continued from chapter 15: part 2
Steven and Diana deliberately held off their visit until everyone else had left, so that I wouldn't be alone just yet. They helped me buy two Himalayan cats that Hal and I always planned to get when Hephzibah finally died. Karuna and Shama are good companions; they sleep on the bed with me and they give me a reason to structure my days. They need feeding and that long hair needs constant brushing.
On a cold, rainy Sunday, we took Hal's ashes to a public place in Toronto that meant a great deal to him. He loved that city so much. We were very circumspect and no one knew what we were doing. I recall the crematorium man told Mike that Hal was now environmentally friendly. Yeah, that too. Now we were littering. Jason and Crista, my eldest grandchildren made me so proud. Each one reached in the bag and took a handful of ashes and scattered them.
The pain lessens but you never get over it. Not if you built something lasting.
I have gone through a lot of the "firsts." Our thirty-eighth wedding anniversary was a week after he died, there was his birthday, Christmas, my birthday, Valentines day.
I settled down to write this book. I've stopped sleeping with Hal's sweater in my arms, but I am surrounded by his photos. He had trouble leaving me and I felt his presence for six weeks after his death. I finally mustered the courage to ask him to go because I couldn’t get on with the rest of my life if I felt him close by. I don't feel his presence any more although the children sometimes do; he is on his new life and I am on mine, like it or not.
For six months after Hal’s death, Mark drove into the city every Saturday to visit with me and do any odd jobs. We’d sit and drink tea together and talk, talk, talk about that incredible year.
I don't see our married friends often; sometimes they'll invite me to dinner but I'm always the only guest. I remember one friend looking at me as though I were a stranger and said, “What are we going to do with you now?” I was now a single person. They just don't know how to handle an "odd" person.
All through my life, up to Hal's illness, I'd wake at night feeling fearful about the what-if's. I'm changed now. It's as though my worst fears have been realized and there is nothing left to fear.
I pulled together my own support network of friends who were widowed before me and they have always been there to help me through the rougher spots.
I have only one regret. I never asked Hal, "Are you afraid?" He never said and he didn't seem afraid, just terribly sad.
For years, he used to say to me, “You know, it really would be best if you died before me. I don’t know how you would manage on your own.” He was right. The woman he married depended on him a great deal, mostly because I sensed he wanted to be leaned on. I found quite quickly that I could manage on my own, without pestering friends and children to make decisions for me.
Hal sent me one last love message. Diana, who lives in Medicine Hat, sat at her desk on the morning of Valentines Day and she got a sharp inner message, “ CALL HAL.” "The only Hal I know is our Hal and that can't be," she thought. She went into a deep contemplation and asked inside herself if Hal had a message for her. "Please tell Patsy I love her and send her some white orchids," was the strong message she got. She and Steve immediately arranged to have the flowers sent to me.
I have grown orchids for years, not too successfully, but all of them were gifts from Hal, something Diana didn't know.
In the past, whenever I am missing a subtle message I should be sensing ,there will be a quick, powerful thunder and lightning storm and I’ve learned to stop and pay attention. The florist arrived minutes after the storm passed overhead.
Without that nudge, I would have been touched by the flowers but wouldn’t have made the connection. I called Diana and she told me of her experience.
The last thing we did at night we'd hold hands while we fell asleep.
Wherever you are Hal, I still feel your hand in mine.
The end.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Thursday, October 25, 2007
chapter 15: part 2
continued from Chapter 15: part 1
The day after Hal's death, my brother Doug called me to say that Dad had died that morning.
The kids made macabre jokes about their mom, “Typhoid Patsy.” First I have the cat put down. Then Hal dies. Now my dad.
Scott and Peter flew in two days later. They had been out of the loop all these months and they struggled to handle their feelings and cope with our need to talk incessantly about the past months. Melissa had picked up the baby and camped in with me as well as Mike and Lorrie. Mark slept at home but ran back and forth.
We were holding Hal's party on Labor Day weekend and I tried to find a caterer but no one was available on such short notice. I planned the food, shopped for it and prepared most of it. The kids did everything I asked them to do, getting the liquor, renting extra china, and working out the logistics of parking.
The day of the party, we all put on our festive things and so many people came. It was mostly writers’ shop- talk, which is the way I wanted it to be. I remember the men wore suits, and I wasn't used to them dressing so formally.
I had to force back the anger when someone asked to smoke in the house but eventually resigned myself to the fact that they would. They won’t understand. The girls did the hostess duties and I remained quietly in the living room.
I did what had to be done and kept feeling stabbing pains of grief but the tears never came for long. The boys played continuous tapes of Hal's favorite jazz and some of those tunes tore at my heart.
I was near the kitchen window when one friend said, "Hal would have loved this party," and I replied, "Perhaps he is, he's out there in the driveway in Mike's car." She handled that nicely.
That night, when only family remained I pulled out all of Hal's clothes and distributed them to the boys. No one would take his beloved corduroy pants, which he had specially made. I kept his wallet and the leather change pouch we bought in Florence.
This is when death becomes reality--when the possessions are given away and there is vacant closet space, drawers are empty and soon even scraps of his handwriting disappear.
to be concluded in chapter 15: part 3
The day after Hal's death, my brother Doug called me to say that Dad had died that morning.
The kids made macabre jokes about their mom, “Typhoid Patsy.” First I have the cat put down. Then Hal dies. Now my dad.
Scott and Peter flew in two days later. They had been out of the loop all these months and they struggled to handle their feelings and cope with our need to talk incessantly about the past months. Melissa had picked up the baby and camped in with me as well as Mike and Lorrie. Mark slept at home but ran back and forth.
