The Last Exchange

I've told this story to just a very few friends before, real close ones, but no one else has asked me what was the last exchange Edward and I had minutes before he closed his eyes forever.

Edward passed away on May 12, 2007. It was the Saturday before Mother's Day. We spent the morning and afternoon with his parents. We talked, laughed, reminisced, all the other things you usually do with friends or family you haven't seen for ages. It was important for Edward to spend the day with his mom - they were close.

We played a couple hands of poker until about dinner time. Edward requested for some Chinese takeout from a restaurant in Irvine that he and his mom frequented. His parents volunteered to get the food, which we anticipated to take about one hour there and back. They left around 6:30 PM.

I think about this night and the moment that will follow a lot. Thankfully less frequently now than before and every time I do, I am overcome with grief. However, it is probably one of the most beautiful things I will experience in my life so I can't - I shouldn't - always look at it with sadness.

After his parents left his apartment, Edward took my hand and led me to his bedroom. He laid down on his side of the bed and motioned for me to lay in his arms. I snuggled up to him and held him tight in my arms. We stayed like that for a while, with him breathing in the scent of my hair and me relishing his warmth, his essence and the slow movement of his breaths (swoosh in, blow out). Time stood still for a short while.

"I don't know how to say goodbye," Edward whispered with his eyes closed.

"You're not supposed to, remember? You're suppose to say, 'See you later'," I said trying hard to sound light-hearted.

"I'm scared." This was the first time I heard Edward admit any negative emotion since he got sick.

"Of what?"

"Of not seeing you again."

I sighed then said, "You're suppose to say 'See you later'."

"Okay. I will see you later."

"I promise I'll be there someday."

"I love you," he whispered into my hair. And, I... I hesitated.

What I wanted to say at that moment, with a lump in my throat, fighting hard not to cry, was this: "Thanks for loving me. You will be with me forever."

But instead, I said, "I will see you later."

We prayed together for a little bit. Saying all the ritualistic prayers we Catholic say to bring us comfort and strength. After several repetitions of the same prayers, I noticed Edward had stopped breathing. No swoosh and blow, no rise and fall of his chest.

I kissed his lips (I still remember how they felt, how he tasted), laid my cheek on the hollow of his neck, then said, "Goodbye, my sweet prince. I love you."

I called for Brian, the hospice nurse a few minutes later to confirm his passing and record his time of death. I can't remember exactly what time he said but I barely had time to pull myself together before his parents walked back in to his apartment with Edward's favorite Chinese takeout.

I quietly slipped out of his apartment that night. I wanted to give his parents the privacy to grieve and say goodbye to their son. While I was slinging my purse over my shoulder, Brian handed me a wooden box that's a little bit bigger than a shoebox. He said Edward had been preparing for this night for several weeks. He'd written letters for people, left keepsakes, closed his business affairs, reviewed his will and worked on the box in my hands. He requested for a priest to give him his last rites the previous night. Edward knew exactly when he was leaving and I was too busy to notice my time with him was over.

Inside the box were letters, notes, pictures, mementos, etc. chronicling the almost nine months we spent together. He also left me his last two journals documenting the last 18 months of his life. That's why I can tell our story from his point of view and how I was able to realize how deeply he cared for me.

My sweet prince. I will always love him but now I want to let him go. I want to let myself go. Tonight, I will cry myself to sleep. Tomorrow... well I'm hoping tomorrow will be a better day.