Till Death Do Us Part

The last blog I wrote for my yoga website was on June 17, 2023, titled “Sitting with Fear.” It chronicled my experience dealing with my husband’s complications from cancer, just 12 days after we received the joyous news that the CT scan taken the day before his 65th birthday showed no signs of cancer. We were both elated, and BC Pires, the greatest writer of all time, wrote an optimistic column in the Trinidad Newsday titled “Over the Moon, Cancer.”

My husband died less than four months later.

Today, October 21, 2024, marks the one-year anniversary of his death.

I write this final blog to honour his passing and to help me process the last months of his life which were both the longest and shortest months of my life.

Following his initial surgery, complications mounted, and his life became increasingly unbearable. On September 1, before his scheduled three-month follow-up CT scan, the news was grim: “Peritoneal infiltration,” the report read. It felt like a declaration of war—a war his own body was waging against him.

Had I known the suffering, BC would endure in those final months, I would have arranged for our kids to return from the UK and for us to go back to our home in Barbados. We could have been together, surrounded by our animals, living out those precious days with fewer needle stabbings, heartbreaking disappointments, and family dramas. BC was determined to continue this fight, confident that he would win and live for at least another 10 years—this was the minimum he would accept.

His strength was incredible but I had been left exhausted and drained from the last battle. After the complications from his surgery, he relied on a jejunostomy feeding tube, requiring feeds every four hours, which were gradually spaced further apart as he started to tolerate feedings by mouth again. Hope flickered as he began to regain some ability to eat and drink, but the persistent coughing never ceased.

We grappled with the cause of these uncontrollable coughing fits. Many times, he could sip water or eat watermelon without issue, but then at other times, after the smallest sip, uncontrollable coughing fits would ensue for minutes on end. In the beginning, they lasted less than five minutes; towards the end, they stretched beyond fifteen.

I guided him through fake swallowing, breathing exercises, mudras for coughing, and chanting the seed mantra for the Vishuddha (throat) chakra. BC was open to trying anything, but in the end, nothing worked.

Before the CT scan on September 1, his gastroenterologist performed a barium meal test. Observing a severe narrowing of his oesophagus and a “kink” in his stomach, she suspected something more ominous. Liquid from the barium meal had passed into his lung, explaining the persistent coughing after drinking any liquid.

Over the course of a month, BC had multiple endoscopies to address the complications. In one procedure, he wasn’t fully sedated. I sat outside the room, reminding myself he was in capable hands, but the sounds of gagging, coughing, and groans of pain became unbearable. It was the sound of the man I loved being tortured.

Still, we remained optimistic until mid-September. Tickets bought for us to travel to the UK on October 15, (imagine—just five days before he died)—to see our children before they visited us in Barbados in December. Chemotherapy was to restart on September 12, a beacon of hope in our darkest days. However, this was “postponed” just before he was admitted to St James because of a lung infection left unaddressed since July by a doctor who ignored BC’s requests via email, phone, and texts after doing tests to rule out lung cancer.

While most of our doctors exhibited exceptional care, this failure was one of the most devastating blows. I'm still working through my Metta (loving-kindness) meditation for her, though I find it more productive to focus on avoiding thoughts of her and wishing her karma will be swift and just.

Before that moment, the highlight of our days were our daily walks through Bayshore and Westmoorings, where we would pat Mr. Sparkles (the dog BC named) and other neglected dogs and neighbourhood cats. Just seeing the sea close by lifted our spirits and hopes.

Significantly, from the moment BC’s chemotherapy was postponed, BC's physical health rapidly declined. He could no longer manage these walks. I could see it, but if he did, he never discussed it. I feared our children might not have the chance to be with their father, but whenever I suggested to him that they change their tickets to come sooner, he dismissed the idea.

Pounds dropped off him overnight, and his sleep grew longer and more frequent. Eating became a struggle as the coughing intensified. Still, I held onto the belief that we had more time together.

BC fought valiantly. He endured intravenous antibiotics twice daily for two weeks. His doctor searched for veins that hadn’t collapsed among the bruises from his wrists to his elbows. Often, he would fall asleep during the 20-minute infusions. The endoscopies continued in an attempt to expand the narrowing of his stomach or clip the compromised area and finally to insert a covered mega stent from the top of his throat to his intestines which he said felt like expanding metal steel in his chest . Nothing made a difference, as the coughing persisted after the slightest sip.

In a last-ditch effort to ensure he received nourishment, a nasogastric tube was inserted, running from his nose to his intestines—a hopeful solution to meet his nutritional needs. The aim was to feed his body more calories than the cancer was constantly burning. It would have been fairer for BC to fight Mike Tyson.

In seeking hope, we consulted a highly reputable cancer specialist in Miami, who gave BC his limited options and emphasised the importance of our children coming home as soon as possible. This was the devastating truth I needed BC to hear from the expert because entertaining the possibility that he might be dying sooner than we expected was something we avoided discussing.

