|Rob and Me (Dev took the picture)|
Your breathing is marked by periods of no breathing at all, followed by deeper, faster and raspier respirations. And even though I know your breathing has taken on Cheyne-Stokes respiration, this knowledge does not relax me. Now I can imagine you not breathing, not returning to me.
I have told you it's okay to go. I have been gallant. Correct. But I lied.
Now as we edge closer to your death, I don't want you to go away from me forever. I want you to live, to defy the odds, to stay with me. To stay with our son who is only 17. Just 17 and you are leaving us. We are too sad without you. I know how much you love me and that you would not want me to hurt like this.
And even as I ramble this rant in my mind, I know that I can't stand to see you hurting. I never could even when it was me hurting you. And over these decades I surely did that. Seeing you living in that bed, unable to walk, to breathe with any ease, to sit up without the help of a mechanical bed that raises and lowers your head, your legs. And now, your legs are bird-like. I'm guessing you have lost 75 pounds since August. Your cheek bones are sharp now. The Rob I know is slipping fast away even before your last breath comes.
Go Rob. Go fast. Go, love. Go.