A few more words on death and dying... yet another work war story.
Hail Mary, full of grace.....
She mumbled that often last night as I stood the death watch once again.
She'd had poor health the last few years and as her arteries hardened and the pain grew.. she slowed down.
The stroke almost did her in, but prompt action by her family and months of therapy gave her most of her life back.
She lived most of her life in a throne-like arm chair with a phone nearby to help her keep up.
She was an active and vital part of her family's life and sharp as a tack even at her advanced age.
She stayed home all day the day before with severe chest, arm, face, and neck pain.
When the pain starts in a heart attack... you have a two hour gift. After that muscle starts dying.
She endured the pain that lasted for hours until the muscle itself was dead and feeling nothing.
Then she started feeling bad because she had killed so much of her heart muscle that it just couldn't sustain her.
In the technical jargon: massive anterior myocardial infarction.
Most people don't survive a heart attack of this size.
Everyone knew it was a matter of time.
The Lord is with thee....
They put in a temporary pacemaker when her own heart's conduction system failed.
Lie still now, sweetie, we don't want you to move that leg and make the pacemaker stop working...
Most of the time she did.
I wasn't tying her to the bed so I could sit and socialize at the desk.
Some people are more present at their death than others.
She asks me my name about every other time I'm in the room then says it to herself a time or two to try and remember it.
Most people don't.
Strangely, that matters.
Blessed art thou amongst women...
Her heart beat. Mine beat.
Girlhood, motherhood, passion, sadness, laughter within us
Some of it behind us certainly. Some of it remaining for one of us.
She stirs.
"...thirsty... May I..?"
I lift the oxygen mask away from her face.
The ice chips slide between her lips.
She smiles a little in thanks, too weak for more words, then sleeps again.
I watch, I change IV bags, moving softly around the room so as not to disturb this pre-sleep before the final one.
My own choreography is as regular as the little electrical tics from the pacemaker.
Dress rehearsal for death.
Black humor strikes: I look at her lying there and think "All she needs is a lily.."
Pain ruthlessly suppressed by humor.
Blessed is the fruit of thy womb..
Her granddaughter, pregnant with her first child, has driven in from the West.
Her husband did the driving.
He is a clear-eyed, stalwart young man with a wry sense of humor.
"I hate to see this happen, but I know my whole role in this is to give hugs and be the shoulder to cry on.."
Nice to meet someone that understands their purpose in life.
They tiptoe in to see her.
Her daughter worries that seeing the granddaughter from the West will tip off her mother that she's really *that sick*.
She knows already... I tell the daughter.
They assemble by the bed touching her hands or hair and telling her that she is loved.
She rouses and with complete clarity asks the granddaughter about the holiday gift she sent.
A christening gown for the yet to be born.
They chat and catch up for most of an hour, then file out when she tires.
As they bend to kiss her good night, her hand reaches up to touch their face...
endearment...
benediction.
She knows.
..pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death...
She rested, exhausted, after they left for about an hour.
I went to take care of my other patient for a little bit, then came back.
I saw her hand move to her chest.
I saw her eyes fly open, large and startled.
I was already out of my chair when I heard her soft, inarticulate cry...
By the bed, I took her grasping hand in mine and watched her eyes..
What's wrong... what do you need... what can I do to help you?
Her hand grasped mine with surprising strength and drew it to her chest.
We watched each other's eyes.
I watched the sudden flush of cyanotic tint that suffused her upper chest, throat, and face.
I *knew* even as I held her hand and let the bedrail down one handed that her heart had ruptured.
There was nothing anyone could do to save her.
Nothing to do except be there, holding her hand, and watching her eyes as she left one plane of existence for another.
I saw her go.
I wished her good journeys.
And then we coded her, in a limited fashion, according to her wishes.
No tubes, just drugs and CPR.
Go to the light.
Twenty minutes later it was all over.
Another of the nurses had called the family.
The grandson, brother of the pregnant girl, arrived first.
We'd cleaned her up.
There is no disguising death, no buffering the reality of it in a hospital room.
He walked in with the chaplain (the chaplain always attends codes, which I think is rather nice under most circumstances)
He took her hand in his and pressed it to his face over the tracks of his tears.
That's when I had to leave.
I have a brave heart but there are some things that I just cannot watch.
I worked on the paperwork a minute then went to check to see if anyone else in the family was there.
Her daughter walked up, husband in tow, as I was turning to go back in.
"She's gone, isn't she?" she asked me.
She is, I said.. and told her the essence of the last few minutes of her mother's consious life.
"I wanted to be here," she said, "but I just couldn't"
"I understand," I said, " I was with her at the end, holding her hand. She did not die alone."
Her daughter hugged me. "Thank you so much"
I"m always at a loss for what to say in this situation... "She was a sweet woman, nobody dies alone when I take care of them, if I can help it."
She went in to see her son.
The rest of the family assembled.
The prayed and talked and mourned together.
I asked them if they wanted to step out as I removed her wedding band.
It came off easily.
Her oldest daughter cried as I handed it to her.
As they left, her daughter hugged me again.
I got hugs from the whole clan, thanking me for what... not being able to save her?
I know better, but part of me is always bitter when the angel of death scores.
Later on as I wrapped the body for release to the funeral home via the morgue.
I looked at her hands, waxy in death, but beautifully etched by a long full life.
Almost ninety years old.
I think that the next time I go to the St. Louis Cathedral, I'll light a candle in her memory, not because I believe, but because she did.
