Miss Brown's husband left us on a glaring, hot, humid morning in the early Spring of this year several months ago.
They had been married for more than 50 years.
We don't know what it would have been like had she been by his bedside.
We didn't have time to know.
And now we will never know.
Four hours.
Four hours was all there to be had from the moment he collapsed (in the A&E) to the moment he grasped the loving hand of our Lord and bid this Earth a gentle, peaceful goodbye.
There was no time for us to seek a second opinion, there was no time for us to do anything else, and there was no time even for us to call anyone.
His heart stopped several times during the few hours that we were there.
Each time we requested the doctors to try again- and again.
They did.
But they also told us that all things considered- age, health, severity etc etc etc- there were only so many times they could revive him, there was only so much they could do- and even if he did manage to pull through, his life would be drastically different.
We didn't understand.
We didn't want to understand.
Tempers flared.
But in times like these you make the best decision you are forced to make- just so that there will be no regrets after- and so we alternated our conversation.
Regardless how we felt, regardless how helpless we were feeling, we decided to do what we could do.
His son spoke to him.
I spoke to him.
We reminded him of what he had requested of us (only just the day before) to bring, hoping that the reminder would urge him to fight on.
But we also said words to him in preparation- in case he made the decision to give up, and not carry on.
Internally neither of us who were there gave up.
His son didn't.
Neither did I.
Again and again we requested.
That is, until the numbers on the machine started to drastically fall.
That is, until we realized that his breathing had evened out, and that his left eye (which previously had been open) was now closed.
And only when we perceived a very, very peaceful, very very surreal countenance upon his face- when we were sure that he had made his own decision- then we stopped.
The countenance does not lie.
We did not stay for the Last Offices.
Maybe we should have.
But... I had to go.
And there would be no one by the side of the son, whom, in any case, felt more comfortable making farewell arrangements for his father rather than standing there watching the gurney take his loved one away.
The afternoon passed.
In the evening, alone by himself he went to the nursing home where his father had been resident and brought his belongings home.
We prepared a set of clothes, his sandals, his favorite maroon colored sling bag, and put the rest in the room.
Next day at the Coroner's the examination was done, the certificate issued and collected, and we witnessed the white cloth over his father's face and body as the bearers bore him out on a stretcher.
There was no avoiding it this time.
There was also no avoiding the sight of his father being placed (loaded) into the back of the van.
It was difficult to see.
Especially since his father had been coming to see the doctors at this particular hospital from time to time and no one could have ever imagined that one day he would leave the campus grounds not in a regular medical transport but in an unmarked dark blue van.
I don't know how we got through the rest of the day.
But we had to, and we did.
The farewell next day was small, intimate, quiet.
(For the record, people had been informed. They just did not come.)
There was a short, simple service.
We then said our last words, placed in the casket the flowers that we'd bought that morning from the supermarket near his home, and closed it.
For me, at least.
But because we had determined that, according to our faith, he had simply stepped from one plane to the other, we smiled through our tears, gave him a goodbye wave and (like how his son would tell him in life) told him that "we'd come see him another day".
I have to admit that neither one of us who were there that day have come to a complete closure about his sudden departure.
I know I haven't.
But that is another post for another time.
Right now I'm just working through the memories of those few days.
It has taken me four months before I've been able to write this.
Nevertheless, I am thankful that during that season- even as we mourned his passing and dealt with the shock, the grief and the helplessness all at the same time- there were friends who guided us through the farewell arrangements, there were friends who gifted us meaningful mementoes for his father, and there were friends who made wonderful suggestions as to his new place.