Monday Morning Musing: Parting Shots

It was a few weeks after Bruce died, maybe more than a few, that I thought to wonder about the last image Bruce took.   He’d asked for his phone in the hospital on most days, except the very worst ones.  There were some of those in the first week and then more in the last. 

I remembered that he’d sent photos from the ambulance when he was transported from Olympia to Seattle.  Haunting photos of his view from where he lay. And photos of the city he called home as it came into view through the windows in the rear doors.

I got out his phone and true to form, he’d documented so much of those last days.  There are videos he took while being transported, almost daily, to dialysis or for a scan of one sort or another.  There are images of his room, of his view from his bed, of what he saw as he “worked the process” which was how he described it.  Now, I wish I could ask specifically what process it was he was working.

I went through those photos until I came to the final one.  And I remembered.  It was taken on Sunday, May 25^th.  We had been transferred back to ICU as his systems were failing rapidly and together as if in some weird synchronicity.  His need for the extraordinary care provided on that unit was clear. 

Changing rooms meant gathering up everything:  the photos and cards and ‘fun fact’ sheets that were posted and displayed around the room.  My things: clothing and suitcase and computer and books and the journal I was keeping.  Bruce’s things, which were few, mostly fit in a plastic bag underneath his bed.  The act of relocating, of changing physical space, was difficult in a way that is hard for me to explain.  With all that was happening – with so much change, it was almost an insult to our spirits to move yet again. 

The last series of photos in his phone captures me, without my knowledge, setting up the room.  Putting up the pictures so he could see them and locating the pillows that came with my pull out bed. Helping the nurse turn his bed so he could see the view out of the window.  I remember doing all of that.  And then I remember his instruction to me:  Hey Jewels.  Stand over there, by the window is fine today.  It’s cloudy.  Now just relax and look at me. 

In the final photo my arms are crossed in front of me as if I need protection.  As if by standing in a defensive posture I can ward off any more bad news.  And the worry on my face is evident.  Most pictures of us together show the love we share in all of its wonder, its joy radiant and forward facing.  But this picture just shows how absolutely terrified I was in those days. 

And yet, it is the last photo he took. 

Later that evening his condition would deteriorate significantly and we would be awake all night trying to figure out what to do next.  This would be the night I called my kids to come in the wee hours of the morning.  This would be the night that the surgeon said that surgery was the best option and that he would certainly not survive so it wasn’t an option at all. This would be the night that I knew, somewhere deep in my heart, that this terrible, aggressive, brutal leukemia would not be something his wonderful, compassionate, loving body would overcome. 

Bruce’s images are so amazing – whether he was snapping a selfie or setting up some technically complex shot.  They were amazing because he was.  Because he was so full of curiosity and gratitude and presence. 

I hate this picture of me because of all of the pain that it holds.  But it is no surprise that he thought to capture this moment, even with all that he was enduring.  I spent years being the subject in his photographs and none of them come close to capturing the absolute gift it was to share life with him.  And so I love this picture of me, after all.  Because of the person who took it.