We were holding Hal's party on Labor Day weekend and I tried to find a caterer but no one was available on such short notice. I planned the food, shopped for it and prepared most of it. The kids did everything I asked them to do, getting the liquor, renting extra china, and working out the logistics of parking.
The day of the party, we all put on our festive things and so many people came. It was mostly writers’ shop- talk, which is the way I wanted it to be. I remember the men wore suits, and I wasn't used to them dressing so formally.
I had to force back the anger when someone asked to smoke in the house but eventually resigned myself to the fact that they would. They won’t understand. The girls did the hostess duties and I remained quietly in the living room.
I did what had to be done and kept feeling stabbing pains of grief but the tears never came for long. The boys played continuous tapes of Hal's favorite jazz and some of those tunes tore at my heart.
I was near the kitchen window when one friend said, "Hal would have loved this party," and I replied, "Perhaps he is, he's out there in the driveway in Mike's car." She handled that nicely.
That night, when only family remained I pulled out all of Hal's clothes and distributed them to the boys. No one would take his beloved corduroy pants, which he had specially made. I kept his wallet and the leather change pouch we bought in Florence.
This is when death becomes reality--when the possessions are given away and there is vacant closet space, drawers are empty and soon even scraps of his handwriting disappear.
to be concluded in chapter 15: part 3
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
chapter 15: part 1
continued from chapter 14; part 11
I stepped out of the hospital into a new life.
The parking lot attendant who greeted me so cheerfully earlier that morning took my money and I pulled out into traffic on the way to Mike and Lorrie's apartment. A driver pulled illegally in front of me and must have been startled by the vehemence of my horn honking. I wasn't going to give an inch. Not then.
We gathered at Mike's place and immediately sat down to make the necessary phone calls. Mark and Mike shared the phone list while the rest of us sat there and listened. It isn't real, but you have to listen.
Mike called the funeral home, the one arranged by the memorial society years before and set up a meeting there in early afternoon.
The boys brought back food from a local hamburger house and we devoured double hamburgers and milkshakes. I eat in moments of crisis, which I mentioned before.
I didn't cry. Occasionally my voice would crack, and then I would get control. I couldn’t manage a shuddering, all-encompassing let-it-all-out cry for several weeks.
I'm alone, I kept thinking; my children are here and they are loving and wonderful but I am alone.
And I’m terrified.
I drove us to the funeral home and Mike and Lorrie went inside to arrange for cremation. I couldn't go inside. I find no comfort in what happens in funeral homes and accompanying coffins and I wasn’t having that for my Hal. As I sat outside in the car I hoped with all my heart that his body was there and not in the hospital. I wanted that poor wasted wonderful body to be transformed into particles as soon as possible.
I idly watched the busy traffic on St. Clair Avenue. A dark blue van passed, then slowed down and U-turned into the parking lot. He drive alongside my car.
"Your headlights are on", he said. And he was gone. I read messages into a lot of things and I took this as a good omen.
Back at Mike's place we worked out a funeral notice. I had become a consistent obituary reader over the past months and was very clear about what I wanted to say about Hal. We wrote that he fought his cancer like hell, and apparently that isn't acceptable for funeral notices.
This is the way it read:
TENNANT,HAL. Of cancer, on the 28th of August at age 61. Loved by Pat, Mark and Olga, Scott and Jannett, Steven and Diana, Peter and Meg, Michael and Lorrie, Melissa and David, and seven grandchildren. He left no enemies, he fought his cancer with all he had and his mind didn't give an inch. No funeral. Cremation. Friends are invited to a final party for Hal at 64 Pioneer Pathway, Scarborough on Saturday, September 2nd from 2-5 p.m. A professional to the last; every deadline met, all words in place.
I purposely did not mention that in lieu of flowers people should send money to some charity. I hoped one or two would send flowers and many did. We did leave discreet written messages near the sign-in table at home so that if people wished they could send money to the self- help group that was such a comfort to me. I was irrationally angry when people sent donations in Hal’s name to the Cancer Society. After all, why couldn’t they have found a way to save him?
continued in chapter 15, part 2
I stepped out of the hospital into a new life.
The parking lot attendant who greeted me so cheerfully earlier that morning took my money and I pulled out into traffic on the way to Mike and Lorrie's apartment. A driver pulled illegally in front of me and must have been startled by the vehemence of my horn honking. I wasn't going to give an inch. Not then.
We gathered at Mike's place and immediately sat down to make the necessary phone calls. Mark and Mike shared the phone list while the rest of us sat there and listened. It isn't real, but you have to listen.
Mike called the funeral home, the one arranged by the memorial society years before and set up a meeting there in early afternoon.
The boys brought back food from a local hamburger house and we devoured double hamburgers and milkshakes. I eat in moments of crisis, which I mentioned before.
I didn't cry. Occasionally my voice would crack, and then I would get control. I couldn’t manage a shuddering, all-encompassing let-it-all-out cry for several weeks.
I'm alone, I kept thinking; my children are here and they are loving and wonderful but I am alone.
And I’m terrified.
I drove us to the funeral home and Mike and Lorrie went inside to arrange for cremation. I couldn't go inside. I find no comfort in what happens in funeral homes and accompanying coffins and I wasn’t having that for my Hal. As I sat outside in the car I hoped with all my heart that his body was there and not in the hospital. I wanted that poor wasted wonderful body to be transformed into particles as soon as possible.
I idly watched the busy traffic on St. Clair Avenue. A dark blue van passed, then slowed down and U-turned into the parking lot. He drive alongside my car.
"Your headlights are on", he said. And he was gone. I read messages into a lot of things and I took this as a good omen.
