The Sound of Leaving

The Sound of Leaving

By Annette Camp 

January 23, 2026

I rush to his bedside

His breathing arrives in pieces—

wet, uneven,

Each gurgle pulls at something in my chest,

as if my body recognizes

what my mind keeps refusing.

He tries to clear his throat,

again and again,

as though the words are caught just behind it,

panicking.

I lean closer,

not because I expect to understand,

but because being near feels like

the last useful thing I can do.

His eyes search my face

with a sharp, restless urgency.

They ask questions I can’t answer.

They hold fear,

and a need so raw it hums between us.

I tell him I’m going to get help,

get family, get hospice, get meds,

get whatever I can...

His mouth opens.

Nothing comes out.

The effort is visible—

his whole body seems to lean forward

toward speech that no longer belongs to it.

The silence afterward is loud,

heavy with everything unsaid.

His legs twitch,

arms shifting without permission,

small rebellions of muscle and nerve.

The movements linger,

as if his body hasn’t been told

what the ending is yet.

I feel the helplessness settle in my bones.

Love becomes 

standing guard over a moment

that cannot be fixed,

only held.

And so I hold it—

his gaze,

the sounds,

the trembling air between us—

knowing this is what remains

when words fall away

and all that’s left

is being present

as he drifts

toward a place

I cannot follow. 

A Little Cry Together

A Little Cry Together 

By Annette Camp 

January 10, 2026

He says it plainly,

as if naming the weather.

Today he said,

“I’m going to die a skeleton

in a little box,”

and the words fall heavy,

unfinished,

like he’s already halfway gone.

Then the crying comes—

not loud,

just steady,

like something leaking

that can’t be sealed anymore.

We have a little cry together,

the kind that doesn’t try to be brave,

the kind that admits

this hurts too much to carry alone.

I tell him I’m here.

Not with answers.

Just here—

to sit beside him, 

to let the quiet hold us, 

to offer the small comfort I can, 

to help hold the ache he carries.

My voice is steadier than I feel,

but it is real.

His breathing changes.

The crying loosens its grip.

His body chooses rest

before his mind does.

He falls asleep

while I am still watching,

still holding the moment

as carefully as I know how.

For now,

this is what love looks like:

staying,

listening,

and not leaving

when the truth is hard to hear.

Quiet Witness

Quiet Witness 

By Annette Camp 

January 20, 2026

Today—

with his mind loosening its grip,

my father looked at me and said,

“You’re the first angel I’ve ever seen.” 

I let the words stay with me.

Although it was a vision.

when he named me—

at the very edge of his leaving—

I understood.

Some angels are not messengers of God.

Some are simply witnesses.

And in that moment,

standing beside my dying father,

I was reminded—

I have watched my mother die of cancer.

I have held my grandmother’s hand,

felt it cool in mine as her world

narrowed because of cancer.

So much loss.

So much leaving.

And still,

I stand here—

the one who remains.

I have learned how to be present

at the threshold,

how to hold a hand,

how to listen

when words are breaking apart.

If I am an angel,

it is only this:

I stay until the end.

...a single tear loosens,

and without sound,

I let it fall.

Five Seconds

Five Seconds 

By Annette Camp 

January 10, 2026

One second.

Nothing moves.

I stare at his chest

as if attention could coax it upward.

Two seconds.

The room is too quiet.

I imagine air waiting just outside of him,

hesitant,

as if asking permission.

Three seconds.

My chest tightens in imitation of his.

I don’t know if I want the breath to come

or to finally stop asking for more.

Four seconds.

Time stands close enough to hear me plead.

I hold two prayers—

unsure which one love permits.

Five seconds.

Air fills his lungs again.

His body remembers what to do

even as everything else is forgetting.

Relief arrives first.

Then guilt follows close behind.

I let both sit with me

because there is no room left to choose.

I stay and count.

I watch.

I wait.

up and down,

up and down,

in a chest

that is deciding.

Inside Goodbye

Inside Goodbye

By Annette Camp

January 9, 2026

I am learning how quiet dying can be. 

Not dramatic.

Not a single moment.

Just a slow unthreading

that happens while the TV murmurs

and the clock keeps its ordinary promises.

The nurse says declining,

as if it were a gentle slope,

as if it didn’t feel like standing still

while someone you love drifts farther away

without leaving the room.

Most days he is not entirely here.

His eyes follow things

I cannot see.

Yesterday he told me of hallucinations,

and murmurings I couldn't understand.

He barely drinks now,

but his hands still reach

for Sunny D, Gatorade, and

milk-chocolate Ensure.

He eats like one bite,

sometimes another later,

then nothing for a long while.

I offer him the foods that once meant pleasure.

Sushi.

Pizza.

Blueberry pancakes with sausage.

Sweet potatoes, pot pies, deviled eggs.

Baked potato with bacon bits.

I sit with him

doing the work no one prepares you for—

loving someone

while knowing there is no turning back,

only accompanying.

Death does not announce itself.

It waits in the corners of the room,

Polite. Patient.

It watches me watch him.

And this is the hardest part:

nothing is required of me

except to stay,

to feed him what he loves,

to hold the ordinary hours

while something enormous

moves silently closer.

I am not ready.

I am just here,

loving him in bites and sips,

learning how to stand

inside goodbye

before it is spoken. 

Hope for Both of Us

Hope for Both of Us

By Annette Camp 

November 22, 2025 

My dad’s body is learning

how to rise again—

his taste buds savoring food again

his kidneys remembering their work,

speech settling into a steadier rhythm.

He is getting stronger.

I see it.

I hold on to the phrase "One to two years."

Those words at the forefront of my mind.

However, it is a heavy thing,

to be a daughter watching her dad’s mind

bend under the weight of uncertainty,

to see hope loosen its grip in his eyes

even as his body grows stronger.

When he cries now,

it isn’t his body failing—

it’s the ache of wanting more time,

the longing to stay in the world

as it keeps moving around him.

He hungers for life with a 

tenderness that breaks me open,

reaching for every moment

as if it might slip away

before he can hold it.

He is not ready for an ending.

He wants to live.

He says it out loud,

as if the words themselves

could anchor him to the earth.

And each time his tears fall,

something inside me tightens—

a towel twisted in two strong hands,

pulled until water streams out.

That is how my heart feels—

wrung,

not by despair,

but by the helplessness 

of watching him sob louder

than anything in the room.

I tell him he is getting better.

I tell him he is still here.

I tell him he is not done.

I tell him I am here to see

him get healthier not to die.

But the towel keeps twisting

every time pain touches my thoughts.

Still—

I gather what pours out of me,

sit beside him,

and hold the shape of hope

for both of us.