Dying to Be with Sylvie - Revisited

Dying To Be With Sylvie - Revisited

Scorpius1945

Author update:

The original story was written in 2014, when the author's wife, Sylvie in the story, was alive and well, and several years younger than the writer. The original story contained many historically correct facts, but the theme of the story, my death to join with her in spirit land after she predeceased me, was total fiction. I did not know how close reality would follow my fiction. Now, in 2024, ten years later, my darling Sylvie in real life has died. I am now living many of the emotions I have detailed in the original story, but in our family home rather than in a waiting-for-God home, and I am not nearly as old or decrepit as described in the original story.

Interestingly, in the original story I made note of the origin of the story as being from a song by Gordon Lightfoot. For about a year before the events below, I had found a strong attraction to a Kris Kristofferson song that started 'This could be our last good night together'; one of them was, but unfortunately, I don't remember it. Coincidence? Maybe.

Part 1 -- The facts:

We held hands, her in her hospital bed, me in the hard chair beside her bed, as we listened to the bevy of specialist doctors discuss the results of her CT scans. Sophie, my darling wife of nearly 50 years, had been diagnosed with multi-organ abdominal cancer. The specialists agreed that it was completely untreatable and that she was dying due to the rapidly spreading tumors affecting many essential organs.

After they left, we looked at each other and kissed gently. Sylvie was in only a little pain, mainly discomfort, eased by the flexibility of the hospital bed to accommodate her most comfortable position and the large amounts of painkillers being fed to her intravenously.

"Looks like this is it," she said at last, "I'm sorry it has to end like this, but at least I'll be home, but for how long, I don't know."

"Well, honey, miracles do happen, so we just have to pray for a miracle, while at the same time preparing for the worst."

We spoke quietly about our life together, our children, all we'd accomplished, the plans we'd made, most of which we had fulfilled. I focused on the here and now, not thinking of a future without my darling, not even being able to conceptualize such a future. At the end of the day, I returned home alone, having made arrangements to take Sylvie home tomorrow, Saturday.

Sylvie required physical support to shower and toilet, being unable to walk without support, especially up the couple of steps from our lounge, where she spent her remaining days in a reclining chair with footstool. We were entitled to loan equipment of a higher toilet chair and a shower seat, but being the weekend, the hospital store that hired these items was closed.

I helped her into a wheelchair, took her down the elevator out to the car, eased her into the passenger seat, then drove her home, where I assisted her into our home for the last time and it was with great relief that she eased herself into her favorite chair.

The next two weeks is a blur of making meals, helping Sylvie shower and toilet herself, watching as each day she slept more and became weaker before my eyes and there were frequent visitors around to say their goodbyes. The doctors had made an appointment for a biopsy in three weeks' time, but as Sylvie weakened visibly each day, I phoned the hospital on two occasions to ask what the benefits were for the patient, but I was unable to find an answer and was unable also to even speak to any doctor about it. In the end I cancelled that appointment, which, as it happened, would have been a week after her death.

On the Wednesday of the second week she told me something that I had no inkling about. She told me that when she had been diagnosed with a rare autoimmune disease five years earlier, for which she had been taking immunosuppressant medications, the doctors had told her that she would probably have a relapse in five years. So she had made a five year bucket list and I listened in awe as she listed all the things we had done, the extended trips we had made, the modifications we had made to the house, all had been on her bucket list. Finally, she came to the crunch.

"I found I only had one thing left on my list and that occurred six weeks ago. I had then completed my list and therefore I could leave," she told me.

I still wonder whether I would have been so willing to do all those things we did together had I known that they were part of this self-destructive bucket list. She also asked me for permission to leave this life, which I reluctantly gave, pointing out that she also needed to give herself permission to leave.

