Jacques walked or cycled twice a day and worked out almost every day for over 35 years. He was a popular highschool teacher who retired at 54 in 2000.
He was very disciplined, intelligent with dry dead pan humour and a sense of fun. He and Dad used to tease me when we all lived together.
Jacques considered me in all of his decisions. He made sure that everything was always taken care of for me. He oversaw the house renovations turning this old house in a beautiful, warm, haven. He ran the the household. He took care of the cars, made sure they were full of gas, well maintained and always washed and waxed. He moved the lawn and kept the shrubs and trees pruned. Our yard is beautiful. He would surprise me by putting up the Christmas decorations magically turning on the lights with a wireless switch in his pocket as we’d come home from an evening walk. He’d get up early, warm the car and drive me two blocks to work in the winter months just because he wanted to spoil me. I’m just realizing now to what extent.
After 15 months of a progressive nightmare in which he gradually lost his independence and autonomy, his suffering is finally over. He'd never had an operation in his life until last May and then he had too many to count since then, the final two ending with complete amputation of his toes which really means the front of both of his feet. He was in horrible pain before and incredible pain afterwards.
We’d planned for a full recovery with rehabilitation. He was determined to learn to walk again, to cycle and to mow our lawn. I was sure he’d get through due to his legendary stubbornness . I’d promised him that if we needed to change our activities, we’d find a new normal. If we couldn’t cycle anymore, we’d go for car rides and pick nicks. We’d adjust. We’d be okay.
He’d been hospitalized since mid November except for a brief difficult stay at home during the holidays where he was in indescribable pain and got weaker and weaker. Caring for him adequately, and insuring his safety became increasingly difficult.He stopped eating and drinking. He must have envisioned a bleak future. I called the ambulance on January 9th and he never came home. He knew it. I didn’t.
He was born in a tiny house on Rue Notre-Dame in Montebello and I brought him back to Montebello for palliative care which is situated on the ground floor of an old convent at 532 Notre-Dame where we shared our first apartment almost a quarter of a century ago and where he’d lived as a bachelor for many years.
A couple of weeks ago, he’d told me that he no longer had a link to Montebello. He’d been in the hospital so long. Losing his link to our home must have hurt.
His speech and voice got more and more difficult to understand in the last 2 weeks. I’d revert to a few moments of FaceTime when I was home so we could see each other.
From the moment we brought him back for palliative care, I only left for a quick few minutes to go home 2 blocks away to get what I needed for the night.
The people at Le Monarque are angels. I knew he didn’t want to suffer and they made sure he didn’t. We were surrounded by friends and family that last evening and then left alone. He passed away peacefully as I kissed him and reminded him how much I love him and would always love him. I told him it was okay to go, that we’d be okay. He and I, we’d be okay.
My heart is broken. We’d rewritten our will a few years ago, if I died, if he died, if we died together, which is really what I would have wished for. His mom had lived into her 90’s and I honestly thought that he would outlive me. We’d planned for this hypothetical day but I didn’t think it would come for years. He was more than 16 and a half years my senior, but so in shape. He was always better at me in every sport. Faster, stronger, more graceful. In board games, I’d teach him how to play only to have him beat me on our first game.
Spike, my first cat, didn’t like men in general. Way back when, I’d told Jacques to be careful of Spike when a few seconds later, the cat and climbed onto him and settled down to sleep Jacques’ chest. Jacques looked at me with a smirk. Spike told me that this was a good man. And he was honest, with a code of honour and integrity, generous, with a tough, crusty exterior and a gooey, romantic interior.
I don’t remember him buying cut flowers, but we used to have an old pick up truck and go choose flowers and shrubs for the yard. We planted trees and hedges together in the rain. He always bought me chocolates from La Chocolaterie on Valentine’s Day and on my birthday.
Most of the time, I’d rather spend a quiet evening with him than go to some party. He enjoyed tv, I liked reading books. He was a homebody. Sometimes I needed brief escapes. I used to imagine that he’d begrudged these outings. I realized that it was just that he’d worry about me until I got home.
We had our differences. We were both strong willed and we sometimes clashed. Dad who lived with us in our family home for almost two years before he passed, told us to always resolved our differences before going to sleep each night. And we did. We never married but we always reaffirmed our love for each other every morning, noon and night and in between.
When we had bad arguments, he’d always resort to saying he was going back to live at the old convent where he’d had his bachelor’s 1 bedroom apartment so many years ago.
Life is so strange. The regional palliative care unit is set up in the old convent’s ground floor and is called Le Monarque. As soon as the doctor at the hospital explained that his heart had stopped, that he’d stopped breathing and they’d brought him back with CPR, and that we were at the palliative care stage Friday afternoon, I immediately asked that he be transferred to le Monarque. He was brought back by 4 pm. He passed away sometime between midnight and twelve thirty. I’d taken off my glasses and didn’t want to leave his side to alert anyone or check the time. He always wanted to know the time. It wasn’t important anymore. Nothing is important anymore. Nothing will be to me for a long time.
Time stopped for both of us.
I thanked him for surviving long enough for me to be with him when he passed. I couldn’t have gone on living if I hadn’t been with him. Diane, his sister, rejoined me at 6:30 in the morning to wait for the doctor to confirm the death and for his body to be taken away. There was a bad snowstorm and he was finally taken away around 3pm.
I went home where Vincent and Liliane were waiting for me with our cat, Souris. They stayed until I started to get sleepy. Diane checked in on me by phone and Messenger. She’s 3 blocks away. I could have had someone stay the night, but I decided to stay alone with Souris.
Not really alone. I chose to believe that Jacques will be close by.
Souris is now trying to get my attention. It’s 2:33 am.
Jacques was ill and dying back in 2001 and 2002 and he got better. Never as buff, but strong again. I developed anxiety and OCD fearful that this day would come. Despite the last 15 months, I didn’t see it coming. I kept hoping that we’d get another miracle. Seeing him suffer so, I prayed for the best outcome. I must accept his death and go on even though right now, I’d rather he come and get me.
I started writing a few lines because I’m awake in the middle of the night, but in writing I’ve always found Truth. Choosing to share my life with Jacques brought me home and has provided me with a life filled with friends, family and community. They will support me when all I want to do is dig a hole and stay there, feed me when I won’t take care of myself and encourage me to choose life even if I feel like I want to join the dead.
Jacques didn’t want a funeral or anything. I’ve decided to honour his wishes. It became clear to me while I spent my final hours with him, that I want to bring him home. His place is with me here.
I think I’ll plant a tree. Something strong and beautiful like him.
Thank you for reading.
Xxoo
Julia
