Bob's Hope

          I somehow knew that I needed to see Bob that day to say goodbye. The terminal diagnosis of cancer had been cast two years earlier, but the reality of his death sentence sank in starkly when I saw Bob the last week of his life. Our relationship had ended before the birth of our son, Jeremy, aged nineteen. I was grateful that Jeremy had time to live with his Dad, because Bob, only forty-two years old, would soon be gone. Bob, Jeremy, and his two step brothers had won a “Make a Wish” grant to vacation at Disneyland, but he wouldn’t be alive long enough to make the trip.

          I entered the dimly lit living room-turned-hospice and was surprised to see Bob, attached to an oxygen tank, sitting up in his chair, complaining that his feet hurt. I had been told that his swollen feet were a sign that his organs were shutting down. He tried to pop the tab on his Pepsi can. I reached forward to help him, but he insisted he could do it himself. He couldn’t. When I offered again, he scolded me.

          “If you keep asking me that, you will have to leave,” he snapped, not wanting to admit that this simple task was getting the best of him. I overlooked his grouchy mood, thinking I might be grumpy too if I were about to die. Being that weak and helpless must feel awful to a man once so strong and independent, who was now about to leave everyone and everything behind to the living. I sat quietly and smiled at him, unsure what to say next. I felt awkward since we hadn’t talked very much in years.

          “I assume you are here because you care,” he said.

          “Yes,” I nodded. “How are you feeling?”

          “I’m so tired,” he groaned.

          His cancer that started in his esophagus had spread to his back and stomach. He had control of his intravenous morphine pump to medicate his pain, and I saw him thumb the button for a dose.

          I wanted to talk to him about God and discuss the practical matter of our son and his two teenaged stepsons he had sole custody of. I managed a sentence or two about how I believed he had guardian angels to assist him to the afterlife, but he didn’t seem to accept the nearness of his impending death, or if he did, he wasn’t going to discuss it with me.

          I felt sad to see him so sick and hurting. He had been stocky, and now that he had stopped eating he looked like a tiny bag of bones. I reached out to hug him farewell.

          Bob blurted out in fear, “Don’t squeeze me!”

          “I’m not going to squeeze you, I promise.” I kissed his sunken cheek softly and patted the other one lightly. Then I whispered, “Goodbye, Bob.”

          He replied confidently, “See you later.”

          I turned to leave the house, knowing it was the last time I would see him alive. As I drove home, my hand swiped the tears from my cheeks like a wet windshield wiper. Seeing him so close to death really upset me. I couldn’t stand to see him like that.

          Bob died a couple of days later at home, the way he wanted to die.

          The next day I was on the phone with my friend Susan in Arizona when my computer went crazy. I felt Bob’s presence in the room. I was receiving instant messages on my monitor as if I were online. My name kept flashing urgently in a text box across the screen to get my attention. This can’t be, I told myself, yet it was happening.

          “I feel like Bob is trying to contact me through the computer,” I told Susan, who is spiritually aware and believed me. The computer was making black vertical lines, something I didn’t even know how to do, and had never seen before, or since. If that wasn’t enough, the words on the screen turned red without my clicking the color icon. I hadn’t touched anything.

          I was astonished, then I felt relieved that Bob was all right, even honored that he chose to come to me in spirit. He must have known that I would welcome him. The hairs on my arms raised up as a shivery wave went through my body. Just as suddenly as he came, he quickly left, apparently satisfied he had made the connection.

          A few days later I had a vivid dream. Bob stood tall and strong, healthy and vibrant once more. He held out his arms wide as if to hug me and said with a big grin, “You can squeeze me now!”

          I was delighted to see that he was happy, and I had no reason to be worried any longer. I awoke with the feeling that this was not a typical dream. It felt real. It appeared that Bob wanted to give me this gift, the reassurance that he was out of pain. I didn’t have to be sad about his death anymore because he looked joyful and free. I rolled over in my warm bed, smiling with hope that he will, like he said, see me later.

A true story from Sprinkles from Heaven - Stories of Serendipity by Carolyn Jaynes, M.A