Back at Mike's place we worked out a funeral notice. I had become a consistent obituary reader over the past months and was very clear about what I wanted to say about Hal. We wrote that he fought his cancer like hell, and apparently that isn't acceptable for funeral notices.
This is the way it read:
TENNANT,HAL. Of cancer, on the 28th of August at age 61. Loved by Pat, Mark and Olga, Scott and Jannett, Steven and Diana, Peter and Meg, Michael and Lorrie, Melissa and David, and seven grandchildren. He left no enemies, he fought his cancer with all he had and his mind didn't give an inch. No funeral. Cremation. Friends are invited to a final party for Hal at 64 Pioneer Pathway, Scarborough on Saturday, September 2nd from 2-5 p.m. A professional to the last; every deadline met, all words in place.
I purposely did not mention that in lieu of flowers people should send money to some charity. I hoped one or two would send flowers and many did. We did leave discreet written messages near the sign-in table at home so that if people wished they could send money to the self- help group that was such a comfort to me. I was irrationally angry when people sent donations in Hal’s name to the Cancer Society. After all, why couldn’t they have found a way to save him?
continued in chapter 15, part 2
Monday, October 22, 2007
chapter 14; part 11
continued from chapter 14: part 10
The next morning, I got out of bed around six as the sun was rising. I stood at the window and watched the red sky.
"Red sky in the morning," I whispered softly.
I quickly showered and washed my hair and while it was drying I put on the kettle and sat glancing thought the paper. I'll be at the hospital by nine, I thought.
The phone rang. It was quarter to seven. It was Doctor Walter, the resident to tell me that Hal had just died.
I remember asking if he suffered and I don't remember much about what he said but I knew in my heart we had needed one more day to make his dying easier.
I called the children and they all made arrangements to meet me at the hospital.
When I entered the building that last morning my eye was irresistibly drawn to that corridor where the death cart was kept and I saw that it was missing.
Oh god, I thought, I don't want to see it outside his door.
It wasn't near the door and I never saw it while I was there, and for that I thank them. They wouldn't have known that I knew what it looked like but I did.
Doctor Walter happened to be standing by the elevator when I arrived on the ninth floor and he walked me to Hal's room. I feel frightened, I thought. I am afraid of seeing that dead body. He opened the door and the curtain sheltered the bed from view.
Melissa was sitting by the bedside and she swiftly came to me and put her arms around me. The doctor quietly withdrew. Then I looked at the bed.
The stillness, oh that stillness. The life color was missing and his skin was a yellowish shade. His mouth was open and his head was tilted up to his right, I could see that his chest was fully expanded. The needles had been removed from his arm and I was relieved at that.
"Oh Hal, oh my darling Hal, my darling Hal," I kept repeating as Melissa held me.
Then I moved away and sat beside the bed.
"I had to touch him just to be sure, " she said.
"I don't want to touch him; I want to remember his warmth."
We sat beside the bed waiting for the children. A couple of nurses came in and were sweetly gentle. His wedding ring and his watch were on the bedside table and his other possessions had been bundled into plastic bags. The lovely pot of yellow chrysanthemums our friend Bonnie had sent two days before had died with him. They had been lusty the night before.
This had been his final gift to me- he wouldn’t let me see him die.
After the children came, Mike went over to the bed and stroked Hal's hair. When the time seemed right, we prepared to leave. As we walked toward the door, I stopped and my throat caught.
"Oh, I'll never see him again."
I returned for one more look.
"Now you wait for me," I said and then joined the children at the door.
I was a widow.
continued in chapter 15: part 1
The next morning, I got out of bed around six as the sun was rising. I stood at the window and watched the red sky.
"Red sky in the morning," I whispered softly.
I quickly showered and washed my hair and while it was drying I put on the kettle and sat glancing thought the paper. I'll be at the hospital by nine, I thought.
The phone rang. It was quarter to seven. It was Doctor Walter, the resident to tell me that Hal had just died.
I remember asking if he suffered and I don't remember much about what he said but I knew in my heart we had needed one more day to make his dying easier.
I called the children and they all made arrangements to meet me at the hospital.
When I entered the building that last morning my eye was irresistibly drawn to that corridor where the death cart was kept and I saw that it was missing.
Oh god, I thought, I don't want to see it outside his door.
It wasn't near the door and I never saw it while I was there, and for that I thank them. They wouldn't have known that I knew what it looked like but I did.
Doctor Walter happened to be standing by the elevator when I arrived on the ninth floor and he walked me to Hal's room. I feel frightened, I thought. I am afraid of seeing that dead body. He opened the door and the curtain sheltered the bed from view.
Melissa was sitting by the bedside and she swiftly came to me and put her arms around me. The doctor quietly withdrew. Then I looked at the bed.
The stillness, oh that stillness. The life color was missing and his skin was a yellowish shade. His mouth was open and his head was tilted up to his right, I could see that his chest was fully expanded. The needles had been removed from his arm and I was relieved at that.
"Oh Hal, oh my darling Hal, my darling Hal," I kept repeating as Melissa held me.
Then I moved away and sat beside the bed.
"I had to touch him just to be sure, " she said.
"I don't want to touch him; I want to remember his warmth."
We sat beside the bed waiting for the children. A couple of nurses came in and were sweetly gentle. His wedding ring and his watch were on the bedside table and his other possessions had been bundled into plastic bags. The lovely pot of yellow chrysanthemums our friend Bonnie had sent two days before had died with him. They had been lusty the night before.
This had been his final gift to me- he wouldn’t let me see him die.
After the children came, Mike went over to the bed and stroked Hal's hair. When the time seemed right, we prepared to leave. As we walked toward the door, I stopped and my throat caught.
"Oh, I'll never see him again."
I returned for one more look.
"Now you wait for me," I said and then joined the children at the door.
