I only called him sweetheart for the last week of his life. Of course, I didn’t know it was his last week. He told me, “I think so-and –so should have my leather jacket, don’t you?” and “Make sure my youngest son gets my watch.”
I said, “I’m starting smoking again,” and he said, “No,” but I did and I didn’t pretend otherwise. I’d taken over the cooking because he wasn’t up to it. I cooked his last meal, which, as luck would have it, happened to be his very favourite.
We fell madly in love again during that last week.
Friday night, I couldn’t help him anymore so I left him alone in the hopes that he’d get some sleep. There was nothing I had to do so I finally contacted two big-shot men in the film business that I knew from my early days. I did it for him, because he wanted me to very badly. He didn’t understand
the business, ever. These guys can’t help me get a gig. They’re below the line; I’m above. But I did it so I could tell him I’d done it and when he called me I went to the bedroom to announce just that.
When I got there he said he’d vomited blood and thought we should maybe call Telehealth, which advises Ontarians as to the best course of action when there’s an emergency. I said, “I don’t think we need Telehealth, I think we need an ambulance.”
You might think I knew these were our last days together. But you’d be wrong. I didn't have a conscious clue. Sunday morning, when he died, I waa shocked
to the bone.
Go figure.
Ice storm/internet down/Michael in hospital/power outage/Michael dies/get this body outta our morgue!/Christmas/power up/internet back up and – Happy New Year!
Enthusiastic replies from the two guys I’d emailed at the very end of the part before the beginning of the end.
I’m still in contact with them. My situation has changed, of course, but
the situation hasn't. They can’t do anything for me. I’m still above the line; they’re still below.
