My dying wife wrote a poem

My wife Lora is dying. Brain cancer. It was diagnosed in May 2019, and she’s been deteriorating steadily ever since. She was doing okay for a while, but she’s been in constant pain now for about eight months. We’re both heartbroken at our looming separation, but we know that the pain is going to stop soon for her, and I’ll be joining her after a few more years. A few weeks ago, it became obvious that she didn’t have long left. She’s completely bed-bound, and hasn’t spoken a coherent word in three weeks. At that point, we decided to put a pen and notepad next to her so she can write when she feels like it, and on the second night she wrote these two lines: *I’m trapped. Don’t forget.* I thought she meant that she felt trapped in her own body, and I would have agreed. I asked her if that’s what she meant, but she didn’t respond. Three nights later, she wrote: *I’m trapped. Don’t forget. I’m trapped. Don’t forget.* We figured it was just a loop of her repeating the same two lines. I asked again if she meant being trapped in her body, and she ignored me again. The fourth night, she wrote: *I’m trapped. Don’t forget. I’m trapped. Don’t forget. I’m trapped. Don’t forget.* This went on for approximately 10 nights, with her adding one more pair of lines each night. They were always the same two lines: *I’m trapped. Don’t forget.* I was getting worried that she’d written her last words to me, and they didn’t make any sense. She was a smart woman, and she knew I wouldn’t have the best memory for her looped writings. She would have known that if she wrote lines 1 through 10, she wouldn’t see lines 6 through 10 because I’d have thrown out the notepad. On the night of the 13th repetition, I awoke to find her notepad next to me in bed and a pen on top of it. She had written: *I’m trapped. Don’t forget. I’m trapped. Don’t forget. I’m trapped. Don’t forget. I’m trapped. Don’t forget. I’m trapped. Don’t forget. I’m trapped. Don’t forget. I’m trapped. Don’t forget. I’m trapped. Don’t forget. I’m trapped. Don’t forget. I’m trapped. Don’t forget.* I slept very badly that night and then got up at 6am to get a coffee. I took the opportunity to empty the garbage, as the bag was quite full and I didn’t want to let it spill. As I walked outside, I was greeted by a beautiful early morning sunrise - and I saw a small piece of paper stuck to the wall of the house. I walked towards it to read it, and it said: *It’s not me. Don’t forget.* I rushed back inside and frantically searched for any other pieces of paper, and I found a few more. Four in total: *Please come and save me.* *It’s not me. Don’t forget.* On Lora’s notepad, I wrote in my worst handwriting: *I’m coming.* *I haven’t forgotten.* I left them next to her. She didn’t react. I think that Lora is trying to communicate to me with those pieces of paper, all the way up until her last moments. I think she was trying to tell me that she was not in her body, and that she wanted me to come and save her from somewhere. I think she was repeating lines so I would remember each new message. But I also think that her illness is preventing her from writing anything more complex, and the poetry was her only hope of telling me what was happening. I think that she’s trapped somewhere and needs rescue, and I’m the only person who knows. I think she also wants me to take my time, and she doesn’t want me to forget about anything along the way. She said *I haven’t forgotten* out loud this morning, and I almost cried when I heard her voice. I’m not going to lie, I’m pretty scared. But I’m also not going to leave her like this. I’m not going to die without trying to help her, even if I think she might be delusional. This morning, I wrote down on her pad of paper: *I’m coming.* *I haven’t forgotten.* This evening, I went outside to see if I could see any more messages. And on the wall, I saw: *Please come and save me.* *It’s not me. Don’t forget.* I immediately took it inside and put it on top of Lora’s notepad. I’m going to die someday, whether or not I find what she’s trying to tell me. But she wants me to come and get her, and I’m going to do it. I’m coming, Lora. I haven’t forgotten.

My dying wife wrote a poem

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