He cannot suffer,” I silently screamed. I thought I was not doing enough.

When the hospice nurse arrived — a nurse visits daily — she spent time with me explaining I was doing all that was needed for him, that he was comfortable and not at all suffering.

I again realized how much I needed to know that he was not and would not suffer.

I will always ask, “Am I doing enough?”

The vigil

We — that would be me, stepdaughter Nancy and stepson Matthew — are doing the vigil of caring and watching over Paul and his leaving. They love their father, and I will always be grateful they were present with me in his final days.

They and one granddaughter tried to get photos of Paul’s life to him to help him see his life before he became so unresponsive he could not.

Matthew managed to show one large photo group before Paul became unresponsive. Then it was sweet stories, goodbyes, good will, and letting go.

He and I have the most to do to be ready and let go.

The ring, again

I sit on our bed next to him writing this column. My feelings are all about him and us. I feel as much love and tenderness as I have ever felt in my life. That is considerable given the profound love I have felt for him in our 54 years together.

Early this week, both Paul and I were awake much of the night managing worries and symptoms. About 4 a.m., when we were close and talking a bit, he brought his hands out from under the covers. He was feeling his ring finger.

“Where is my wedding ring?” he asked, genuinely puzzled.

“You took it off. Do you want it back?”

“Yes, where is it?”

“Here, on my finger.”

I took it off and slipped it on his finger. He pulled it on the rest of the way.

We expressed our love and went to sleep.

The next day I woke.

Paul has been sleeping ever since.

Epilogue

Paul Christian Cooper died early the morning of Aug. 2.

I woke from sound sleep at 2:30 a.m. and looked over at him. He was taking “mini” breaths. I moved closer to hold him. I talked and stroked his arm. His face was peaceful.

He died an hour later.

I stayed with him a while, then called his daughter and son who are staying with me. They visited him. His face stayed relaxed, his eyes close and his mouth molded into what I thought a small smile.

I called the hospice nurse. She came and pronounced. She swaddled him.

The hardest most painful time was when they came and took his body. I have never before felt as much pain and sorrow surging through my body as I felt then and went from window to window to follow the hearse until it was out of sight. And so was he.

Bertha Cooper, an award-winning featured columnist with the Sequim Gazette, spent her career years in health care administration, program development and consultation and is the author of the award-winning “Women, We’re Only Old Once.” Cooper and her husband have lived in Sequim more than 25 years. Reach her at columnists@sequimgazette.com.