calliemm

Love, Unbroken

August 30, 2017: Charles & Ellen 

Charles and Ellen arrived late last night. This morning, Charles took me aside to let me know that they were considering going home again, seeing Bren had made it through the night. They both had young children and had left their families to be here. Nobody knew what to do. I was in a dazed fog; I hadn’t slept in days, and honestly, I did not care what anyone did, except for my kids. I told him to do what they felt was best, but that today was likely to be Bren’s last day with us. I explained how my family would come and go throughout the day and suggested they might want to do the same. They could spend some time at the park, go for a beach walk, and grab lunch somewhere between visits. We only needed the house to ourselves when the nurse was here between 9 and 10 am. He went to check with his mum, dad, and Ellen, to decide what to do. 

A few minutes later, he returned and said they would stay. 

“Good,” I said, “I’m glad.” 

He explained they would all head back out to the farm and would be back later. I was sitting behind Bren’s recliner, my hands on his shoulder and forehead so he knew I was there. I smiled, nodded OK, and said they should try and be back by 5 in the afternoon at the latest, so Bren could settle in for the night, and so they could have as much time with him as possible, before he did. As they were leaving, Len asked the kids if they wanted to go to the farm with them. They said no, they would stay with their dad. I didn’t want them to be away from Bren on what might be their last day with him. Bren’s family returned at 5 that afternoon. Bren, Tyz, Bades and I were all settled in for the evening by 7pm. Our little family of four, plus our doggo, spent our last evening together like we had spent so many evenings. After an early dinner, we all cuddled up in the lounge room and watched a movie. Len, Charles and Ellen decided to go back to the farm to sleep, Bren’s mum stayed and slept in our room, turning in early. She was exhausted. 

Bren’s palliative nurse had discussed what to do if Bren stayed with us through the night. Al explained Bren would continue to lose his bodily functions as the night wore on and left some adult diapers for me to put on him when that happened. He also said that if Bren died through the night before he got back the following morning, I should not ring an ambulance, as the police would have to be involved if I did. I was to ring the emergency palliative care number, and someone would come to us. That would make the process quicker and less stressful for us. He then explained how to turn off the syringe driver if needed. 

It was a little after midnight when Bren lost the use of his bladder; I called Andy to come and help me change him, as he was too heavy, even in his frail state, for me to do it on my own and keep him comfortable. I think Andy was here before I hung up the phone.  

I took one of the diapers from the bag and looked at it, tears streaming down my face, devasted at the thought of having to put it on my husband. I could tell he was not happy and hated that we had to do this for him.  

Andy would come over a couple of hours later to help us again. After getting Bren changed, we adjusted the pillows around him, tucking the blanket gently under his arms, making sure he was warm. Andy said his goodbyes and slipped out of the room. I leaned in close, brushing my lips against Bren’s, my voice barely a whisper. “It’s OK, babe. You can rest now. You’ve done all you can, we’ll be OK. You go when you’re ready babe.” My throat burned as I said it, every word catching on my shattered heart. Telling him he could go, even with love wrapped around every word, felt like tearing that shattered heart from my chest. 

It was around 4:30 in the morning or a little later when I woke up with a start. I had dozed off, my hand still on Bren’s heart. His breathing had changed; it was shallow and rapid, and his heartbeat irregular. I knew he was leaving. I shook the kids awake and had to make a split-second decision, stay with them or leave them with their dad while I ran into our room to wake his mum, knowing Bren might die in that moment, and I wouldn’t be with him. 

“Margaret! Margaret, come quick!” I cried as I shook her awake. 

She jumped out of bed quicker than a woman half her age and got to her boy in a split second. Tyz and Bades had thrown themselves on their dad and were crying, “Love you, Dad. Love you. You’re the best dad ever,” over and over. 

I placed my hand on my husband’s heart, told him I loved him as many times as I could, and felt it beat for the last time. 

He was gone. Peacefully and calmly, he slipped through the veil and travelled to the other side, held in the arms of his loving mother, kids, and wife. Bren’s was the most beautiful, peaceful, dignified passing anyone could hope for, one no one deserved more. 

I could hear a gut-wrenching scream, and it took me just a second to realise that noise was coming from me. He was gone.  

There were so many things I wanted to say, and although we thought we had said it all, there was more to be said, more stories to remember. My husband, the love of my life, was gone. 

What happened next was a blur of movement, words, and thoughts. Nothing felt real or made any sense. Although I felt like I was in a dream-like fog, moving in slow motion, I could see everything with crystal-like clarity. I knew what I had to do. 

“We’ve lost him, Andy,” I heard myself say into the phone, “Can you and Dad come over?” 

They were letting themselves in the front door within minutes. I had stopped the syringe driver while we waited for them, but I couldn’t remove the needle. I don’t know why. 

