Our beloved Lexie passed away four months before we adopted Lily, leaving us feeling lost without the companionship and love that a pet provides. The Pulaski County, Va., mountains are home to black bears, coyotes, bobcats, and other wildlife that could have easily harmed or killed Lily. Her personality is strikingly similar to Lexie’s, so Brick and I decided that Lexie’s spirit must have been with Lily, protecting her during that time. When Brick was taken by ambulance three days later and admitted to the hospital due to septic shock, we had no idea that the longitude and latitude of our lives would shift so drastically in just three days, a mere 72 hours, strung together by 4,320 minutes.

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Lily’s nails made a clickety-clack sound as if she were tap dancing her way down the stairs. I paused at Brick’s hospital bed, just as I had for three and a half years. When Brick got sick, I lost my reliable circadian rhythm. I had a baby monitor set up so I could keep an eye on him from our bedroom upstairs. An internal alarm clock woke me automatically at 1:30 a.m., then at 3:30 a.m., and finally at 6:00 a.m., signaling the start of my day. Each time I woke up in the middle of the night, it was solely to go downstairs, stand by Brick’s bed, and watch him breathe. I would exhale in relief when I saw his body rise and fall in the quiet rhythm of sleep. I kissed him on the forehead and then returned to bed.

On this day, I had no inkling, intuition, or clairvoyant sense that on June 29^th, I would have only 75 minutes with Brick before he died. What breaks my heart is that I wasn’t even in the room with him when he died. That morning, I overslept, which was unusual for me. I glanced at the clock; it was 6:45 a.m. I hurriedly brewed coffee and fed Lily. I checked on Brick. His face was sunken in, his body frail, and he lay crooked in his hospital bed. I tried to move him, but even though he weighed less than 100 pounds, his body felt like lead. I kissed him on the forehead, and then on the lips. He breathed deeply, lost in a state of sleep that only the dying know. I headed back upstairs for a 7:00 a.m. meditation on Zoom that had kept me grounded throughout his years in hospice.

An hour later, as I came down the stairs, I looked into the dining room where he slept. My stomach lurched, as if I were on one of those out-of-control rides at the state fair. I knew immediately that he was dead. As I approached his bed, I noticed his face was waxen, and his pallor had turned jaundiced. In just 75 minutes, Brick died. I was in disbelief.

I touched his forehead, and I was shocked by how quickly his body became ice cold. I stood frozen in disbelief. I cupped his face and kissed him on the forehead and then on his lips. It was the only way I could say goodbye. Yet, I found comfort in the slight smile and peaceful expression that gently settled over his face. I wondered who welcomed him as he transitioned from this life to the next. Once the hospice nurse arrived to pronounce his time of death, she said he probably passed shortly after I left the room, likely a little after 7:00 a.m.

I tried not to berate myself, but I thought, why didn’t I bring my laptop downstairs and sit beside him during the meditation?

Although hospice had prepared me for the likelihood that he would pass away while I was out of the room, I dismissed their comments. I expected that I would be with him when he died, confident our last words would be, “I love you.” I imagined our hands tightly intertwined, and I would see his soul visibly leave his body. I envisioned a poetic death, a Hallmark moment. I desperately wanted to believe we would share that dying breath trope seen in movies. This is not reality. Instead, hospice said it was his final act of protecting me.

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