After a temperature check and answering “no” to a litany of COVID-19 symptoms, they decided I wasn’t a threat. The guards called upstairs to let them know I was there to see you. It was maybe ten minutes before someone, dressed from head-to-toe in a hazmat suit, appeared. It was the RN, Becky. Given the circumstances, she was cordial and comforting, apologetic that we were meeting like this. As she led me upstairs to you, I asked her what to expect. She told me you weren’t conscious but you were not in distress. Once we arrived in the area where you were being cared for, I could see you through the window. I felt the tears start rolling down my face. The staff gave me a few minutes to compose myself and then they dressed me up in the same type of hazmat uniform they were wearing. In a way, I was glad you wouldn’t see me like that. You would have laughed hysterically and had a risqué comment or two.

Becky escorted me into the room and told me to talk to you. It seems our sense of hearing is the last to go. There you were looking peaceful and serene, somewhere between heaven and earth. So, I sat at the side of the bed, took your hand in mine, and talked about the laughs and good times we had shared together for over thirty years. I think you knew I was there because every once in a while, the heart monitor would leap out of it normal pattern. Before I knew it, Becky knocked on the window and held up her hand letting me know I only had five more minutes with you. I couldn’t imagine how I could share all our hopes and dreams for the future in such a short time. So, I reminded you how you had fought the good fight against MS for so many years and suggested that maybe now you should let go and rest. I kissed your forehead, tapped your cheek, and headed out of the room. I removed the hazmat suit, took one last look through the window, and headed home.

I wasn’t home but thirty minutes when Amanda, the physicians assistant, called to let me know you had passed. I guess you waited for me to come so we could have a proper goodbye. I knew you were at peace. Later that afternoon, the hospital called to tell me they had your ring and your wristwatch. Could I pick them up? I headed back to the hospital and retrieved them. As I waited for the bus to go home, I looked at your watch. It had stopped at the exact time they had called me to tell me you had passed. Was that you telling me that you were still around looking after me? I think so.

Two years later, I still miss you all the time. I have your photograph on the wall and say good morning and good night every day. Sometimes when things get crazy, I look at the photo and cry out “Help me, Jody,” and everything seems to calm down. I know you are okay. Since you left, I’ve had occasional nightmares and when I woke up, shaking and heart pounding, there you were standing next to the bed, no wheelchair in sight, assuring me that everything was okay. That’s when I understood that heaven had sent an angel to look over me.

Until we meet again. Run free in the fields of the Lord.