Journey

Iam following the gurney that carries my husband, george Edward Brandeberry, to the hospice facility where he will die. With me is Melodee, George's daughter. Lacing her arm through mine, she says, “The last journey.”

She is referring to the tribute I read at my husband's 83rd birthday party just one week before. In that tribute I spoke of the wondrous journey of our relationship, the amazing trips we took all over the world, and the tortuous journey of the last 16 months as we dealt with the fear, pain, and uncertainty of his increasing health problems. The party was bittersweet. We knew that George would enter the hospital the Monday following his party. He was jaundiced. We thought he needed gallbladder surgery. We didn't know if he could survive general anesthesia. But I held out hope. After all, I never believed he would see this birthday. The previous year, on his 82nd birthday, his PSA, the number that indicates the insidious rise of prostate cancer, had jumped precipitously despite chemotherapy. Yet here he was, one year later, still fighting for his life. I hoped that my husband's strength and tenacity would carry him through yet another crisis.

Now, as we follow the gurney, I say nothing. The decision to put George into hospice was difficult but not agonizing. Even this final