On the Thursday of the second week home, she awoke far brighter and more cheery than she had been. I felt a flicker of hope; was her poor body really combating the cancer? Could she possibly recover and everything return to 'normal', whatever that meant? I have learnt since that this is called a rally, which frequently occurs the day before a person dies in these types of situations. During the day, Sylvie had a string of visitors, including our children, to whom she dictated lists of what needed to happen, of who got what of her belongings once she died, and to the undertaker about what exactly she wanted for the celebration of her life. To me she described in detail how her coffin was to be constructed and decorated by me, our sons-in-law and our grandchildren.

On the Friday morning she didn't wake for her usual tiny breakfast but slept until 2pm while I sat beside her, listening to every breath she took, holding her hand. At 2pm, her eyes popped open, she turned her head and made kissing motions with her lips. We kissed, softly, lovingly, poignantly; it was to be our last kiss. During the day our adult children visited and remained around her.

Sylvie had always been a teacher, encouraging others to achieve to their highest potential. At 3pm Sylvie took her last rattling breath and passed from this world. As our son said later, she was a typical teacher; at 3pm on a Friday afternoon she went home.

The necessities were dealt with in a blur of activity, doctor, undertaker, she was removed from the house, there seemed to be people everywhere, a total blur. Family made her coffin, painted by grandchildren her favorite color, decorated with butterflies; the funeral was delayed so that it occurred on our wedding anniversary. The funeral was as wonderful as funerals could be, a great many people paid their last respects and she was given an excellent send off. People returned home, the house felt drained of everything, just a big empty shell for me and our cat to bounce around in.

It's now been six months, and what a six months it has been. I'm still alone in the house with my cat, each day seems so short, so busy. I sometimes go several days without seeing or talking to another person. There are many online groups for older singles, but there seems to be a huge fear factor regarding actually meeting in person or even giving contact details -- scammers have a great deal to answer for. My original story now has the context of a situation I had no wish to live, which I couldn't in my wildest dreams have imagined was anything but fiction, but which is now far too close to reality for comfort. Was it a premonition ten years ago? We'll never know.

Here's the original story with revisions:

Author's note to the original story:

This story combines experiences from many different aspects of different people's lives. Many of the characters in the story are based on real people, but all names have been changed and locations anonymized. Its writing was prompted by listening to Gordon Lightfoot singing 'Home from the Forest', some of the lyrics from which are incorporated into the story. It brought to mind the poignancy of death and dying, of losing loved ones and the hypocrisy surrounding the death and waiting for God industries in this modern world, in which age is a reason for people to be thrown on the trash heap while the world goes on with more important things like making money.

While the story does not contain my usual level of eroticism, hopefully the reader will find the emotional content more than makes up for this lack. I trust that this story will bring more meaning to your life and the lives of your loved ones, especially those of an earlier generation who are so easy to forget.

The old man ate his lunch in silence, largely oblivious to the people surrounding him, as they were of him. Nowadays his life was very much lived in the past. Remembering all those joys and fears of his youth, the loves he loved and the loves he lost, recalling the names and faces as though it all happened only yesterday.

"Come along, dear," said the kindly voice in his ear, "Let's get you into the lounge where you can socialize with the others. Maybe you'd like a game of cards or something, do you think?"

Her name badge said she was 'Debra'. Funny, he thought, I always recalled Deborah as having an 'o' and an 'h' in it. How things change. He let her help him from his chair and leaned heavily on her arm which supported him as he limped on sore and stiffened joints to his favorite chair by the window in the lounge.

"Thank you, sweetheart," he sighed as he sank into the comfortable chair. "I think I'll just sit for a while; maybe have a game later on."

"That's fine. Now you be good and don't go running away anywhere," she chided jokingly.

He replied with a smile, gazing into the beautiful blue-green eyes that so reminded him of his Sylvie. Debra moved away to help others while he gazed out the window at the weak winter sunshine patterning the ground through the now naked branches of the trees. How appropriate, he thought, a winter scene for the winter of his life.

His mind drifted back to winters past, learning to ski, he and his wife, the first one, taking their new baby to the snow in a perambulator fitted with skis instead of wheels; how proud they had been of her, and of the two sons who followed. Proud until he returned home to a note saying it had all ended, 'Don't come looking for me'.

