The Boy From New York City

The night I met Jed at Puffy’s Bar on Hudson Street, in Tribeca, the song, The Boy From New York City by the Ad Libs was playing. I hadn’t heard it in longer than I could remember, but walking into a bar that had such a great dancing beat to it had set my mood for the night and when Susan Dumois, the bartender, stepped out from behind the bar and started to dance with me, I knew the night was special.

In the blink of an eye, I sit in Jed’s room, Bach’s Suite No. 3 playing soothingly in the background as he sleeps, coughs, sleeps again.

We are at the end of his second week on Hospice.

I think I am located in it but perhaps not. I cry less. Feel less anxious, though if sleep is the measure, my anxiety comes through in the fitful hours of watching cat videos, and my new favorites the rescue beavers, Tulip, Stormy Rose, and the two tiny beaver kits, Blossom and Sprout.

I don’t write – except lists, and other easy stuff in my journal when I can take an hour to myself and sit somewhere.

My sense of control comes from the stream of non-stop package deliveries of supplies for Jed. From the preparation of meals, adding Thickener, a product that literally thickens liquids to help a person with difficulty swallowing drink or eat their food. From shaving him with his electric razor careful to be gentle, and getting every hair I can find. From the notes I trade with his medical team.

What I have no control over is the relentless course of the disease. Of his sudden distress. Of his decline. Of his whispers. Of how my heart breaks from time to time.

I find the strength to face each day in the wee hours. And from dear, dear friends and family who send me their best wishes for which I will always be so, so very grateful.