July 4, 2024

10 days shy of 57 years ago, I married this man. Now, we have been divorced for almost 48 years and I am sitting by his deathbed holding his hand. 

As my current, sweetest man on earth husband says, “He is the father of my son! That makes him family!”  We knew Jimmy was going downhill fast since his diagnosis of dementia or Alzheimer’s damnable disease, and his subsequent admission to a wonderful memory care facility; but his decline in the past three weeks was fast and vicious!

Two and a half weeks ago, he was sitting in the dining room eating. He seemed to enjoy seeing pictures of my fish (bass I had caught since our last visit) and of the evolution of my “She Shed.”   He always enjoyed looking at all 13,000 pictures in my iPhone! He walked me to the door and hugged me when I left. When I saw him this past Monday, he was unable to say intelligible words, was lying in his completely flat recliner, and for all appearances, comatose. 

When I got the call from his niece yesterday saying he was near the end, I did not want to believe it – even knowing it was true. The nieces, who oversee his care (because Jimmy’s only child has schizophrenia and is unable to help) came down today. They gave me the dreaded call that the end was in sight. He has been in Hospice care for months due to a probable, but unproven diagnosis of recurrent lung cancer. Because of the Alzheimer’s/dementia diagnosis, it was not advisable to put him under anesthesia; therefore, he was placed in palliative care. 

Jimmy has always been thin. In fact, I have teased him many times about us having a fat transplant- from me to him! Now, at 103 pounds, he looks like a victim of starvation. But, in fact, until this week, he had been eating- his body just could not use the food. (Another of the damnable complications of this damnable disease.)

It is 11:59 PM on the 4th of July and I am playing Buck Owens music for Jimmy. They say music is good and that is what he liked way back when we were first married. I have one hand holding his hand and one finger typing on my iPad. They say human touch is also good. I would sing to him, but that might really put him over the edge. I have talked to him, apologized for all the things I could think of apologizing for and am about talked out, but I cannot leave him. I simply cannot stand the idea of him making this “transition” alone. 

His breathing is labored, his muscles twitch and he yells out every now and then. He is on a full throttle of oxygen- and yet his oxygen count is in the low 70’s. He gets liquid morphine and Ativan alternately every two hours. The wonderful people here swab his mouth and apply ChapStick- all the while, loving on him and smoothing his thick, but receding hair.

 They offer me blankets, pillows, snacks- anything else I might need. This is such a fabulous, thoughtful facility. But I hate being here. I hate that his life had to come to this. I guess we will all come to this place someday- maybe not a “memory care” facility, but “THE TRANSITION “. That is a word I had not heard used in this context before, and I am not sure I like it. I am old fashioned and consider the word as death. Someone gone. No longer with us. A person with a sharp brain, dry wit, and a fanatical meticulous record keeper, gone. But then, because of this horrible, damnable disease, he has been “gone” a long time.

Jimmy has been placed on an air mattress in a hospital bed to relieve pressure on his very fragile frame. His double bed is there and the nurses told me to try to get some rest by going to bed. I put on my red silk pajamas and feel guilty for wearing red at a time like this. About two o’clock, I try to lie down and get some sleep, but every breath he takes makes a noise and I count the seconds between breaths, dreading the time when they will become further and further apart. I cannot sleep, so I get up and get dressed. His breaths are still about four seconds apart.

July 5, 2024

My husband comes about 6 AM and we sit there – still listening to those breaths. Joseph leaves to get us some breakfast, but I stay. I just cannot leave him ALONE. All day, I sit there while the nurses and staff come in every hour or two to give him some aid. We play music, one of the nurses sings to him. I talk to him, reminiscing about old friends and things we have done. I remind him of the time he had me roll up the windows in his 1965 Plymouth Sport Fury so people would think we had air conditioning!

My husband is in and out all day and evening, bringing me food – and a peach milkshake! Finally, I put on those red silk pajamas again, planning for another long night. But soon I sensed a change. The breaths are getting slightly further apart – not much, but half a second or so. Then, there is one seven seconds in duration. Then there were no more.

It was 8:55 PM, July 5, 2024. RIP, Jimmy Cook Tomberlin.