My family keeps commenting on how easy it is for them to now see how quickly Parkinson's robbed Lizard of everything he loved. We go through photos, and they are amazed at the difference through the years, especially the last few months.
I knew we had reached end stage because he wasn't eating much anymore, and he was exhausted all the time. I knew from the caregiver support group we were rapidly approaching a stage neither of us wanted. Yet I was kind of in denial, I guess. I thought we'd have a couple more years.
I didn't see how quickly it was moving the last few months because I was with him 24/7. It wasn't until I began looking through photos afterward that I could see just how hard he was struggling every single day.
I am so thankful his suffering was not prolonged. I am so grateful he is whole now. I am so glad I took him to Moab for a belated 20th anniversary celebration in December, even though the trip was difficult for him. He really wanted to go. He picked the destination. He was never able to travel again after that.
I read through Lizard's 2019 journal while I was trying to prepare his eulogy, and I was shocked to see how much he was suffering just one year into his diagnosis. He tried to live life to the fullest, even though every single day was an uphill battle for him. He didn't complain to me, and he always tried to endure everything I planned, not knowing how hard everything was for him. Man, he was an incredible husband!
His journal taught me things I didn't know. Our cycling mileage really tells the tale. 2017 was the year I had neck problems. He was diagnosed the following year.
His final six weeks were traumatic. Parkinson's is brutal. Lizard did not recognize me most of his final six weeks. His final three months were so difficult for him. He'd been telling people for years he still had a good 20 years left. Then, last year, he started saying it might be only 10 years. Nearly every day for the last couple of months, sometimes multiple times a day, he would tell me he was afraid of dying.
I would tell him, over and over again, he will be surrounded by his loved ones on the other side. I would tell him he will be whole. I would tell him he will no longer have Parkinson's.
The final week was beyond anything I could have feared. I walked him with a gait belt (just like when he had his back surgery in 2020) the entire circumference of the hospital on Saturday. Monday, he could no longer get out of bed. Tuesday, he could no longer talk. Wednesday, he could no longer swallow. Thursday, his eyes never opened again.
On Friday, he came home via hospice. I prayed I'd be able to bring him home, which I was able to do. And I prayed I'd be able to hold his hand when he crossed over.
I stayed right by his side for the next 60 hours, taking only restroom breaks when a family member was able to sit with him. I was so afraid he would leave while I was not in the room, so I made it super quick every time.
My alarm was set for his medication every four hours. I fell asleep on a mattress on the floor next to his hospice bed at about 10 p.m. Sunday night. The next alarm would be at 11 p.m. I bolted awake at about 10:35. I knelt next to him and held his hand. His fingers were ice cold. I told him I love him. He raised his hand about two inches, and then it fell. He let out three quick, shallow breaths, and he was gone.
There were many, many tender mercies that final week. I have so many reasons to be grateful. And so many reasons to miss him. It is my understanding time passes much more quickly for those in heaven than it does for us, here. For us, it feels like an eternity of separation. But for them, it feels like a few minutes.
I hope that's true. After the agony he endured, I hope this temporary separation is just a blip in eternity for him. He deserves happiness. And peace.
