He’s sitting in his room at the aged care facility, propped in one of those big armchairs with buttons you press to help you stand up. He can’t actually stand up any more, but the chair also reclines and this is where he sleeps. There are photos of Charlie and me everywhere. They ceased being any help to him months ago, but I like to think we’re there if he wakes up and is frightened.
He’s a shell of the man he was. Malnourished, because he’s forgotten how to chew and swallow. Gaunt, with skin almost translucent he’s so pale. I stroke his cheek, which was smooth after I shaved it this morning, but is now rough. The shaving was an ordeal, too, but I want him to feel better. Fresher. Cared for. Loved. Because he is loved, so much.
This is a long goodbye. I’ve been losing Cam in pieces, each progression taking part of him from me by stealth. I say goodbye each night when he’s tucked up in bed at seven, and I don’t know how much of him will be there the next day. Just less. Always less. I wanted to care for him at home until the very end, but it became too much with Charlie. Mum and Grace eventually convinced me my role was wife and mother, and if I could bring myself to hand his medical care to nurses, I could focus on those roles. And they’ve been incredibly professional and kind in here.
Cam and I have been adopted by the couple next door to his room, who are in their nineties. Without fail, whether I bowl up there wrung out and crying or reasonably put together straight from work, Claire reaches for me from her wheelchair, her beautiful face alight with genuine joy, and tells me I’m the ‘prettiest girl in the world’。 She has advanced dementia too. And Barrie adores her, the way I adore Cam. I’ve never felt more understood than when I’m in his presence – intergenerational kindred spirits who are living love in that very practical, intimate, vulnerable sense that goes so much deeper than hearts and flowers and jewellery and honeymoons. He’s the father-figure I’ve never had. I’ve never felt more in awe of a couple, or more envious of the length of a loving relationship.
Charlie adores them too. They’re like surrogate grandparents to him. When Cam first moved in, people would ask Charlie if he was here to see his grandma or his grandpa.
‘Daddy!’ he would chirp, innocent of how inconceivably wrong this was, on every level. For a while, we took Cam to the special choir for residents with dementia, but their repertoire was decades out: ‘In the Mood’ and ‘Danny Boy’， when he needed ‘Blinded by the Light’。
After a while, Daddy didn’t know who Charlie was. ‘Daddy’s brain is sick,’ I would explain. ‘He loves you, Charlie, so much, but his brain can’t make his mouth tell you any more.’
It ruined me, the first time I said that. But children are remarkably resilient. A reality check for the awful, amid so much ‘normal’ around us. Charlie would clamber on the bed and watch YouTube clips from ABC Kids, just like other kids running around in the aged care facility, visiting their grandparents and great-grandparents.
So Cam’s last kiss is really just for me. I promise him it will be quick. He won’t even notice. Leaning into a face that isn’t even his own any more – shrunken, shrivelled, blank – my eyes fill with the inevitable tears, although I’d vowed I wouldn’t cry. Inside this kiss is every other one. Our first, on one of our undergraduate picnics on the uni lawns in Melbourne. The kiss he gave me through tears, straight after Charlie was born, in the delivery suite. That kiss on the bed the weekend after we lost our baby. All these kisses, punctuating a grand romance, snuffed decades before its time. He closes his eyes as I lean towards him, and I notice every breath is catching in his throat.
He hasn’t said a word to me, or to anyone, in weeks. But at the moment my lips touch his, I swear I feel his soul stir. In that fraction of a second, we’re Cam and Kate again, the way we used to be. Such strength between us, in this perfect, ageless, timeless, worldless moment.
Then I lean back and open my eyes.
He doesn’t.
I stare for a long time at his beautiful, peaceful face.
And then I become aware. Quietly. Aware of my breath. My heartbeat. The million unseen, microscopic inner workings of the miracle of life, continuing to vibrate within me.
And aware of his stillness.
‘Cam,’ I whisper, my hand shaking his arm gently, not wanting to wake him. Knowing I can’t.
I trace the outline of his face with my fingers. Feel the roughness of his chin. I smooth his hair. Touch his ears. Cradle his neck in my hand, my thumb coming to rest where his pulse should be.
Panic rises within me, but it’s quickly overwhelmed by a tumbling sense of peace. We sit together for ages, Cam and I.
Death and life.
Before and After.
I try to thank him . . . for what, I don’t know. I just thank him, in general, and tell him I love him and I’m sorry. Again, for what? For everything. Every mistake. Each tiny hurt I may have inadvertently inflicted, ever. It feels pointless, speaking aloud to a lifeless body, when it so clearly is no longer him.
There’s no trace of him at all, suddenly. He’s just . . . entirely gone.
And so is the Kate that I knew. Innocent Kate, who believed in fairytales and love stories and happy endings. Kate, who at thirty-eight is too young to be a widow, and who suddenly wants, more than anything, to be at the end of her own life, with her love.
I can’t end it though, because of Charlie, who doesn’t even know yet that Daddy has died. Died. What a horrible word. Charlie, who on the phone earlier tonight told Daddy he’d done another drawing for his wall and got no response, as usual. And never will now.
I’m unable to move. I sit with him for what feels like eternity but is probably a few minutes. It’s only when the nurse knocks at the door and bustles in for her evening check that she finds us here. Checks Cam’s pulse. Tells me she’s sorry, there’s nothing we can do. And even though I know that, it quashes any final hope this is just a nightmare.
She calls her colleagues, who call a funeral director, who’ll be tasked to take Cam away. Paperwork is prepared. Questions are asked. Answers are given on autopilot. It’s all very efficient and administrative, and I can’t take my eyes off him. My Cam. My love. My whole life. What am I going to do now? I’ve been thoroughly occupied in my caring role since a few months after the diagnosis, but that gave me purpose. I don’t even know who I am without the job it has become to look after him.
‘Can we call someone for you?’ the nurse asks.
‘It’s okay. I drove myself.’
She places her hand gently on my shoulder. ‘Someone else should drive you home tonight.’
I scroll through my contacts list and find Hugh’s number and pass the nurse my phone. I don’t even think of calling anyone else this time. He’s the one who handles this stuff best.
I can hear her muffled conversation outside in the corridor. ‘。 . . about half an hour ago . . . she’s in shock . . . thank you . . .’
And it’s not until about twenty minutes later, when Hugh walks in calmly, respectfully, that the tears finally erupt. I pick up Cam’s hand, my head bent, and hold it to my forehead.
His skin is already going cold.
This is the saddest I will ever be, I think.