It had been an almost sexless marriage, completely frustrating, starting with high hopes and an emotion mistaken for love, and ending in acrimony and divorce. Best forgotten.

He moved on to the next stage of his life, the devastation of his entire being as he sought meaning from life after losing all those who mattered to him. He thought of the friend he made, alcohol, and how he could lose himself in his friend's company, meaning he didn't have to face life alone; didn't have to face a loveless, joyless existence; didn't have to face his loneliness, his loss, his failure, himself.

In his mind he moved to his savior, Sylvie. Every person on earth has someone who is there for them. Often, they are a person who will challenge them, maybe even a person they consider a competitor or an enemy. Yet always that person is there for them. Sylvie was that person for him. Was it just coincidence that she and he were both at the same hostel? Was it just coincidence that she asked him to teach her to ride her motor bike when the person she had meant to ask wasn't there? Was it just coincidence that she sat by the winter fire knitting a jersey while he really had no warm winter wear? Was it just coincidence that she agreed to knit him a jersey but "it will cost you a night out"? Was it just coincidence that this night out became their first date?

Of course not.

They courted cautiously; news of amorous liaisons spread fast in the hostel. He was, after all, still married, a state that caused great concern among Sylvie's family. The first date led to others and trust and intimacy gradually grew.

As he remembered the first night she came to his bed, his lined face cracked into a smile. He closed his eyes to better remember the feelings of love, of actually being loved for himself by this wonderful being, Sylvie. He was impatient, she was inexperienced. The condom was a problem, breaking the flow of love making. He came quickly, leaving her frustrated. Still, it was a start and once the dam is broken, the water continues to flow.

He remembered the shock, horror and devastation he felt a few days later when he withdrew to find the tattered remnants of a broken condom on his deflating penis. Together they lived the imagined future of a child so early in their relationship, of the shame brought to both families, of the hardships that would be endured, of being ostracized by society. The joyful news that Sylvie's period arrived two weeks later brought welcome relief.

He remembered the joys that their relationship brought as they grew closer. The leap that their hearts gave when they unexpectedly saw each other during the day; the stolen moments in the back corner of the office for a kiss and cuddle; hitchhiking 300 miles back from a course for a weekend of being together, hitchhiking back for the course on the Sunday afternoon; of the weekend in a local motel, in which they made love seven times one night despite the bed collapsing under them; of Saturday night's dancing in another town, sharing a motel unit for the night afterwards; of their week-long road trip, being together all day every day, making love all night, every night, well, maybe not quite all night; of their decision to leave their work and chart their course through life together.

Sometimes life-changing decisions are made on the spur of the moment. Such was their decision to change the course of their lives and train in a new vocation. They applied and were accepted into the same college, studying many of the same courses together. They shifted hostels, once again having to deal with finding moments of intimacy in single beds. He smiled again as he remembered the generosity of friends and of the nights spent in their houses in a double bed with Sylvie.

He remembered the final few weeks of the course that first year, which they spent completing practical requirements, staying in an old farmhouse, together, alone. The sheer joy of waking in each other's arms, every morning, of feeling each other close and naked in bed, of being able to make love together when the mood arose, which was frequently. Would life have been bliss if it had continued that way forever? Probably not, he thought, even when the situation is blissful, humans need challenges and changes.

He remembered the following year moving into a rented house together, finally confirming the intimate nature of their relationship to friends and families; his divorce coming through, making their relationship now legal. He remembered their marriage.

"Hi Dad," a voice said in his ear, "Are you awake?"

He slowly came back from the past and opened his eyes to see his daughter standing beside him.

"Yes, I'm awake, sweetheart. How are you?"

"I'm fine thanks, Dad," she replied, straightening the cushion that was so comfortably behind his stiff shoulder. "How are you? You look a bit pale to me. Aren't you eating enough? Should I bring some snacks for you? Don't they feed you enough?"

"I'm fine," he replied, "Just bored, I guess."