On September 20, we told our kids to change their flights; they flew home on October 3rd, allowing for 18 precious days with their father.

BC fully trusted his doctors and would follow their recommendations faithfully. They were more than just providers of medical care and advice; they were protective of him, wanting to ensure he received the best palliative care possible. It was challenging to convince some of them to allow BC to return to Barbados, but he wouldn’t go without their approval.

The journey was torturous. Taking BC from Trinidad, knowing in my heart that it would probably be only his ashes returning, felt like a groundless act, a reality I never wanted to confront. Yet he seemed unaware of the gravity, telling one of his brothers he was going to Barbados to regain his strength before restarting chemotherapy.

My husband vacillated between acceptance of his cancer and denial of death in true Gemini fashion.

Despite obstacles on this day of travel—my son forgetting his phone in the taxi, discovering we needed a “fit to fly” letter and last minute complications with return tickets—we held it together keeping our focus on BC. I think I might have been as anxious as the hero in Midnight Express when smuggling drugs out of Turkey, expecting any minute for someone to stop us, just as I was emptying full containers of phlegm and bile, to say that BC was too sick to travel.

When we reached the foot of the stairs leading to the plane, BC slowly climbed out of his wheelchair, holding onto the railings. Our son Ben walked closely behind him for support. As I watched BC ascend, I noticed a strong man from the airline watching intently. I caught his eye, smiled, and said, “Are you here to carry him up if needed?” He replied, “It would be my honour.” Something stuck in my throat, I dropped my head and breathed deep to hold back the tears.

Once in Barbados, we had a hospital bed delivered and arranged for doctors’ home visits. We established a half-hour timer for his feeds, and I continued to teach yoga classes downstairs, though my attention remained tethered to him—tuning in for any coughing fits, which even after he died I expected to hear for months afterward.

Anger simmered within me. I felt resentment toward those who wanted to visit but hadn’t made time to do so over the years. I felt anger toward those who came merely to talk about their lives or to offer insincere praise about how well he looked despite his frail condition. Few offered the “right” comforting words during those final days, for there were none.

BC remained gracious, interested, and kind, though often too tired to care.

A week before his passing, BC accepted he was dying. The coughing had become unbearable. I would empty countless containers of mucus and bile daily, painfully aware of the correlation between feeding and coughing. We spent time watching movies, football (he enjoyed this with our son), and the newest season of Survivor—a perfectly ironic distraction for us all.

My parents provided unwavering support. My father, although skeptical of prayers, believed in the power of Jamoon plums in BC's smoothies and insisted they were the solution to his cancer. The first day my dad sent some over, he promptly called to ask about BC's condition. I jokingly called out to BC, “Dad wants to know how you’re feeling after the Jamoon!” In a weak voice after a bout of coughing, BC waved his now paper-thin arm and responded, “Tell him I’ve gone for a jog.” He kept us laughing until the end.

Friends and family showered us with food, fresh fruit, and treats without even needed to ask to come in—their unspoken understanding that we needed just the four of us to be together.

The night before BC died there was a tropical storm heading for Barbados. As we pulled in the furniture from the porch and checked that the generator would start BC said to us “I feel so useless. I can’t help with anything”. I wonder if this is when he gave up.

That following morning, he woke in a panic, struggling to breathe. When our son asked him what worried him, BC replied, “That you all won’t know how much I love you.” That line breaks my heart every time I recall it.

We kept the fan directed on him in the air-conditioned bedroom, him comfortable under a thin sheet, while we were under blankets and duvets, still shivering. Our son played classical music, and BC requested “All Things Must Pass”—It was hard to hear… it still is. I played “Space for a Heart” by Freetown- a favourite love song of ours.

He drifted in and out of consciousness for most of the day, occasionally waking to watch his favourite football match, sometimes simply resting as we stood vigil by his side holding hands, sharing gentle kisses, whispering loving words and just being present.

As the day wore on, I sensed the time was approaching and called his family and closest friends to say goodbye. We stayed by his side, playing music, massaging his feet, telling him how much we loved him.

We arranged shifts to keep watch through the night, my son, who took the first (and last) shift, was listening to the new Rolling Stones album, BC’s favourite band, when he suddenly looked up and realised his dad’s chest had stopped moving. He was gone.

I imagine, like in the movies, BC’s soul rising from his body — watching us — huddled in exhaustion and stupor, around his still warm dead body. Then our daughter jumps up frantically to open a window so his soul could be free.

Sometimes I selfishly wish we’d trapped him there so I’d know exactly where to find him.

Each of us had given him permission to leave whenever he was ready, and I know it isn’t fair to wish he were still here with us.

Yet, I still do. Almost every moment of every day.

The words from that Grateful Dead song often come unbidden to my mind or maybe he sends them to me.

“…And now he's gone
Now he's gone,
Lord he's gone
He's gone
Like a steam locomotive
rolling down the track
He's gone, gone,
and nothing's gonna bring him back
He's gone…”


Today marks one year since he’s been gone, but the tears and the heartache still remain.