Carol, my best friend and partner of 25+ years, died peacefully at home, March 29, 2011. She was a fighter and fought until her very last shallow breath. A person who was liked by everyone she met, young and old; never complained, never asked for anything; loved animals, rescued a few; loved the outdoors; one hell of a cook; lived life her way. I will miss her deeply. This home (now just a shell of a house) is very, very empty without her. Even though Carol is gone I find myself listening for her voice, any movement she makes, checking the time for the next dose, poking my head into the bedroom and realize she's not there. I fall asleep with the tv on in the bedroom and when I get up after not being able to sleep, I leave the tv on. I've misplaced a few things since her passing and I want to call out to her to help me find them. The inside of the car even feels empty.

The last few days of her life she would abruptly sit up in bed saying she couldn't breathe. The night before she died, she got up, came into the living and watched tv with me and we talked. It was very difficult for me to understand her, but we talked, about nothing in particular, the dumb commercial, if the animals were in the house, things along that nature. The next morning Carol was unresponsive, the hospice nurse came and told me her body was shutting down, but couldn't say when. I called her family with the update and just a few short hours later I had to call her family again telling them she died. I felt guilty because I had to call twice in one day. It seemed as if she was waiting for me to call everyone, knowing for an absolute certainty I would take care of her and her choice of me 25 years ago was right. It was an eerie feeling.

Her spirit is now free. Free of the pain, free of the medications, free of the feeding tube, free of the doctor visits, free of her suffering.

Linda