The tach irritates Tom’s throat. I am told there is a softer trach that wouldn’t be so irritating. I jump through all kinds of hoops to get this type of trach. It takes weeks. In the meantime, the cancer has come back. Tom doesn’t know it, but the big fear is that a fissure will open up in between his throat and his lungs. That will be the end.

Next, there is chemo, to try to kill the cancer that has returned. I realize that Tom is never happy to see me. When his best friend arrives, his face breaks into a big smile, the type which never greets me. I am very hurt by this, but there could be many reasons, so I overlook it.

They put Tom on heavier pain medication. This is a very restricted drug, so I have to get all kinds of documentation and sign papers to get it. I have a long drive to the only pharmacy that can provide these drugs. Tom goes further into his fantasy land. He seems unaware of all the suffering he’s enduring and equally unaware of the suffering he’s causing his family.

I have snippets of memories of events that all but prostrated me entirely. In fact, if I look back, I have no idea how I managed to get through all these crises without breaking down. I remember sitting on a swing in an empty children’s park in winter, freezing, waiting the several hours it will take to get results. The results come back, more bad news. I remember all the oddly cozy hours we spent sitting in the car in line to wait for hospital parking, listening to the radio together. Any kind of normal activity is so welcome when nothing in your life will ever be normal again.

But the end occurs one day in late August. Suddenly, Tom is laying on the sofa, being fed via feeding tube, and the feeding liquid comes pouring out of his trach. The only way that could happen is if there is a fissure between his throat and windpipe. This is the deadly calamity that I have been warned about. Once this happens, it's only a matter of time. He seems unconcerned, but I rush him back to the hospital in New York. He will never come home again.

They are very considerate at the hospital and give us a room with a fabulous view of the Manhattan skyline. They know that we won’t need that room for long. He loses consciousness for the last time. He’s moved out of ICU. They have a conference with my son and myself, telling us there is nothing more they can do. We should probably let him die. We agree. They ask if we want to keep him in his drugged up state until the end. That seems kindest to both of us. So, he is moved to another room to slowly expire. I go back and forth to visit him, but he doesn’t respond to me at all.

I make the arrangements for cremation when the time should arrive. He doesn’t last long, about two weeks. He dies on a Sunday morning. I receive the call at about 8 am on that Sunday. There is nothing that can be done on Sunday. I spend the rest of the day crying. It’s over. My thirty-five year marriage is over. I’m exhausted, emotionally and physically. How appropriate for a man who always had such a deep faith in God to die on a Sunday. There is more to this day of death than I imagine.

We thought we had it beat, but it came back. The Devil must have his due.