I was a widow.
continued in chapter 15: part 1
Friday, October 19, 2007
chapter 14: part 10
continued from chapter 14: part 9
On the way home from the hospital that night, I went over and over in my mind what was happening. Hal was going to suffocate to death; he had suffered so much and I couldn't bear for him to go through any more. I was reminded of a "friend," a former nurse who assured me, early on, that when things got tough she'd be there to advise me. She disappeared from sight long before the tough times.
As soon as I got home I raced to the phone and called Alice. Alice is a writer, a first class researcher and a person who comes through in the crunch.
"Alice, I need help."
I quickly described what had been happening to Hal and then said,
"I want to end Hal's life; I don't want him to suffer anymore. He's dying but he doesn't deserve this kind of death."
Alice said without hesitation,
"Okay, I'm going to start making some enquiries. You just sit tight and don't do anything until you hear from me and I promise to get back to you by tomorrow morning at the latest."
She called later that night.
"I have the information you need and I want you to come by my house tomorrow morning on the way to the hospital."
I agreed to this and said I would bring son Michael along.
We arrived around nine o'clock. She moved to put her arms around me and I drew back.
"Alice, I can hang together as long as nobody is too nice to me, so please don't hug me. I appreciate your concern."
She sat us down.
"Look, I know what you want to do is a tremendous display of love but I can't let you do it. I talked to a couple of doctor friends and others who have gone this route and the fact is that it's too difficult to do in a hospital. If there was time to get him home then you could. You will end up sitting in a jail cell and while you don't care now there will be a time when it will matter.
Now there is an alternative. Have all treatments been stopped?"
"Well, no, they're giving him Ventalin through an oxygen mask two or three times a day and it terrifies him."
"Stop that immediately. Anything that sounds like ventilation is just going to prolong his suffering. What else?"
"They seem to have stopped drawing blood, but he has been getting his morphine by pill until yesterday when he asked them not to expect him to swallow anything more, so they've switched back to the liquid."
"Okay, when you get to the hospital, ask to see the doctor privately and make all arrangements to keep him sedated and comfortable. Make sure all treatment is stopped. And don't try anything else."
I trusted her completely and somehow she persuaded me that this was the right course to take.
We arrived at the hospital to find Hal looking peaceful and alert. He'd slept well but he was lying slightly propped up and wasn't about to get out of bed.
When Hal napped, we stole out of the room and searched out the resident, Doctor Walters, who was on call that day. We asked for a private place to meet and he took us to a nearby office. We then sorted through our misunderstandings, that no, we didn't want anymore ventalin treatment, we wanted Hal to go on steady morphine drip, that we had said everything we needed to say to one another and we wanted him to be as unaware as possible when he died.
I asked,
"From what I saw yesterday, he's going to suffocate, isn't he?"
His answer was simple. "Yes."
When we returned to the room, Hal was getting the ventalin treatment and he gave me a desperate, fearful look. The nurse was soon behind me and she immediately removed the mask.
"Mister Tennant, " she shouted, "You're not going to have anymore of these treatments. This was your last."
He looked so relieved.
I was holding his hand and he said,
"What happened?" He was referring to yesterday and the breathing problems.
I looked up at Mike before I replied, "It's in both your lungs, sweetheart."
He nodded. He slept briefly and when he awoke, he tenderly reached over and removed my hand from his. He seemed to know the rest of the journey was his alone.
Mike stayed for a while longer, then left for home and we arranged that when I got Hal settled for sleep I would come over for dinner.
It had been a loving, peaceful day.
In the late afternoon, Hal sat up and watched an entire tennis match on television. I remember that Martina Natilova won. He got down some orange sherbet.
The nurse wheeled in the infusion cart, a computerised mechanism that metes out the various drips into the main intravenous tube.
Hal looked confused.
"What's that? Are they going to put a tube back down my throat?"
"No, no darling; remember? This is the infusion box; you asked yesterday that they not give you any more pills so they are going to give you your morphine by drip. That's all."
Two nurses came in to settle him for the night just as I was struggling to lift him toward the head of the bed. I don't know what it is, but they always tend to slide down until their feet are pressing uncomfortably on the foot board. They gently shifted him up and arranged his pillows for maximum comfort, tucked in around on the side so that he could ease into them. His breathing was shallow but he appeared calm.
I remember thinking, how wonderful it will be to go to Mike and Lorries' place and just relax for a bit. I hope he falls asleep quickly.
When the nurses left the room, his began became rapid and shallow and I took his hand and kissed him.
"I'll stay with you until you're fast asleep, so don't you worry."
He looked relieved and closed his eyes. He fell asleep almost immediately.
Quietly, I gathered my things and crept from the room. The nurse hurried toward me.
"Look, you've spent long hours here every day, and I think you should go home and get some rest, but if one of the children wants to spend the night that will be fine. We're trying hard to keep the other bed free for your privacy."
I thanked her but told her the children were pretty tired too, but I would pass on the message.
I remember feeling anxious to leave I must have been emotionally and physically exhausted.the hospital that night. I would spend a couple of hours with Mike and Lorrie and have everyday conversation and relax a bit and then I'd go home.
continued in chapter 14: part 11
On the way home from the hospital that night, I went over and over in my mind what was happening. Hal was going to suffocate to death; he had suffered so much and I couldn't bear for him to go through any more. I was reminded of a "friend," a former nurse who assured me, early on, that when things got tough she'd be there to advise me. She disappeared from sight long before the tough times.
As soon as I got home I raced to the phone and called Alice. Alice is a writer, a first class researcher and a person who comes through in the crunch.
"Alice, I need help."
