Letting Go

This is the last photograph I took of Eric. He died the next day.

In the photo, he’s sitting in a recliner, waiting for his wife to return. Geodee had been trying to soothe his pain by chilling her hands in ice, then rubbing them on his body. His tumors had grown so large they were visible, bulging through his rib cage. That night, she sat by his bedside, but neither slept much.

By morning, Eric seemed happy — strong enough to record a message to his wife for the years ahead, saying how much he loved her. As the day wore on, he fought the inevitable. His hospice nurse said she’d never seen anyone put up a harder struggle. Geodee didn’t want her husband to suffer anymore, but she didn’t know how to persuade him to let go.

His eyes were closed. The sound of his ragged breathing filled the room. Geodee ushered everyone out, then took her husband’s hand. She told him that they were alone, that their daughters wouldn’t witness his passing. And that it was fine for him to leave now. His family loved him and would be OK.

Slowly, Eric released his grip on life. Geodee laid her head on his chest and heard no heartbeat.

At 35 years old, Eric was gone.