A time to be born, a time to die
While I was heading to young adult mass yesterday, I got a text message from my mom stating that my stepdad Guy had gotten extremely weak and was hardly eating. He had been battling cancer for a while, and it had started to spread. Though Mom said we didn't need to come immediately, Stephen and I went to mass, asked for their prayer, then went to see him at the hospital. After speaking with her about it, I didn't want to miss my chance. Stephen was kind enough to drive, so I could text close friends to life him up in prayer. We only stayed at the hospital only an hour or so, he was in and out of wakefulness and spoke only with difficulty. We left when he started to question why a number of loved ones were there. I had been worried our presence would give him permission to let go and unintentionally weaken his resolve to get better. Both of Stephen and I had also made poor decisions to go to bed late the previous night and so were tired. After squeezing his hand, and telling him I loved him, we left. That was enough, everything else had been said. It had also occurred to me about a week prior that this was a real possibility.
The next call I got was from my sister at 3:30 AM. She had been sleeping at my mom's house. At that hour, you get the idea what's going on before you even answer the phone. The doctor had called mom's house and told them to come immediately. I dressed quickly, not thinking all that crearly and left my apartment. I made sure to grab my rosary. My church and their 24/7 Adoration chapel was on the way, ao I ran in to pick up a booklet on the Divine Mercy Chaplet and for a quick prayer: God, your will be done.
When we finally figured out how to get in past after hours and where to go, the doctor took us into a private room and informed us that his heart had stopped. After 15 minutes of CPR, his heart had re-started. When we saw him this time, he was on a respirator and unconscious. Mom, Annie, Stephen, and I were joined by the 2 of our stepbrothers who were in the state, Guy's brother and his family, and some good friends. We stayed in the room and just outside of it, sometimes talking, sometimes laughing, sometimes silent. After the sun rose, hungry and tired, Annie and I got some food from the food court and retired to the waiting room for more space. As I lay there trying to nap, I hoped that the end would come quickly and his suffering would be over. It was apparent that there would be no recovering this time. Despite the breathing that still remained, it was clear that the man we knew was already gone. As she had for so many days prior, my mom remained always by his side.
Upon going back into the room, I realized that was not so easy as it sounded. My mom, and perhaps the others with her, had decided to remove the ventilator. Everyone in the room nodded or verbalized agreement, knowing he had not wanted that intervention in the first place. I for one was grateful for it, in that it allowed us all to be there. About 10:15 AM, they stopped meds keeping his blood pressure stable, then behind a closed curtain, removed the respirator. I chose to stand behind all the machines recording vitals, not sure I wanted to know, not sure I wanted this particular memory forever. From my vantage point, there was no single moment where he obviously left: his heart rate slolwly dropped, different machines started beeping and were turned off, and his breathing became more and more shallow, save for a gasp here and there, until it was hard see at all. The exhaustion of his body, no longer aided by machines, took over, and he slipped away. The whole time, a teddy bear my aunt had sent for him rested in the bed with him.
Sitting with everyone in the hospital somehow seemed normal, perhaps because we had heard and seen so much about cancer treatments: it had become the norm. Of course, all of us went though emotional moments. Somehow even being there in that moment of passing, and knowing from my own senses that it happened, it didn't feel real. Going outside into the wider world changed things. I became acutely aware that I was living in a world that was somehow different, even though the earth continued to move, as did I. I continue to be grateful for the many people who were praying: people who had been at mass, all those friends who had agreed to pray, and those who were there. We were also able to say a chaplet of divine mercy. I have every reason to believe he is in a better place now. Even yet, there are so many things to feel. Sixty-six old still seems too young to die. I know in my heart that while we perceive it as unfair, his life was a gift we were never really entitled to at all. Being engaged now, I can also feel a shadow of what it must be like to lose a spouse, having to get used to all the never agains (in the life).