When they arrived, I felt a sense of calm sweep through the house—or through me. For all I knew, I was the house in that moment, and everything was happening inside me, which made no sense. 

“What do you need?” Andy asked, his face creased in pain. 

“We need to get Bren changed and shaved; he can’t leave the house without looking fresh,” I said, my voice a whisper. 

My heart shattered again as I sponged warm water across my husband’s arms and hands, Tyz beside me, her hand on her dad’s arm. I looked up to see Andy guiding Bades through the gentle process of shaving his dad’s face. Tyz and Bades were only thirteen, so Bren hadn’t had the chance to teach Bades how to shave, yet he did such a good job. With Dad and Andy’s help, I dressed Bren in his favourite camo pants and a T-shirt. He looked peaceful, comfortable—just like himself—and ready for whatever was to come next.

Al, Bren’s palliative nurse, arrived about a half hour after Andy and Dad, helping us navigate what had just happened and supporting us as the morning unfolded. My beautiful husband stayed with us in his chair all morning, his mum, his kids, me, our sisters, and nieces all with him. It seemed very normal; all of us there together, loving him. The only sign for me that it wasn’t was the familiar blackness and tiny stars that would envelop me every so often as I slid down a wall supporting me and sat with my head between my knees until my full consciousness returned. 

We sat with Bren until the wonderful people from Beckers Funeral Home came to begin his journey home. He looked peaceful, a faint smile gracing his still-handsome face, even though the cancer had ravaged him. He was no longer in pain.  

At some point, Oti took himself outside and lay at the window facing Bren with the saddest look on his little face. He did not take his eyes off his person for a minute and didn’t move again until Bren was gone. A white Volkswagen transporter turned up to drive Bren away from our home for the last time; we all went outside, ready but not ready to send him off as the people from Beckers prepared him to leave. 

“Sue,” I said in a panic, “I didn’t tell them to make sure his red blanket goes with him.” It had comforted him throughout his treatment, his cape of strength. 

“I’ll go and tell them,” Sue said urgently. 

I was grateful to my sister for doing that, and I know the scene unfolding inside, which those of us waiting outside were protected from, is something she shouldn’t have had to see. 

When Bren was settled into the VW Transporter, Chris, who would be driving, said, “We’ll take him the long way so he can enjoy the ride,” squeezing my hand kindly. Knowing it would be the last drive he would take in a Volkswagen; Chris knew what the gesture would mean to us. 

My entire family, and those supporting us, worked with grace the morning Bren died, doing everything asked of them, no matter how difficult, and many things not asked without hesitation from a place of unconditional love. Love that ensured our Bren experienced the most peaceful, loving death possible, proving that love is our greatest commodity and the most valuable legacy we will leave behind. Love is the only thing we take with us in the end. 

We released four beautiful butterflies as Bren left. The butterflies had been delivered to us just hours after he passed, an anonymous gift from someone who loved us unconditionally. I can only explain the timing of that gift as divine; they had been ordered many weeks before. 

My family, the kids, and I spent the rest of the day gathered in the home Bren and I had raised Tyz and Bades in together, a gaping hole in our lives now he was gone. At some point in the late afternoon, someone suggested we go for a walk. The kids needed to get out of the house. As we wandered around our neighbourhood, I could see Tyz and Bades searching the sky, and I knew they were looking for a rainbow. The problem was that there was barely a cloud in the sky, except for a few little ones scattered over the beach near the horizon. 

“I don’t think we will see a rainbow today, kiddos,” I said. “Dad’s only been gone a few hours. I doubt he’s had time to learn how to make them.” 

Their little faces fell ever so slightly. Then I found myself searching, willing my husband to do what he could, to send a little one, a faint one, something that would let the kids know he was OK. Within minutes, I saw it. It was faint, barely visible among the little clouds over the beach, but it was there. 

“There it is,” I shouted, pointing toward the beach. “There’s the rainbow.” 

We all laughed and clapped, patting the kids on the shoulders. 

“Dad proved me wrong,” I said through tears. 

We could see it all the way home and couldn’t wait to tell those who hadn’t come with us. We had no sooner burst through the front door to tell them when Mike said, “There it is.” A part of a now brighter arch was visible through the glass stacker doors leading to our backyard from our living room. 

We all rushed out to the front of the house to get a better view. The rainbow was enormous now. In the few minutes we had been inside, the faint rainbow in the clouds over the beach had grown into the most beautiful, large, vibrant, double rainbow I had ever seen. We were all laughing and shouting, clapping and crying again, our faces to the sky. The neighbours must have thought we were crazy. The rainbow hugged our house for about an hour, letting us know Bren had arrived safely. 

He was in Heaven. And he had learned how to make rainbows.