I am thrilled to know that Carleton Cannon no
longer has pain. Mine will simply take
time.
For those who do not know, Carleton has been my boyfriend, best friend, and partner nearly the last three years. For much of that time, he also fought disease and cancer.
Yesterday, August 20, 2013, Carleton called me. At 1pm, with wheezing and labored breathing, he wanted me to hurry to his hospital room, a pulmonary doctor was looking for me. Carleton was scared. So was I. He was on
so many and so much pain medication over the last few days. Many of the doctors were amazed at his ability to ask for more to address the exponentially increasing pain thresholds.
I hurried and was at his hospital room in under 15 minutes to learn that Carleton had already received the gravest of news. Worse, I was to be the person to decide his fate, invasive surgery or to keep him comfortable. Truly, it was not a decision he felt he clearly understood and he looked to me with trust and faith to make his best decision. I made that decision and it was confirmed by his mother whose eyes were as wet as mine.
Months ago, he had been giving everyone
grief requesting to go home, demanding to go home, yet not able to go
home. Finally, after hours of this relentless demand with
his brother, his dad just recently arrived, I came to see him and observed his agitation, and
after a few moments in the room and with all the love and authority I had, I
simply said “Not Today”.
Immediately, he
reached for me, sobbed, then hugged me, and fell asleep. He trusted my word. Yet, in the months to come, clearly he
contemplated those two words. He must have considered the trust between us, the care I gave, and the loyalty, presence and
deep affirmation of what those two words meant between us. He held to the belief that I would be there when
he was ready to go home and I would advocate for it, no matter the cost.
You may ask how I know he did this. Well, yesterday, after making the decision for his best interest, I asked and contacted those most important that he say something to or hug. When the last person arrived, tears streaming down his face, Carleton no longer had energy to fight the pain, the labored breathing and the reluctant increases of pain medication I was requesting.
Having said goodbye to everyone
else, he turned to me, in front of his dad, at the end. Scared,
exhausted, relieved, yet clearly focused on his surrender, doing what he could to help everyone else in the
room during this transition, he turned to me. I did not expect what was next.
He had trusted me for nearly three years to be his partner and
advocate. He had been the ultimate romantic. He had wanted 50 years with me but
with resignation in his eyes, he had earlier in the days prior faced the prospect of his death. The pain was increasingly too much for him to endure. He repeatedly said he was not a fighter.
For months we had discussed the options and strategies surrounding his health. He sought advice and what would be appropriate actions to help him fight or how best to surrender with dignity. He communicated his devotion to
me, his love of our time together, his appreciation for what I have done, and
his months of growing grief and concern for me that I would not be okay.
Yet, with that
same care and his own last moments of humor and wit, he returned in volume all the emotion and
care he could muster. He trusted I would
do what was necessary so he could go home.
With the last of his strength he surprised me and said the one word that
would mean most to me and require my compliance. He was requesting
my help one more time. I was his health advocate. He knew only one word would force me to provide him the relief
he sought.
He said “Today”. And, today, I am still crying.
