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Thank God for Fuzzy Fleece Sweatshirts...
I keep saying this to myself:
Thank God for Fuzzy Fleece Sweatshirts...
Much like Chrys shows up in nearly every other picture with his ubiquitous, red Pleon Yacht Club shirt, I have been known to wear (a little too often) one of 3 identical (except in color) fuzzy fleece pullovers from the Gap.
Fortunately, I'm not too original with my wardrobe, because even Chrys would comment that I wore those fuzzy fleece sweatshirts all the time (Actually, he would comment that he was glad I wore them often, because he thought they were cute on me). It wasn't like Chrys was complaining about my lack of wardrobe variety – he certainly was not qualified to talk about fashion (I mean, how many rugby shirts did he own?!).
But now I can’t stop thinking of this one thought:
Thank God for Fuzzy Fleece Sweatshirts...
You see, without Fuzzy Fleece Sweatshirts, I might have missed Chrys’s last hug and his last "I love you"...
The day after we arrived at the hospital, Chrys commented (never complained) that he was having trouble seeing out of his right eye (among all the other complications he was dealing with). It turned out that the cancerous white blood cells were flooding into his eyes (along with his lungs, and other organs) and causing pressure to "temporarily" blind him in his right eye.
The next day, Chrys commented that his vision was completely gone in that eye. As Chrys's condition worsened in all other respects (particularly breathing), it became clear that he didn't want to continue complaining about other "minor" issues that were bothering him. He was actually surprised when someone came to look at the impacted molar in his mouth (it later turned out that the swelling of the gums was actually a symptom of his type of Leukemia, but we didn't know that at the time).
I'm not sure if Chrys stopped pointing out his symptoms because he didn't want us to worry, or if he was just focusing all his energy on breathing -- but it was clear to me that on his last night of consciousness, (before they sedated, intibated and put him on a respirator), that he had lost his sight in both eyes (I would bring him water, but he wouldn't know where it was until put the straw in his mouth)...
As his last night of consciousness went on, it became more and more difficult for him to get enough oxygen no matter how hard he gasped for air. He seemed to become confused and thought that he was being suffocated by the oxygen mask, so he would try to take the mask off so that he could "catch his breath" – only to discover that the air outside of the mask was much less oxygen rich.
In his last moments before sedation, Chrys was confused and was starting to panic. He wasn’t getting enough oxygen, and I had called the nurses in to help. Chrys was trying to push off the nurses, and kept ripping off his mask. He even started pulling at his IV tubes, as he seemed to get caught in a tangle while nurses tried to restrain him.
I stood next to his bed repeating the only phrase I could muster… "It's OK, baby, It's OK. It's OK baby, It's OK..."
The nurses tried to hold Chrys down to give him a sedative. As he flailed his arms blindly, his hand rubbed against my Fuzzy Fleece Sweatshirt, and he stopped. Although he couldn't see, he knew it was me…
Thank God for Fuzzy Fleece Sweatshirts...
In his last moment of clarity, Chrys stopped flailing about, calmly grabbed on to the sleeve of my Fuzzy Fleece Sweatshirt with both hands, and pulled my arm in for a hug. As he hugged my arm, he looked up in my general direction and mouthed the words "I love you". He continued to hold on to my arm as they administered the sedative shot. As he started to fall asleep, the nurses made me leave the room so that they could intubate and connect him to a respirator."
"I love you" were Chrys's last words. And if he didn't recognize the feel of that damn fuzzy fleece sweatshirt, I might have missed his last hug, and his last "I love you."
Thank God for Fuzzy Fleece Sweatshirts...
I miss you, baby.
