To live in this world you must be able to do three things:
to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go.
—Mary Oliver, In Blackwater Woods

She’s in the intensive care unit scraping along the edge of life. COVID-19 the diagnosis. Her husband sits in the waiting room, wringing his hands, tapping his toes. He’s fearful of the coming hours.

She had a fever on arising, a dry cough by noon, a muddle of gasps by evening, a suffocation by nightfall. Now her breath is desperate and irregular, her lungs drowning. She needs a ventilator, but she’s tired, no longer able to see past today. I videotape her words with my cellphone. “I’ve had 83 years of good life. Let someone young have the ventilator.” Her voice is anemic and resigned; she’s exhausted from trying to live. She gathers her breath and glances at the cellphone. “I love you, sweetheart.” I try to speak, but grief overwhelms me.

~~

I show her husband the video; he watches it three times. He touches the screen, lovingly. Ragged sobs fill his throat. “I love you too.” His face crumples, his lips quiver. Fat tears drop from his raw-rimmed eyes. “We’ve been together sixty-three years, and now, when she needs me the most, I can’t be with her because of some goddamn virus.” He leans forward, throws his head into his hands, and rocks back and forth. After 63 shared years, he can’t hold her, hug her, kiss her, or caress her; it’s too risky, the contagion too virulent. I cradle his shoulders; his body trembles. “I don’t know how I’m going to live without her.” He grabs my arm and pulls me close. “Promise me you won’t let her suffer.” I promise him; it’s all I have to offer.

~~

I dial her husband on FaceTime. I direct the camera toward his wife. She’s choking, fluid bubbling in her mouth. The pixelated image is unsettling. Their goodbyes are hurried. A sedative floods her veins; her eyes close, her body relaxes. She’ll sleep until she dies. Her husband collapses and weeps, softly. I taste the salt of tears. Letting go is hard, for everyone.

I want to thank the patient’s husband for permission to share their story.

Paul Rousseau is a semiretired physician and writer, with articles published or forthcoming in The Healing Muse, Blood and Thunder, Intima: A Journal of Narrative Medicine, Months to Years, Cleaning Up Glitter, Burningword Literary Journal, Prometheus Dreaming, Hospital Drive, JAMA, Annals of Internal Medicine, Canadian Medical Association Journal, Tendon, and others. He is currently working on a collection of essays. Rousseau lives in Charleston, SC, and longs to return to the West. Lover of dogs.