I quickly described what had been happening to Hal and then said,
"I want to end Hal's life; I don't want him to suffer anymore. He's dying but he doesn't deserve this kind of death."
Alice said without hesitation,
"Okay, I'm going to start making some enquiries. You just sit tight and don't do anything until you hear from me and I promise to get back to you by tomorrow morning at the latest."
She called later that night.
"I have the information you need and I want you to come by my house tomorrow morning on the way to the hospital."
I agreed to this and said I would bring son Michael along.
We arrived around nine o'clock. She moved to put her arms around me and I drew back.
"Alice, I can hang together as long as nobody is too nice to me, so please don't hug me. I appreciate your concern."
She sat us down.
"Look, I know what you want to do is a tremendous display of love but I can't let you do it. I talked to a couple of doctor friends and others who have gone this route and the fact is that it's too difficult to do in a hospital. If there was time to get him home then you could. You will end up sitting in a jail cell and while you don't care now there will be a time when it will matter.
Now there is an alternative. Have all treatments been stopped?"
"Well, no, they're giving him Ventalin through an oxygen mask two or three times a day and it terrifies him."
"Stop that immediately. Anything that sounds like ventilation is just going to prolong his suffering. What else?"
"They seem to have stopped drawing blood, but he has been getting his morphine by pill until yesterday when he asked them not to expect him to swallow anything more, so they've switched back to the liquid."
"Okay, when you get to the hospital, ask to see the doctor privately and make all arrangements to keep him sedated and comfortable. Make sure all treatment is stopped. And don't try anything else."
I trusted her completely and somehow she persuaded me that this was the right course to take.
We arrived at the hospital to find Hal looking peaceful and alert. He'd slept well but he was lying slightly propped up and wasn't about to get out of bed.
When Hal napped, we stole out of the room and searched out the resident, Doctor Walters, who was on call that day. We asked for a private place to meet and he took us to a nearby office. We then sorted through our misunderstandings, that no, we didn't want anymore ventalin treatment, we wanted Hal to go on steady morphine drip, that we had said everything we needed to say to one another and we wanted him to be as unaware as possible when he died.
I asked,
"From what I saw yesterday, he's going to suffocate, isn't he?"
His answer was simple. "Yes."
When we returned to the room, Hal was getting the ventalin treatment and he gave me a desperate, fearful look. The nurse was soon behind me and she immediately removed the mask.
"Mister Tennant, " she shouted, "You're not going to have anymore of these treatments. This was your last."
He looked so relieved.
I was holding his hand and he said,
"What happened?" He was referring to yesterday and the breathing problems.
I looked up at Mike before I replied, "It's in both your lungs, sweetheart."
He nodded. He slept briefly and when he awoke, he tenderly reached over and removed my hand from his. He seemed to know the rest of the journey was his alone.
Mike stayed for a while longer, then left for home and we arranged that when I got Hal settled for sleep I would come over for dinner.
It had been a loving, peaceful day.
In the late afternoon, Hal sat up and watched an entire tennis match on television. I remember that Martina Natilova won. He got down some orange sherbet.
The nurse wheeled in the infusion cart, a computerised mechanism that metes out the various drips into the main intravenous tube.
Hal looked confused.
"What's that? Are they going to put a tube back down my throat?"
"No, no darling; remember? This is the infusion box; you asked yesterday that they not give you any more pills so they are going to give you your morphine by drip. That's all."
Two nurses came in to settle him for the night just as I was struggling to lift him toward the head of the bed. I don't know what it is, but they always tend to slide down until their feet are pressing uncomfortably on the foot board. They gently shifted him up and arranged his pillows for maximum comfort, tucked in around on the side so that he could ease into them. His breathing was shallow but he appeared calm.
I remember thinking, how wonderful it will be to go to Mike and Lorries' place and just relax for a bit. I hope he falls asleep quickly.
When the nurses left the room, his began became rapid and shallow and I took his hand and kissed him.
"I'll stay with you until you're fast asleep, so don't you worry."
He looked relieved and closed his eyes. He fell asleep almost immediately.
Quietly, I gathered my things and crept from the room. The nurse hurried toward me.
"Look, you've spent long hours here every day, and I think you should go home and get some rest, but if one of the children wants to spend the night that will be fine. We're trying hard to keep the other bed free for your privacy."
I thanked her but told her the children were pretty tired too, but I would pass on the message.
I remember feeling anxious to leave I must have been emotionally and physically exhausted.the hospital that night. I would spend a couple of hours with Mike and Lorrie and have everyday conversation and relax a bit and then I'd go home.
continued in chapter 14: part 11
Thursday, October 18, 2007
chapter 14: part 9
continued from chapter 14: part 8
Hal settled into an exhausted sleep, still gasping, and without taking my eyes off him, I asked the nurse to call the children.
Melissa came first. Her boss swiftly called for a taxi and waited with her until it came. I told her softly what had happened and we sat by the bedside, watching him take a shallow breath, then a long pause and another breath. Michael and Lorrie arrived and we filled them in. We were hypnotized by his breathing. Then Mark arrived. He had mostly stayed away from the hospital but I knew how much he cared because of the fearful way he asked for news by phone. He took one look at Hal, me propping up his head, the nose prongs and the sound of the oxygen and he burst into ragged tears. Melissa rushed over to him and he quickly controlled himself.
I was frightened and confused; I said to them,
"I don't know what to expect. I don't know what we should do".
We looked at one another and shared confusion about this role we were thrust in.
Hal opened his eyes and looked from face to face. He smiled and managed to gasp out,
"If you think you're keeping a vigil, forget it."
Later, he woke and spotted Mark. He smiled.
"Every time I open my eyes, the room is more crowded."
