Billie

Billie died today. Respiratory failure, quiet and painless. She just went away. I sat beside her bed, watching her breath, the blue pulse in her neck. She lay on her right side, pale, fetal-curled, facing the wall, worn out, used up. Hospice told me that the only thing keeping her alive was the oxygen being given though the clear plastic mask covering her nose and mouth. There were drops of condensation inside the mask, making most of her small face indistinct. The parts I could see clearly – forehead, cheek and chin, one ear, were perfectly calm. I was told that I could remove the mask. I did. She took a single breath, later, another; she was gone. She would have done the same for me. © Jack Jordan 2013