I’ve been thinking about Michael and how he died without being able to communicate; a tracheostomy inserted into his windpipe in order to breathe meant that his voice box couldn’t work. At first he tried, very valiantly, to speak in the hope that we would all be able to understand. To read his lips. But Michael was never one for brevity: a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ would not suffice when he could construct elaborate sentences. None of which we understood. He wasn’t able to hold a pen properly so it wasn’t possible for him to write. Neither was he able to use any digital devices. I lived in hope. I thought things would improve; that the trachy would come out and he’d be able to speak again. I thought he would come home.
Instead, he died. And I don’t know what he was thinking. What went on in his mind. Was he lucid and understood what was happening? Did he know he was dying? Was he scared? When I think about how alone he was in that whole process, grief overwhelms me. I can’t bear to think of his suffering, his not knowing, his being alone. I wish I knew what went on in his mind.
tania j layden 