The oxygen machine is off. I could let the thermostat get above 68 and turn off the ceiling fan. I can sleep with the lights off. My alarms for 10:30, 2:30 and 6:30 meds have all been turned off.

Preston made the very courageous and loving decision to move to the Transitions hospice house today. It became clear that his care needs were exceeding what we could comfortably provide at home, and he wanted our house to continue to feel like a safe space for both me and Conor.

The whole hospice experience has been strange, but mostly good. The people that we’ve worked with have been great – so thoughtful and empathetic and helpful. If you’ve never experienced it closely before, it’s worth knowing more about so maybe it won’t feel so scary for you if you ever have to deal with it.

Once you make the call, they come in and tell you that they’re taking your person off any “get better” medicine. It’s just a comfort game. It all goes through your insurance and they become your pharmacy and physician and mental health providers. They send a nurse out about once a week, and all sorts of other folks check on you. For us, the nurse practitioner was the one that did the “heavy” stuff – the “this is how long” and “this is what will happen” and “here’s what we’re going to do” stuff. She was a miracle worker. Got the drugs managed in a way that Preston really did have a solid 6 weeks of feeling pretty decent.

They also have a case manager who helps with stuff like getting supplies delivered. P’s been on oxygen a fair amount and also had walkers and tray tables and such.

But mostly, the care is up to the family. So, things like getting to the bathroom, changing clothes, getting clean, that’s on us. And I feel like I should have an honorary pharmacy degree trying to keep up with the dozens and dozens of pills. Dillaudid and Ativan and Dexamethasone all look remarkably similar. I got really excited last week when they brand of Dex they sent was green instead of tiny white pills. (It’s the little things.)

Friday, a nursing assistant came to help get P a shower, and that was our first big clue that we were turning a corner. His left arm was difficult to move, and it was hard to stand up – even for a few moments.

At first, I was vehemently against moving him to the hospice house. Like, maybe even a little angry about it. After all, “I CAN DO IT MYSELF” has been my personal motto since I was about 3 years old. Besides, our village is great. Jim and Erin help out a lot, dad is right down the road, Ray and Debora, Kevin and Brandy, Rebecca and Zach – and that barely scratches the surface! We could do this. And we would and it would be a privilege.

But P looked me in the eyes very sincerely and asked that I go along with him on this. And he was right – as he often is.

I find myself absolutely devastated that he is not here, and won’t be again. It’s heavy and hard. Every object makes me sad. I hate this giant bed. Picking out the right t-shirts to send with your beloved for his final weeks on earth is a certain kind of hell I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. Do I go with band shirts? Sentimental? Old favorites? Ones we don’t want to get messed up? (I went with a nice mix and I’m currently draped in his Comeback Kid hoodie.)

And yet, it’s a great relief knowing that someone else is making sure the pain meds are taken and meals are made. That he can maintain his dignity and get help from professionals to use the bathroom. That they’re 100% equipped to make sure that he is comfortable. He had an hour and a half long massage tonight from a massage therapist who volunteers once a week. He has a button to push for any needs and a pump for constant pain meds.

And I just couldn’t give him that here.

And he couldn’t give me the gift of just being able to hold his hand. To – for the first time in a long time – worry less about his physical being and more about just being.

I can take a trazadone tonight, get a good night’s rest with no medicine alarms going off, and tomorrow I can sit with him and we can talk or watch something or just be. And Conor can visit after school and tell him about his day and go visit the sheep in the pasture next door. And come home to a house that is quiet and warm and filled with wonderful memories. And a few of the really hard ones can stay down the road.

My husband is very kind and very brave. This is all so impossibly difficult. Somehow, he manages to keep doing the next right thing, and so will we.

Thanks to all of you for holding us so close these last few weeks. We feel your love and it means so much.