She is more yellow than the winter morning sun.

The hosptial discharge summary is blunt. ‘Large tumour. Biliary obstruction. Discussed with family. Return for comfort measures.’

His grief overwhelms him.

He sobs, loudly at first, his whole body shaking, then his head falls quietly into his hands.

His pain is palpable.

“We’ve been married 64 years” he says, “but she has been my love for 67 years”.

I want to put my arms around him, but I sense that this would be his complete undoing. In his culture, men do not show emotion. They are sturdy, steadfast, stoic. And then, there’s COVID. I sit on my hands.

His heart is breaking and his life is crumbling.

He is alone.

“How long?”

I wish I could tell him. Like so many others before him, he wants a finite number. Would it help to know?

Perhaps.

Would it help to have a minute by minute plan of all the things to say and do before the end? How do you fit the love and emotion of 67 years into hours, a day or two at most?

“Have you told your children?” I ask.

He tells me his daughter is on her way. His shoulders start to shake again.

“My son…”

I give him a moment to breathe.

“Where is your son?”

“Melbourne”.

My heart sinks. Bloody COVID.

“Keep talking to her”, I say, “she can still hear you”.

He sits by the bed and lays his head on the pillow next to hers.

“I love you”, he says, then continues to quietly speak in his own language.

I see her stir, ever so gently. A flicker of the eyes. A twitch of the hand.

He moves his hand gently closer to hers, until they are touching.
Slowly, her fingers creep over his, and they start to interlace.
She cannot speak, but she still hears, and feels.

His sobs grow louder.

This is his last moment with her, it is so private it hurts my eyes and heart.

I quietly back out of the room and gently shut the door.