I touch your forehead and you take my hand.
It’s new to us, but it feels so right,
like an angel is here to guide the touch

between a dying man and the part of him

 he leaves behind.
That part is me.

I’m warm in my bed at night, waiting for the awful sound
that stirs me from my dreamland.
This is reality … it’s true and it’s real.
No matter how angry or sad I am, or how much it hurts,
I have to hear him suffer.
’Please can you help me? I can’t stand any more.’
A humble plea for help from a man who once stood proud,
who is now ashamed that he can no longer command anyone or anything,

not even his own body.
The shame in his eyes frightens me as it steals his dignity.

‘Please come and sit with me again,’ he asks.
‘I am scared, but I won’t say it out loud, not here.
Please don’t cry when I’m gone, don’t be sad.
Be happy, don’t let my memory cause you tears.
Wherever I am, I’ll be happy too.
They are waiting for me, the ones who passed before me.
These are the only comforts that can take away the agony of my regrets.
Please don’t do what I have done; don’t only live for tomorrow.
Plan for the future, but live for today.’
Haven’t we all heard that before?
For this man whose life was young

but whose body is now old and nearing its end,
it is now too late.

Night after night, we wait and watch.
Day after day, we know it’s coming.
He does too, but he can’t understand why.
All we can do is hope that when he’s gone,
life still goes on, holding our memories to our hearts.

‘It’s getting closer, please hold my hand,’ he begs.
‘I’m scared and not sure where I am.
I can’t settle down, the light keeps me awake,
and yet the room is dark because I can no longer see.
I know you are here.
People are drifting into my mind and out again.
I want to fight … but the light… the light.

Please tell me, doctor, how do I get through to the other side?
I do see a door, but I can’t open it, I can’t leave yet.
I resist and I agonise and it’s hell on earth … but I’m not ready.
My arms are flailing for something to grasp;
any speck of reality that remains in this room that was part of my human life.
And soon that door will open to let me through.
I’m still fighting to the very end, my will is still strong,
even if my body is gone and wracked with pain.

My mother, my father, my brother, they see me.
A glow of warmth is beckoning.

But I didn’t finish my time here.
I didn’t finish my life and it’s just not fair.
But my wife, my daughters – and their daughters too;
I’ll know them, even those unborn, with their blue eyes and golden hair.

Finally the joy is seeping in. The light is here! The door is open!
I have found my mother … she sees me. It’s easier now.
She tells me what I want to hear, that I am not dying alone.
My family are here now, just a little too late, but here.
They enter my room and see just the shell of what I was.
This shell of my body carried me through that life, just a vessel,
but my soul is gone, rising upwards on a stream of stars.

They kiss me and touch me and say their goodbyes,
but I am up here in the soft, comforting, warm light of my new life,
looking down and loving them forever.

The sadness will pass in time, so please don’t cry.
Enjoy the relief. I am sorry I made you suffer so,
for I suffer no more and that is what I want for you.
I haven’t forgotten my life there on earth,
I’ll keep in touch.
I left something behind for you, something I lost.’

One year to the day, the pain has subsided and life goes on.
We don’t want to forget, but our lives have moved on.
Standing in the garden, talking with a friend, something glistens,
there in the grass where she has been many times since he left,
something he lost when it slipped off his wasted finger.
A symbol of their never ending bond.
A ring.
A wedding ring.
He found it for her.
And she cries.
For he is here. 
  

© Annette Hansen