"Oh, you should join in with the others and play cards or drafts or something. Do you want some books to read? I feel really bad having you stuck away here. Maybe you need to come home with us. I'd feel a lot better if I knew you were eating some lovely home cooking instead of institutionalized food."

"No, I'm fine thanks. I know you guys are flat out and that you're really busy with your kids as well as work. I'm OK. You've got your own lives to lead now."

"OK, if you insist, Dad. But remember there's always a place for you at home if you want it. It must be very lonely here, but I guess there's lots of people around so you wouldn't really be lonely, would you?"

"There are two types of loneliness. The first is when you're alone and lonely. That is easy to deal with because you have yourself and the environment and you can establish a rapport with that. I have never felt lonely when I'm alone. The second, and most common these days, is being alone and lonely when surrounded by people. I have felt that often, and certainly I feel it here. Oh how I miss your mother, my darling Sylvie."

"Yes, Dad, that was sad but really there's nothing anyone can do about that. Anyway, it was good to see you. Oh, I've brought some cookies for you. I know you enjoy these."

"Thanks, sweetheart. You look after me so well," he replied.

"Now, I've really gotta go. I've got a meeting in a few minutes on the other side of town and then I have to organize dinner and stuff like that. I tell you, you just wouldn't know how hectic life can be. You're certainly in the best place here being looked after by all these wonderful staff. 'Bye, Dad. See you next time."

"'Bye, darling. Love you."

She gave him a peck on his bald head then hurried out the door.

He watched her leave, thinking how great it is for her to spare the time to visit. He tossed the cookies on the table, thinking that the one thing he would like is time, time spent with loved ones instead of endless reminiscing. Now where was he? He closed his eyes again, not because he wanted to sleep or was tired; just because there was nothing worth looking at. That's right, his marriage.

It was a lovely ceremony, pretty radical for that era. They had written their own vows and made them very seriously. He was proud of the fact that he had honored them as had Sylvie; of that he was certain. It had been a wonderful marriage. Nearly fifty years together. He remembered their honeymoon, paid for by tips from the restaurant they both worked at during weekends and holidays, camping on a deserted beach for a week. Again, bliss that was best not to last.

He remembered their first house, the joy of renovating and extending it; their first child, now a grown woman with children of her own. Tears appeared in his eyes as he remembered the sheer pain, panic and helplessness he had experienced when he had accompanied his beloved Sylvie to the operating theater after nearly 30 hours of labor and watched as the doctor sliced open her belly and removed their first born daughter. Sylvie had healed and went on to have two more wonderful children by normal childbirth. However, he wondered if he had fully healed the emotional scars from that experience.

He remembered the joys and struggles of travelling to work in various areas of the country, uprooting the family with each change as the children grew bigger, needed more guidance and love, had their own personal traumas, which to them always seemed so huge, so insurmountable.

Then came the nudges out of his complacency; two nudges from workplace accidents to push him into different work areas, requiring many weeks a year away from home, away from his beloved Sylvie and his growing children. He remembered with deep regret all the times he wasn't there for them; of returning from a few days away working to find his youngest daughter was in hospital without her appendix. It is said that without the pain of parting, there cannot be the joy of reunion. For those years, when his children were developing into adults, he had much pain and much joy.

Before he knew it, the children were leaving home, then returning, then leaving again, several times over. He remembered the emotional traumas of their relationships, the highs as they progressed, the lows as they failed. Learning by experience is the most powerful and most difficult of all modes of learning. His children seemed to choose that as their primary learning mode.

It seemed like only yesterday that his children married and then most had children themselves. He reduced his workload, well, tried to, hoping to live a peaceful life with his beloved Sylvie, once she stopped working. That had been only a few years ago. When she stopped working full time, she became ill after a particularly stressful time. The autoimmune disease was kept in check by immunosuppressant medications which had the unfortunate effect of depressing her immune system below normal minimum levels. She had frequent blood tests to monitor the progress of the disease, which appeared to be in a dormant phase. He nursed her through her illness, watching her recover to almost the same health as she had previously.