Death and Dying

Death Knocked Hard

He would not answer the door

he needed respite of rain days of grey for the sapping of warden’s will to move him on

he needed days away for lying still, quiet to hear dark and light whisper the secrets of our soul’s entanglements

gifting my light, a choice I did not have “Go heal him” whispered in my heart, disrupt the caretakers’ harmonies they merely wait for him to die

gave him love’s permission to come back or go as he pleases he mumbles, and tries to speak but his words will not come

I speak to him of Alfred J Prufrock and sitting shoulder to shoulder of having so much love to give and noses growing old

The caretakers clearly baffled try to wedge me away “Do you want me to stay?” he nods a yes, a clear yes.

I see in those oceanic blue eyes He’s not done with me yet Finding his voice, he calls my name, clear and kind

I whisper loudly for all to hear, “You’ve beaten the odds before” he smiles, nods yes and says “Many times, many times”

Captures my gaze, attempts to speak “I never…” “I never…” “I never…”

locked onto his eyes, “I know” I replied

He reached for my hand squeezed as hard as he can “I never quit.”

Looks to caretaker warden and says,

“Goodnight”

Context

I had that dream again, the restaurant/cafe by the water’s edge dream where I greet someone and then walk with them onto a new dimension. The person I escorted was dressed smartly in all black — black on black on black including a hat. I didn’t recognize the thin yet athletic fellow, but took his hand and walked him about the space. He stepped one foot through the veil and the dream abruptly stopped.

For a couple of days, I tried to figure out who I escorted in the dream. Who required my light for guiding them on? Then the text came, “They say he has only 24 hours left.”

My cheating, lying, “ex.” the poet, who on our first date, 16 years ago this week, wore black, on black, on black. Hurt as I was, I choose not to recognize him.

Though I did not want to, I found myself driving to the hospital. First Warden I had to deal with was the sweet but banal caretaker. Sitting with him, small talk here and there, but mostly looking at her phone.

Caretaker-B clearly texted the human sex toy he replaced me with that I was at the hospital. The warden sex toy arrived the requisite 15-minute drive from his home. The long, sordid, tale of betrayal I will write when the poet is actually dead.

In classic abuser-scammer tactics, the sex toy had attempted to isolate the “ex” from all friends and family. She controlled his nutrients, vices, entertainment, communications, you name it.

Luckily, his brother lives next door-so total isolation wasn’t feasible. And, a mutual friend/handyman the ‘ex’ poet and I helped over the years was still doing the odd job here and there for the ‘ex’. I received periodic reports.

Unfortunately, ‘the ex’ had invited the human sex toy scammer into his life when he was fully cognizant of his choice. I have no legal standing to report elder abuse. The brother, who does, is content to let someone else caretake for his family.

Turns out the ‘ex’ poet was taken to the hospital the evening I had the dream. He had been there 3 days when I got the text message of the ‘ex’ poet’s eminent demise.

It appears to me as though he is nowhere near death physically. He has self-inflicted chronic issues but not deadly ones. The respiratory therapist said his lungs were clear. Banal caretaker told me he hasn’t smoked in a couple of years.

He has signs of being over-medicated on morphine for emergency air rescue. I caught his mother’s caretaker purposefully overdosing his mom. The ‘ex’ poet asked if I remembered his mom, raised his shaking arm. It was the shaking that clued me into the morphine overdose of his mom.

The ‘ex’ poet’s 3 days in the hospital on only saline, nebulizer treatment, and actual nurses care have restored him. I can but hope his brother recognizes the difference as well.

It’s the poet’s choice now. He can stay and fight to write more poems or go into that final ‘goodnight.’

Epilogue

Synchronicity. I just watched “Lucy, the Human Chimp” a documentary essentially about the bond between a chimpanzee named Lucy and her friend Janis. Toward the end Janis described her dream of Lucy ascending the stairs to an airplane. Janis knew without doubt her Lucy was dead. Two weeks later a search team found the chimps remains.

The connection between bonded souls is powerful and real.

Post script

After a week at home, the long goodnight was his choice. A poet’s voice silenced as his works, all paper and ink, will be considered but trash and tossed within another’s weeks time.