I can't write about you.

I can't write about this.

I can't write about how I just spent the past several days in an ICU somewhere in Oregon, watching you struggle for breath, struggle for life, against all odds.

I can't write about it.

Can't write about the years we've shared.  How you gave me life.  

Can't write about it.

How we walked to death's door and back this week, rode that rollercoaster of rally and decline.

Can't write about it.

Can't write about your bruised and swollen hands, your paper-thin skin, your body desperate for rest, and oxygen, and healing.

Can't write about it.

The moments we had alone together this week, talking about old times, about my birth, my childhood, yours, the special times, the memories no one else has.

Because I had you first.

You said it wasn't worth it, no one should have to live like this, unable to sleep, unable to eat, unable to breathe on your own, unable to get up and sit in a chair or take a bath or walk or go to the bathroom.

And you're right.

You could go either way, you know, one door or the other.  I cried when I heard you say the words, "It's not worth it.  I don't want to do this anymore."

But I understood.

You said we'd all be fine, you knew that. . .that there were other people you were anxious to see, that you missed, people on the other side, waiting for you.

Like Dad.  The others long gone.  The mother who left you young.  The husband who did.

You've had a tough life, these last thirty years particularly, widowed, but you're still young.  And I've always thought of you as being strong.

You said my husband was a great man.  He is.  You said very touching things to me, and I appreciated them.

You told me you loved me.  I love you back.

I sang to you, the songs I sing to little birds going to sleep, saying you thought they would help.

I hope they did.