Relief

17 January, in the year of our Lord 2023

No sooner up than comes a Messenger, sent from Sister Abbie, on the ward in the Hospitall where lies my father, to deliver news of some significance, which was that my father’s breathing hath become less regular, should we wish to visit, which she encourages us to do, and by return I thanked her for her kindness. Breakfast swiftly done, and the mayde come to dress my mother, Mr. Jones and I by his coach to the Hospitall, it being a very cold morning and fresh snow yesterday. There, my father did not awaken to us, but slept, so we sat a good while beside his bed, his only treatment now fortified air and a little clear fluid dripping into the veins of his arm. And there sat, for an hour or more, with a nurse kindly inquiring of us what she might bring to us, whether a little coffee or a decoction of tea, which we took, and all quiet around, the door closed for our privacy and the candles low. At midday Mr. Jones took my forearm gently and by my agreement went, to prepare dinner for my mother, who waited at home, though she had told me in the morning that we should not have any concern for her, for she would make herselfe a honey sandwich; and so left just myselfe and my father, his hand in mine. It is difficult now to remember what thoughts went through my mind, except that this would be to his great Relief and, my being reconciled to it, the Relief of us both. A little after one a-clock my father’s breath lessened, all strength to maintain it gone, and it slowed and, as I sat and observed it, became slower and deeper breath by breath, and I kept his hand in mine though he did not know it. Until his breath stopped all together.
  After a little while, I stood, and stroked his hand, and placed it quietly upon the sheet beside him, and stepped to the door of his little room, where I said to the nurse there, simply, ‘He hath gone.’ Whereupon she rose, and gave a nod of her head and placed a hand upon my arm, which was better than any words. And so I returned to the bedside and sat a while, and by and by come the young apprentice Physician, very respecktfull, who took my hand and did offer his condolence, which I saw he meant truly, every bit of it, and asked me very soft at what hour it occurred, for he must enter it in the records. And I told him that it was five minutes before the ward clock struck a half-past one a-clock. By the Messenger to Mr. Jones, who come in his coach, and we met there, upon the ward, and he said his last farewell, and I dealt with the little practicalities that accompany all such tremendous events — what I must do about the Certification of death, and where and when I might pick up what little belongings my father had there, among them his gown, his razor, his pocket watch and the tiny devices that helped him hear.
  That done, home, speaking barely a word, only travelling in companiable silence. The journey done, I found my mother in her customery chair, and I knelt in front of her and once more took her hand.
  ‘I am afraid I have some news,’ say I, quietly.
  She looked distraught, but though she struggled to marshal her thoughts she guessed enough of what I was to say.
  ‘You remember how poorly father was?’ say I.
  ‘He hath not died?’ says she in disbelief, and tears well up in her eyes.
  I nod, and all I can say is, ‘Yes. I am afraid he has.’ And I took in my arms not just my mother, but a woman of ninety-two years and a wife of sixty-eight, who hath lost the greatest companion she ever knew.
  ‘Am I a widow?’ says she at last, seeking confirmacion through the tears that fall. To which I have no answer but to once more squeeze her hand and hold it, the tightest I think I ever did.
  After, in the quiet of the kitchen, Mr. Jones says simply, ‘Well done.’
  My mother did not want supper but, encouraged, eat a little. After the mayde come with her lanthorn, Mr. Jones and I shared a pint of wine, it not being an evening to be about any purpose, and considered the matter of the day, and that it was five weeks to the very day that my father went into the Hospitall, the course of those weeks so back and forth, and we raised a glass to a life well-lived. And so to bed.