Around mid- afternoon, he opened his eyes and said, panting,
"I feel that it's over."
Oh lord, I thought, I must say just the right thing now.
"What is, dear?"
"My illness."
"How does that feel?"
"It feels great."
Later, we interpreted his reply in different ways. Mike and Mark thought he was saying he knew he was dying, but Melissa and I, who had seen so much, both believed he felt he had reached a turning point and was going to recover.
The rest of the day seemed, in retrospect, like a Gothic cartoon. His breathing was ragged, His hair looked lank and untended, but the last few days he had stopped requesting that I help him to the shower or shampoo his hair and settled for spotty bed baths.
There must have been a sea of liquid in him because we felt like the fire brigade slipping the little jug-like container under the covers, then emptying it and almost immediately starting all over again.
You can eventually get used to any situation and I pulled my daily egg sandwich out of my purse. Melissa and I shared that and the boys went out to bring back hamburgers and drinks. We broke out the morning paper and read interesting snippets to one another. It was as though we were sitting around the kitchen table on a normal day.
David had been bringing the baby to the office each day for Melissa to nurse her; today she remembered to bring the breast pump with her, and retired behind the curtains to express milk, while we listened to the humming sound with interest.
Every so often the girls walked up and down the corridor with me.
"I don't know how to express this," I said, "But this is so much a part of life it's impossible to separate the two."
The nurses spoke to us in hushed whispers and told us they would give us as much privacy as possible. We were all surprised when in mid afternoon, Hal was awake and saying a few words. The attendant brought in his dinner tray and he began to sit up.
We were astonished.
"You want some dinner?"
Nod.
We were all exhausted. I looked at the weary faces around me.
"In that case, you kids go home; I'll stay until he's settled for the night."
He ate a little sherbet, watched some television and behaved as though it was just another night. Then he settled down and I stayed until I knew he was soundly asleep.
The next day, Saturday, he was feeling fit enough to sit in a chair for a while the children came and sat quietly with him for several hours. Melissa came in with the baby Hallie, his namesake, and he gave them a loving smile.
Again, when dinner was brought in, sherbet and liquid nutritional supplement, I sent them home and I stayed longer. This time, when the nurse settled him for sleep, his breathing was jerky and he looked perturbed. I sensed he was frightened.
"Now, don't worry, I'm staying with you until you fall asleep."
He nodded and closed his eyes and I stayed close to him until I could see he was deeply asleep.
continued in chapter 14: part 10
Hal settled into an exhausted sleep, still gasping, and without taking my eyes off him, I asked the nurse to call the children.
Melissa came first. Her boss swiftly called for a taxi and waited with her until it came. I told her softly what had happened and we sat by the bedside, watching him take a shallow breath, then a long pause and another breath. Michael and Lorrie arrived and we filled them in. We were hypnotized by his breathing. Then Mark arrived. He had mostly stayed away from the hospital but I knew how much he cared because of the fearful way he asked for news by phone. He took one look at Hal, me propping up his head, the nose prongs and the sound of the oxygen and he burst into ragged tears. Melissa rushed over to him and he quickly controlled himself.
I was frightened and confused; I said to them,
"I don't know what to expect. I don't know what we should do".
We looked at one another and shared confusion about this role we were thrust in.
Hal opened his eyes and looked from face to face. He smiled and managed to gasp out,
"If you think you're keeping a vigil, forget it."
Later, he woke and spotted Mark. He smiled.
"Every time I open my eyes, the room is more crowded."
Around mid- afternoon, he opened his eyes and said, panting,
"I feel that it's over."
Oh lord, I thought, I must say just the right thing now.
"What is, dear?"
"My illness."
"How does that feel?"
"It feels great."
Later, we interpreted his reply in different ways. Mike and Mark thought he was saying he knew he was dying, but Melissa and I, who had seen so much, both believed he felt he had reached a turning point and was going to recover.
The rest of the day seemed, in retrospect, like a Gothic cartoon. His breathing was ragged, His hair looked lank and untended, but the last few days he had stopped requesting that I help him to the shower or shampoo his hair and settled for spotty bed baths.
There must have been a sea of liquid in him because we felt like the fire brigade slipping the little jug-like container under the covers, then emptying it and almost immediately starting all over again.
You can eventually get used to any situation and I pulled my daily egg sandwich out of my purse. Melissa and I shared that and the boys went out to bring back hamburgers and drinks. We broke out the morning paper and read interesting snippets to one another. It was as though we were sitting around the kitchen table on a normal day.
David had been bringing the baby to the office each day for Melissa to nurse her; today she remembered to bring the breast pump with her, and retired behind the curtains to express milk, while we listened to the humming sound with interest.
Every so often the girls walked up and down the corridor with me.
"I don't know how to express this," I said, "But this is so much a part of life it's impossible to separate the two."
The nurses spoke to us in hushed whispers and told us they would give us as much privacy as possible. We were all surprised when in mid afternoon, Hal was awake and saying a few words. The attendant brought in his dinner tray and he began to sit up.
We were astonished.
"You want some dinner?"
Nod.
We were all exhausted. I looked at the weary faces around me.
"In that case, you kids go home; I'll stay until he's settled for the night."
He ate a little sherbet, watched some television and behaved as though it was just another night. Then he settled down and I stayed until I knew he was soundly asleep.
The next day, Saturday, he was feeling fit enough to sit in a chair for a while the children came and sat quietly with him for several hours. Melissa came in with the baby Hallie, his namesake, and he gave them a loving smile.
Again, when dinner was brought in, sherbet and liquid nutritional supplement, I sent them home and I stayed longer. This time, when the nurse settled him for sleep, his breathing was jerky and he looked perturbed. I sensed he was frightened.
