Thirty days

The phone call came amidst the giggles of Tigger and Scooby Doo, the coos of Piglet, the ringing of the doorbell as trick or treaters came in search of candy. I could tell from the tone of my Mom's voice, from the look on her face, the news was not good. It was Mrs. D, my parent's neighbor, calling to say that she had asked the hospice nurse that day how much longer she thought Mr. D had. Her answer was thirty days.

Mr. & Mrs. D have lived behind my parents for as long as I can remember. They are roughly the same age as my Mom and Dad, and I have known them my whole life. Mr. D retired from the Navy many years ago and went on to work as a hospital administrator. Mrs. D works informally in the communications sector. She has always been the person in town who knows everything about everybody and been happy to share it.

The D's are nice people. They have a nice home in a nice neighborhood with a nice pool out back. It is obvious to look at their house that it is owned by people who take great pride in caring for it, in making it a home. Over their garage is an apartment where Robbie and I lived after he got out of the Navy. It was a cute little place and we spent a very happy year there. That little apartment is where we started our family, by bringing home first Merlin, then Mookie, our two Maine Coon Cats. We could look out the little "porthole" style window that was at the top of the stairs leading to the apartment, right outside our door, and see my parent's house. In the year that we lived there it was not uncommon to flip on the light at the bottom of the stairs, walk up the stairs to our door, look out the window and see my Mother flipping the light on their back deck on and off to greet us. Robbie was convinced she spent that year sitting at their deck door watching for us to come home.

Despite being nice people, Mr. and Mrs. D's lives have been invaded by a nasty disease. Mr. D has bone cancer. He is not doing well and is in terrible pain. It has been difficult for Mr. D to accept that he can no longer do many of the things that need to be done around the house. I would imagine it must be difficult for anyone who has spent a lifetime being self sufficient to suddenly find themselves in a place where they must rely upon the kindness of others. It has been equally difficult for Mrs. D to watch the man she loves in constant pain, both physically and emotionally.

Thirty days. After seventy some years of living and fifty or so years of marriage, Mr. D now has, at least in the estimation of one healthcare professional, thirty days. I'm not exactly sure what one does with information like that. How do you look at someone you have spent a lifetime loving, knowing that in all likelihood they will be dead before the calendar turns to December. I resisted the urge to write "gone", instead of "dead". He isn't "going", he is dying. Gone makes it seem less final, less scary. But it is final, and regardless of your spiritual beliefs, it is scary. Thirty days from now we will have just celebrated Phillip's fourth birthday and we will be looking ahead to the holidays. I don't know what the next thirty days hold in store for Mr. and Mrs. D, but I'm praying for a miracle.