The final hours with 'My Favourite Husband'

Welcome to the end and the beginning. 

The end of one chapter of my life and the beginning of the next. 

This post is about the night My Favourite Husband died. I need to pump the brakes a little here — just for a beat — to clarify the whole My Favourite Husband thing. It was a joke between us that began years ago with a story that’s probably better left untold. I ended up telling him he was My Favourite Husband and he ended up calling me his First Wife. Truthfully, he’s my only husband and, well, I’m pretty sure there won’t be a wife number two for him (but since I don’t know what really happens after death, he could have a harem by now). 

Does it sound like I’m stalling? Avoiding telling you about how I became a widow? I probably am. So (big deep breath), let’s rip the Band Aid off and tell you about the end and the beginning….

• • •

“I’m pretty sure you’re wrong.” 

I mean, what else do you say to the emergency department doctor who wakes you up at 1 a.m. to tell you the medical team did everything they could but your husband has died? 

This is hard to write. Talking about it isn’t easier. Whenever anyone asks about the death of My Favourite Husband (MFH), I put on an invisible cloak of armour and talk through the experience as quickly as I can. For me, if I focus on his death, it draws a heavy curtain over the 27 years of togetherness we had. When I think of MFH, I don’t want the night of his death to be the first thing I think of. I want it to be shuffled to the bottom of the pile. I’m not in denial. I know he’s dead. I know it’s the end of his story. It’s the end of our chapter of togetherness. But the chapter has so many beautiful pages and I’d rather reread them.

Still…

MFH was in kidney failure. He was on dialysis and he never missed an appointment. In addition to the fact that it kept him alive and stable, the nurses and doctors on his unit became family, to both him and me. He was always a big, strong man but his kidney failure sapped his strength and he was often frustrated that things he could do effortlessly now required effort — sometimes a lot. He was paused on the transplant list (due to a health issue) but was in the process of being reactivated when he died.

MFH had a dialysis routine going - he would leave for his treatment around 4:30 p.m. to be at the hospital around 5 p.m. He always hoped to start treatment before his scheduled 6 p.m. slot. He would finish his treatment, head to McDonald’s to get something to eat (he never ate before his treatment as unhooking for a bathroom break was really inconvenient), park at a lookout with a great view of the city lights, then come home … to me.

He always texted me “done” when he was in the parkade heading to his truck. I’d answer “copy” and then either head to bed or wait up. “Done”… meant he was on his way home… to me.

Aug. 9. My day was busy: a doctor’s appointment; a meeting with a genius at the Apple Store; a visit with my Mom; an eyelash appointment with my niece. It was a busy day so I left but not before kissing MFH goodbye — the last time I would ever do that. 

We texted a few times throughout the day and, later that night, he sent a weird picture from dialysis. I asked where he was and he said his unit. I told him the picture was odd and he informed me that his TV was NOT working and he was grumpy about it. I called him on my way home. I never do because there’s lots of “ears” on the unit but we had a good, quick conversation.  “I love you. See you later.” And that was it.

“Done”….

The phone call from the emergency department doctor made no sense but I agreed to come to the hospital to prove him wrong. I was a little more worried when I saw MFH’s truck wasn’t home. I was very worried when I told the emergency department COVID-19 screening nurse who I was and they took me to a “quiet room.” And I shattered when the doctor came in and broke my heart. 

MFH was parked at the lookout, finishing his supper. He didn’t feel right and called 911. He was responsive when the ambulance got him, coded and never came back. It was less than an hour from his 911 call to his time of death. 

The doctor took me to see him and I sat with him for more than two hours, holding his hand, stroking his face. I pleaded with him to become “undead.” I bargained with God. I cried. 

“Done” meant he was coming home to me. “Done” was our deal, our promise.

I left because, well, there was nothing else to do. MFH was going to the morgue and I was going to eventually go home to an empty house and the start of a new life.

Life as I knew it was “done.”

❤️