"Now, don't worry, I'm staying with you until you fall asleep."
He nodded and closed his eyes and I stayed close to him until I could see he was deeply asleep.
continued in chapter 14: part 10
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
chapter 14: part 8
continued from chapter 14: part 7
The next morning I stopped a nurse in the hall.
"Please tell the doctor that Hal does not want to be resuscitated. He made the decision last night. But, please also tell the doctors that he intends to keep fighting and they must not talk to him as though there's no hope."
That simple message snowballed into an enormous misunderstanding that didn't get sorted out until it was almost too late. The doctors took this message as a signal that all treatment and tests should be continued, although they understood the "do not resuscitate" message.
The next day, Friday morning I arrived when a couple of nurses were making up the bed and Hal was down in ex-ray having his lungs ex-rayed.
"They're doing what?"
No, they didn't know why the doctor had ordered this but they were friendly and chatty and I blurted,
"Do you think he knows he's dying?"
Then I burst into tears. For a woman who prided herself in being self- contained I was definitely coming unglued. They put their arms around me and the consensus was he did know but would not say so.
We were interrupted by the arrival of a worried porter who was returning Hal to the room. Hal was in obvious respiratory distress and he was hurriedly placed on the bed and propped into a sitting position. His lungs expanded but wouldn't close and he was croaking for air. The nurses calmly worked with him and one put in a call for a doctor.
The resident who took the call first rushed down to ex-ray to take a quick look at the plates. He dashed into the room and by that time Hal was beginning to take in some air. The doctor listened to his chest and motioned me out of the room. He sounded distressed.
"This is very bad. The ex-rays show his lungs are riddled. This must have happened in the last couple of weeks."
"Put him under," I implored.
He misunderstood thinking I meant I wanted him to end Hal’s life.
“I can’t do that- they’d pull my license in a minute.”
"No, I want him to be sedated," I explained. "Is there fluid in his lungs?"
"I don't think so but I'll give him something in case there is."
He injected something for that and gave him more morphine and Hal settled into a fitful breathing pattern, exhausted.
I stood by the bed, holding his hand, staying out of everyone's way and quietly sobbing. Hal opened his eyes and gasped,
"Don't cry, dear; I'm going to make it."
I truly think he believed that.
continued in chapter 14: part 9
The next morning I stopped a nurse in the hall.
"Please tell the doctor that Hal does not want to be resuscitated. He made the decision last night. But, please also tell the doctors that he intends to keep fighting and they must not talk to him as though there's no hope."
That simple message snowballed into an enormous misunderstanding that didn't get sorted out until it was almost too late. The doctors took this message as a signal that all treatment and tests should be continued, although they understood the "do not resuscitate" message.
The next day, Friday morning I arrived when a couple of nurses were making up the bed and Hal was down in ex-ray having his lungs ex-rayed.
"They're doing what?"
No, they didn't know why the doctor had ordered this but they were friendly and chatty and I blurted,
"Do you think he knows he's dying?"
Then I burst into tears. For a woman who prided herself in being self- contained I was definitely coming unglued. They put their arms around me and the consensus was he did know but would not say so.
We were interrupted by the arrival of a worried porter who was returning Hal to the room. Hal was in obvious respiratory distress and he was hurriedly placed on the bed and propped into a sitting position. His lungs expanded but wouldn't close and he was croaking for air. The nurses calmly worked with him and one put in a call for a doctor.
The resident who took the call first rushed down to ex-ray to take a quick look at the plates. He dashed into the room and by that time Hal was beginning to take in some air. The doctor listened to his chest and motioned me out of the room. He sounded distressed.
"This is very bad. The ex-rays show his lungs are riddled. This must have happened in the last couple of weeks."
"Put him under," I implored.
He misunderstood thinking I meant I wanted him to end Hal’s life.
“I can’t do that- they’d pull my license in a minute.”
"No, I want him to be sedated," I explained. "Is there fluid in his lungs?"
"I don't think so but I'll give him something in case there is."
He injected something for that and gave him more morphine and Hal settled into a fitful breathing pattern, exhausted.
I stood by the bed, holding his hand, staying out of everyone's way and quietly sobbing. Hal opened his eyes and gasped,
"Don't cry, dear; I'm going to make it."
I truly think he believed that.
continued in chapter 14: part 9
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
chapter 14: part 7
continued from chapter 14: part 6
The next morning I arrived at the hospital to find Hal sitting up in bed looking alert. He announced he had drawn up a chart of his major health problems and had confronted the resident with them that morning. They had gone over each item and Hal said indignantly the doctor's chief response was,
"Well, I don't know that we can do anything."
As it turned out, the man compassionately listened and acted on each item.
On the list were weak muscles, ragged breathing, bed sore, morale (he added this one twice), the need to eat solids, pain in upper and lower abdomen.
In the OBJECTIVE column he had written beside "weak muscles," " get out of bed more to relieve leg cramps," and he acted on this by walking to the bathroom and getting up and moving to the chair at the foot of his bed for meals.
The doctor responded to the "Breathing" column by sending in a chest physiotherapist that afternoon; she introduced herself and gave Hal a couple of simple breathing exercises to do.
When he breathed there was a crackling sound from his chest, like the sound of crumpling cellophane.
She tried gently tapping his chest but he found that too painful for her to continue. She was kind and sensitive and did wonders for his morale.
For "Bed Sores", he had one at his tailbone. The bone was literally pushing through the skin because all his muscle tissue was wasted. The doctors had already sealed off the area with bandage and tape and he was never completely comfortable because of the tightness of the bandage. The nurses brought him a sheepskin pad to lie on, to relieve the pressure and later, an egg-crate mattress.
