the last

 

Rico and Nika are in our bedroom watching Impractical Jokers.  It's their weekly ritual - one night each week they have dinner together and watch "Impracs". They used to go out to eat - just the two of them, but that ship sailed a while ago.

I am in the kitchen making pasta, covering my mouth so that neither of them hear my hysterical sobbing.

Tomorrow Rico is moving to a hospice center. This is his last night in our home.  Although his situation dictates more care than I can give here, this is not the way either of us wanted this to go.

Blessedly - he has no idea.  We have talked about it but for the most part he thinks he is already there. He's glad that it looks and feels so much like home. He is mostly happy and whenever I take a photo of him he gives me a big "thumbs up for Rico" and a smile. His eyes are mostly vacant, but he isn't hurting, and knows how much he is loved. He says we have such a great life. He's right - we do. Finding him, loving him, raising our kids with him and even riding this storm with him have been the sweetest spots of my existence. I hope the same is true for him.

Tomorrow at 10:30 I will have made him his last cup of coffee here - in that gross coffe pot he insisted on getting at Goodwill 12 years ago. He will have seen his last birthday party here, unwrapped his last Christmas gift, said goodbye to those two dogs he loves so much. We will never again share our couch on movie night. He'll never look out our bedroom window, or hear that annoying woodpecker in the back yard again. He will be gone from here - forever. 

It's not quite the same as dying, but it feels pretty close.