etherealnight

Less than a month ago, my fiancée, best friend and love of my life died in my arms. He had Hep. C and had already had 2 liver transplants 5 months ago -- in an attempt to save him. He was 37 years old -- I'm 23.

In those 5 months I saw the man I love waste away to nothing . . . and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I honestly believed my love for him could save his life, but I was wrong.

I never left his side. When he was in the ICU I would sleep out in the waiting room. I didn't sleep in a bed in those 5 months, always on the floor, on my little mat and pillow. At 6am I would wake up and go to his room and help care for him and just spend time with him, then at 10pm I would collapse in my little camp and start over again.

We didn't know what the outcome would be until the last week. He had contracted chickenpox from being so immunosuppressed and then they spread to his lungs and brain. Making him unconscious. His Hep. C had become rampant, viral count in the millions. The doctors couldn’t figure out why, but they knew another transplant wouldn't help him.

I've never seen someone die before. Never seen their last breath or felt their last heartbeat . . . or seen those unresponsive pupils, when exposed to light. But I was with him in those last moments. I was determined he wouldn't die alone, or without me by his side. But when he passed . . . when I felt his last heartbeat . . . I literally . . . LITERALLY felt half of my soul ripped away.

He was my soul mate, my other half, my true love. I loved him unconditionally and tried everything to save him. Pleading, and begging with the doctors to do something-anything. I prayed . . . something I never do. I begged God to save him . . . . but our prayers went unanswered.

Now all I have of him are mementos of his that only cause me pain. On my desk, I can see a poem he wrote me . . . declaring his love for me. I can also see the pamphlet from his funeral, two tickets to the last movie we went together, and pictures of him on his last vacation. A little token I had bought him in the hospital gift shop, with “I [heart] U!” written on it with red ink . . . and . . . a list of songs him and I worked on that we felt represented our relationship.

Truthfully, I don’t want to live anymore. I stayed by his side, unwavering . . . and now he has gone somewhere I can’t follow. He was the one thing in my life worth living for and now that he is gone, I have nothing to look forward to. I know I will never love again, because I don’t want to, I choose not to. I guess I am too loyal . . . in all of the relationships I’ve been in, his arms felt right around me. He was my match, and my soul mate.

Would I commit suicide? . . . no, I don’t think so. Because I don’t know what the consequences are. Perhaps there is a sort of punishment for suicide, where you are sent to a ‘hell’ or are just reborn. The fact of the matter is, I don’t know the answer and I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize my chances of ever being with him again. But I beg and pray that the fates, gods or anything shows me my purpose in life so I can get it the hell done with and be with him again.

Our friends tell me I have a gift. What that gift is, I don’t know. They say it’s my ability to sense death/dying, comfort the ill and to show them love. I can only hope my purpose isn’t to be a caregiver to the terminally ill. I can’t go through another death – family, friend or otherwise.

My nightmares are horrendous. More like night terrors. The depression hits me the worst just when I go to bed. I usually spend two hours lying in bed bawling like a child and clawing at my head/face trying to get the disturbing images of his last months out of my head. Him crying, telling me he was scared . . . my feeling of total helplessness. I would stroke his hair, only to have large patches of it come out in my hand. I would look upon his skeletal face – he lost about 40 lbs. since coming to the hospital. His gaping wounds and sores -- all I could do was hold him and tell him I loved him . . . those were the last words he heard . . . how much I loved him.

I don’t ask why . . . I learned not to ask that question along time ago. I only ask for my time to come soon. I’m more than ready . . .

Why I am posting this is beyond me . . . perhaps this is my purpose . . . to tell a little of my story, to help others out there.