Her Final Breath

The air blew through the window, still filled with an autumn smell. Ariana was lying on her back, her head slightly tilted, as if she were peacefully sleeping. The bed was a cold metal bed with safety rails on the side. It was a cumbersome hospital bed, out of place in our bedroom. The family was seated around her. Our eyes fixed on the slow and inconsistent movement of her breaths.

My nephew, the only one not placed around Ariana, was sitting behind me on my bed, shoving tissues between his eyes and glasses because that was how he felt he needed to handle the constant tears.

I was on the ground with my legs stacked, arms resting on the bed, and my hand wrapped in hers. Her head tilted towards me as I looked up and stared at her, taking in all the details of her face and pushing back the flood of memories each line and curve brought.

It was impossible to hold together the duality of my emotions at that moment. The desperate desire for this pain to end so we could escape the hell of hospice and also the utter terror and brokenness of no longer having her by my side.

The moment was silent as we watched and listened, waiting for her last breath—until a spontaneous song broke out. One by one, everyone joined in singing Ariana to her final rest—everyone but me. I had no voice to speak and no heart to sing.

As the singing began to slow and fade, I noticed her jaw clenching, followed by one shallow breath and then nothing.

She was gone.

I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. I couldn't act.

Next to me, my child collapsed to the floor. Their wails grew louder with each cry. Uncontrollable, my family walked them to their room and attempted to console and comfort my child.

I was still frozen on the floor. After multiple attempts to make my body move, I stood up, walked to their room, hugged them, and realized I had no idea how I would get myself and my children through this.

Moments later, my three kids and I walked back into my room where Ariana lay, lifeless and empty. I closed the door, and we spent the next few minutes saying goodbye.

We left my room, walked downstairs, and out the front door.

For the past two weeks, I felt Ariana so strongly. It was a strange variant of peace. Yet now, peace is elusive and keeps evading me. Awake or asleep, these final moments of Ariana's life will not stop tormenting me. They play on a loop in my head. Every detail of those moments is examined and reexamined, looking for something I might have missed, regrets I still have, or some sign that I am OK and she is OK.

And now words, once objects of my desire, seem all but irrelevant to me. I used to find joy in stringing them together. Finding the right syntax to help emphasize what I was feeling.

But, what I feel now is inexpressible.

And no, it's not negative. It's not positive either. It just is. My connection to Ariana has changed. It's there, maybe. But it feels distant. The celebration of her life has come and gone. The house is still, and there is nothing left to do but try to live whatever this new life is.

I want to believe she is nudging me forward, telling me it's OK, reassuring me that she is good, but it is hard to believe when everything in my life has been dismantled.

I don't know what to believe, what to think, or how to feel.

I'll always love her, that I know.

And I know she would want me to find joy amid the pain, which I'm trying. I swear that I am.

It's just this damn movie that keeps playing in my head. The way her jaw clenched and the sound of my child wailing in pain.

It's psychological terror that won't end.

A torment that I cannot escape.

But I'm doing all that I can to move forward in whatever capacity I find myself capable of.