Death Visit by Teresa Wink

I arrive at exactly 3 pm, pulling up in front of the sprawling suburban house. I don't pull into the driveway because when I parked there at Tuesday's visit I got blocked in and it was an ordeal.

His wife comes to the door to greet me, and notes with horror that the melting snow has led to mud caked all over my Doc Martens, which I have now worn five steps onto their white carpet. I apologize and remove the boots, which in home care is a big no-no because you never know what hazardous materials could litter someone's home. But I'll be careful, I tell myself, and white carpets sometimes demand the breaking of rules.

We chat for a few minutes. She tells me the past few days have been much better. He's not been scratching so much and today he got up and had breakfast with their daughters in the kitchen.

Their caregiver begins sponging my footprints from the carpet.

She finally leads me into the sun room at the front of the house. "He's napping. Now, he's seemed much more comfortable since we started the morphine. But what you see here is what concerns me. He's been sleeping all afternoon."

I see before me a gray-faced, still form of a man. My heart sinks. "I'm just going to take a quick listen to him," I tell her.

I place the diaphragm of my stethoscope on his thin frame, noting there is no pulse pumping in his neck. And the only sound I hear is the interference from his chest hair sliding under the thin plastic - no heartbeat, no breath sounds

His skin is still warm, at least on his trunk. I am terrified of speaking too soon, but I know he is dead. For my own peace of mind I get out my pen light and lift his eyelids, noting his pupils are blown and remain that way despite the flash of light I shine across his cornea.

"When was the last time you saw him take a breath?"

"What - what are you saying?"

"I'm so sorry," I tell her. "He's gone."

"But - but..." She flushes and her voice rises. "He was just joking and laughing with me this morning. Did he - did he just go in his sleep?"

"It seems that's how it happened, yes."

I can see reality has not set in yet, but tears gather in her eyes as she takes it all in.

"I haven't hugged him since breakfast. You should always hug people, because you never know when it will be the last time."

I swallow my own tears. Now is not the time. Here is not the place.

She calls her granddaughter who is coming home from work. In a few minutes, the younger woman arrives with her own husband and they console this newly-minted widow together. Meanwhile, I tilt his recliner all the way back, as far as it will go. I close his slack jaw as best as I can,  tucking a rolled up washcloth between his chin and his collarbone.

"He's in his favorite chair," she says, "the one all his grandkids chipped in to give him last year."

There is sunlight pouring in through the windows.

I make the necessary phone calls: MD, medical examiner, funeral home.

Then I text my partner: "What are you doing in an hour? I need a hug."