Everything is different. I never imagined that the diagnosis of cancer would end up like this. I guess that no one does. No one wants to let that in. It won't happen to us. Our family member will beat it. It also brought up another familiar feeling, one I can recall from sitting in my bed in our old lake house: the first time I really experienced grief. My grandfather had died, and the world felt somehow empty, like nothing really mattered, not friendships, not accomplishments, not the small pleasures of this life. Somehow though I also feel more connected to him than I do with my other relatives who have passed on. Maybe because I was there when it happened. Maybe just because I am older now. Having passed through the burden of death, it feel as though he might somehow be able to tell me what it is like. I wonder also when he knew that he was going to die and when he came to accept it. I knew that the treatment had been terrible. In fact, worse than the disease itself, he said.
The next call I got was from my sister at 3:30 AM. She had been sleeping at my mom's house. At that hour, you get the idea what's going on before you even answer the phone. The doctor had called mom's house and told them to come immediately. I dressed quickly, not thinking all that crearly and left my apartment. I made sure to grab my rosary. My church and their 24/7 Adoration chapel was on the way, ao I ran in to pick up a booklet on the Divine Mercy Chaplet and for a quick prayer: God, your will be done.
When we finally figured out how to get in past after hours and where to go, the doctor took us into a private room and informed us that his heart had stopped. After 15 minutes of CPR, his heart had re-started. When we saw him this time, he was on a respirator and unconscious. Mom, Annie, Stephen, and I were joined by the 2 of our stepbrothers who were in the state, Guy's brother and his family, and some good friends. We stayed in the room and just outside of it, sometimes talking, sometimes laughing, sometimes silent. After the sun rose, hungry and tired, Annie and I got some food from the food court and retired to the waiting room for more space. As I lay there trying to nap, I hoped that the end would come quickly and his suffering would be over. It was apparent that there would be no recovering this time. Despite the breathing that still remained, it was clear that the man we knew was already gone. As she had for so many days prior, my mom remained always by his side.
Upon going back into the room, I realized that was not so easy as it sounded. My mom, and perhaps the others with her, had decided to remove the ventilator. Everyone in the room nodded or verbalized agreement, knowing he had not wanted that intervention in the first place. I for one was grateful for it, in that it allowed us all to be there. About 10:15 AM, they stopped meds keeping his blood pressure stable, then behind a closed curtain, removed the respirator. I chose to stand behind all the machines recording vitals, not sure I wanted to know, not sure I wanted this particular memory forever. From my vantage point, there was no single moment where he obviously left: his heart rate slolwly dropped, different machines started beeping and were turned off, and his breathing became more and more shallow, save for a gasp here and there, until it was hard see at all. The exhaustion of his body, no longer aided by machines, took over, and he slipped away. The whole time, a teddy bear my aunt had sent for him rested in the bed with him.
Sitting with everyone in the hospital somehow seemed normal, perhaps because we had heard and seen so much about cancer treatments: it had become the norm. Of course, all of us went though emotional moments. Somehow even being there in that moment of passing, and knowing from my own senses that it happened, it didn't feel real. Going outside into the wider world changed things. I became acutely aware that I was living in a world that was somehow different, even though the earth continued to move, as did I. I continue to be grateful for the many people who were praying: people who had been at mass, all those friends who had agreed to pray, and those who were there. We were also able to say a chaplet of divine mercy. I have every reason to believe he is in a better place now. Even yet, there are so many things to feel. Sixty-six old still seems too young to die. I know in my heart that while we perceive it as unfair, his life was a gift we were never really entitled to at all. Being engaged now, I can also feel a shadow of what it must be like to lose a spouse, having to get used to all the never agains (in the life).
Everything is different. I never imagined that the diagnosis of cancer would end up like this. I guess that no one does. No one wants to let that in. It won't happen to us. Our family member will beat it. It also brought up another familiar feeling, one I can recall from sitting in my bed in our old lake house: the first time I really experienced grief. My grandfather had died, and the world felt somehow empty, like nothing really mattered, not friendships, not accomplishments, not the small pleasures of this life. Somehow though I also feel more connected to him than I do with my other relatives who have passed on. Maybe because I was there when it happened. Maybe just because I am older now. Having passed through the burden of death, it feel as though he might somehow be able to tell me what it is like. I wonder also when he knew that he was going to die and when he came to accept it. I knew that the treatment had been terrible. In fact, worse than the disease itself, he said.