Amen.
She mumbled that often last night as I stood the death watch once again.
She'd had poor health the last few years and as her arteries hardened and the pain grew.. she slowed down.
The stroke almost did her in, but prompt action by her family and months of therapy gave her most of her life back.
She lived most of her life in a throne-like arm chair with a phone nearby to help her keep up.
She was an active and vital part of her family's life and sharp as a tack even at her advanced age.
She stayed home all day the day before with severe chest, arm, face, and neck pain.
When the pain starts in a heart attack... you have a two hour gift. After that muscle starts dying.
She endured the pain that lasted for hours until the muscle itself was dead and feeling nothing.
Then she started feeling bad because she had killed so much of her heart muscle that it just couldn't sustain her.
In the technical jargon: massive anterior myocardial infarction.
Most people don't survive a heart attack of this size.
Everyone knew it was a matter of time.
The Lord is with thee....
They put in a temporary pacemaker when her own heart's conduction system failed.
Lie still now, sweetie, we don't want you to move that leg and make the pacemaker stop working...
Most of the time she did.
I wasn't tying her to the bed so I could sit and socialize at the desk.
Some people are more present at their death than others.
She asks me my name about every other time I'm in the room then says it to herself a time or two to try and remember it.
Most people don't.
Strangely, that matters.
Blessed art thou amongst women...
Her heart beat. Mine beat.
Girlhood, motherhood, passion, sadness, laughter within us
Some of it behind us certainly. Some of it remaining for one of us.
She stirs.
"...thirsty... May I..?"
I lift the oxygen mask away from her face.
The ice chips slide between her lips.
She smiles a little in thanks, too weak for more words, then sleeps again.
I watch, I change IV bags, moving softly around the room so as not to disturb this pre-sleep before the final one.
My own choreography is as regular as the little electrical tics from the pacemaker.
Dress rehearsal for death.
Black humor strikes: I look at her lying there and think "All she needs is a lily.."
Pain ruthlessly suppressed by humor.
Blessed is the fruit of thy womb..
Her granddaughter, pregnant with her first child, has driven in from the West.
Her husband did the driving.
He is a clear-eyed, stalwart young man with a wry sense of humor.
"I hate to see this happen, but I know my whole role in this is to give hugs and be the shoulder to cry on.."
Nice to meet someone that understands their purpose in life.
They tiptoe in to see her.
Her daughter worries that seeing the granddaughter from the West will tip off her mother that she's really *that sick*.
She knows already... I tell the daughter.
They assemble by the bed touching her hands or hair and telling her that she is loved.
She rouses and with complete clarity asks the granddaughter about the holiday gift she sent.
A christening gown for the yet to be born.
They chat and catch up for most of an hour, then file out when she tires.
As they bend to kiss her good night, her hand reaches up to touch their face...
endearment...
benediction.
She knows.
..pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death...
She rested, exhausted, after they left for about an hour.
I went to take care of my other patient for a little bit, then came back.
I saw her hand move to her chest.
I saw her eyes fly open, large and startled.
I was already out of my chair when I heard her soft, inarticulate cry...
By the bed, I took her grasping hand in mine and watched her eyes..
What's wrong... what do you need... what can I do to help you?
Her hand grasped mine with surprising strength and drew it to her chest.
We watched each other's eyes.
I watched the sudden flush of cyanotic tint that suffused her upper chest, throat, and face.
I *knew* even as I held her hand and let the bedrail down one handed that her heart had ruptured.
There was nothing anyone could do to save her.
Nothing to do except be there, holding her hand, and watching her eyes as she left one plane of existence for another.
I saw her go.
I wished her good journeys.
And then we coded her, in a limited fashion, according to her wishes.
No tubes, just drugs and CPR.
Go to the light.
Twenty minutes later it was all over.
Another of the nurses had called the family.
The grandson, brother of the pregnant girl, arrived first.
We'd cleaned her up.
There is no disguising death, no buffering the reality of it in a hospital room.
He walked in with the chaplain (the chaplain always attends codes, which I think is rather nice under most circumstances)
He took her hand in his and pressed it to his face over the tracks of his tears.
That's when I had to leave.
I have a brave heart but there are some things that I just cannot watch.
I worked on the paperwork a minute then went to check to see if anyone else in the family was there.
Her daughter walked up, husband in tow, as I was turning to go back in.
"She's gone, isn't she?" she asked me.
She is, I said.. and told her the essence of the last few minutes of her mother's consious life.
"I wanted to be here," she said, "but I just couldn't"
"I understand," I said, " I was with her at the end, holding her hand. She did not die alone."
Her daughter hugged me. "Thank you so much"
I"m always at a loss for what to say in this situation... "She was a sweet woman, nobody dies alone when I take care of them, if I can help it."
She went in to see her son.
The rest of the family assembled.
The prayed and talked and mourned together.
I asked them if they wanted to step out as I removed her wedding band.
It came off easily.
Her oldest daughter cried as I handed it to her.
As they left, her daughter hugged me again.
I got hugs from the whole clan, thanking me for what... not being able to save her?
I know better, but part of me is always bitter when the angel of death scores.
Later on as I wrapped the body for release to the funeral home via the morgue.
I looked at her hands, waxy in death, but beautifully etched by a long full life.
Almost ninety years old.
I think that the next time I go to the St. Louis Cathedral, I'll light a candle in her memory, not because I believe, but because she did.
Amen.