He ate more solids, continued with morphine for the pain, now in capsule form and he took a sleeping pill at night.
Beside "Morale", he wrote "Adopt strict program with structure." And he did.
That hand-written chart is one of my most cherished possessions.
When I helped him into the bathroom he slowly pushed his intravenous pole in front of him and his flapping hospital gown revealed a body completely wasted, his once adorable tush hanging in loose skin folds.
continued in chapter 14: part 8
The next morning I arrived at the hospital to find Hal sitting up in bed looking alert. He announced he had drawn up a chart of his major health problems and had confronted the resident with them that morning. They had gone over each item and Hal said indignantly the doctor's chief response was,
"Well, I don't know that we can do anything."
As it turned out, the man compassionately listened and acted on each item.
On the list were weak muscles, ragged breathing, bed sore, morale (he added this one twice), the need to eat solids, pain in upper and lower abdomen.
In the OBJECTIVE column he had written beside "weak muscles," " get out of bed more to relieve leg cramps," and he acted on this by walking to the bathroom and getting up and moving to the chair at the foot of his bed for meals.
The doctor responded to the "Breathing" column by sending in a chest physiotherapist that afternoon; she introduced herself and gave Hal a couple of simple breathing exercises to do.
When he breathed there was a crackling sound from his chest, like the sound of crumpling cellophane.
She tried gently tapping his chest but he found that too painful for her to continue. She was kind and sensitive and did wonders for his morale.
For "Bed Sores", he had one at his tailbone. The bone was literally pushing through the skin because all his muscle tissue was wasted. The doctors had already sealed off the area with bandage and tape and he was never completely comfortable because of the tightness of the bandage. The nurses brought him a sheepskin pad to lie on, to relieve the pressure and later, an egg-crate mattress.
He ate more solids, continued with morphine for the pain, now in capsule form and he took a sleeping pill at night.
Beside "Morale", he wrote "Adopt strict program with structure." And he did.
That hand-written chart is one of my most cherished possessions.
When I helped him into the bathroom he slowly pushed his intravenous pole in front of him and his flapping hospital gown revealed a body completely wasted, his once adorable tush hanging in loose skin folds.
continued in chapter 14: part 8
Monday, October 15, 2007
chapter 14; part 6
continued from chapter 14; part 5
The doctors came by around two o'clock that afternoon and for the first time they behaved like lunatics; they shouted at Hal as though he had just lost his hearing, and said inane things like,
"Oh, you were sleeping were you, Mr. Tennant? Good, you get all the sleep you can."
Hal eyed them warily and interrupted the shouting match to ask some brisk questions about treatment he felt he required and they agreed to it.
Then, still in the loud voices, moving their lips to be distinct,
"Now you get all the sleep you want. We won't disturb you if you want to sleep."
What was going on?
As they turned to leave, Doctor Beam motioned with his head for me to follow him out of the room.
In the hall, he sent the residents away and then he said,
"Do you know what's going on?"
I wasn't sure what that question meant and while I tried to frame a reply, he said,
"He's dying, your husband is now dying; you seem to be pretty tuned in to what's happening. What we want to do now is keep him as comfortable as we can. We'll stop all tests."
I knew, I'd known for so long, but we'd never talked about it before, the doctor and I. I wept quietly and we talked a bit. I told him my parents were both dying, the cat had been euthanized that morning and here I was, at my age, about to become an orphan and a widow and the family pet would be gone as well. That was a ludicrous statement and we both laughed a little over that.
He offered me sedatives and I heatedly replied,
"No, no I can't do that; I need to be clear headed if I'm called back at night. I want to be here for him."
He said, "There's one other thing; I need to know what your husband feels about resuscitation should his heart fail. We're legally obliged to try to revive him unless he states otherwise."
"Oh, you mean DNR; I know he'd never want that, please give the order not to resuscitate."
"Well, it's not that simple; he must make the decision. It's okay if you ask him and pass on the message or I can go in and ask him now if you like."
No, that should come from me. I'll leave a message with the nurse after we discuss it."
I returned to the room and Hal immediately asked what we had been talking about. I took his hand.
"Honey, you've had some close calls lately and the doctor wants to know what you want done if your heart gives out. Do you want to be resuscitated? We talked about the possibility of his brain being deprived of oxygen and finally Hal said,
"Well, if my heart fails, then let me go."
"If this does happen, what kind of a send-off do you want?"
"Well, I'd like some kind of a gathering of friends, eating and drinking and telling nice things about me--if you think anyone would come."
He was so tender and so serious. I joked that I'd try to rustle up one or two people.
While I sat by the bed waiting for him to fall asleep, I thought about what the doctor said and also about his strange behavior at the bedside. He's unsure of death, I thought. He works with death all the time and he doesn't know how to deal with it. Some of the nurses have begun shouting also. They seemed to know intellectually he was beginning his journey but they seemed to think his hearing left in advance.
When Hal fell asleep, I sat and watched over him for a while. Then, I pulled a notebook out of my purse and began jotting down names of people who would have to be told, when he died. When that was done, I got up and emptied out his storage locker; I bundled up his clothes and his shoes and took them all home. I had turned into an efficient zombie—there was no feeling left in me.
continued in chapter 14; part 7
The doctors came by around two o'clock that afternoon and for the first time they behaved like lunatics; they shouted at Hal as though he had just lost his hearing, and said inane things like,
"Oh, you were sleeping were you, Mr. Tennant? Good, you get all the sleep you can."
Hal eyed them warily and interrupted the shouting match to ask some brisk questions about treatment he felt he required and they agreed to it.
Then, still in the loud voices, moving their lips to be distinct,
"Now you get all the sleep you want. We won't disturb you if you want to sleep."
What was going on?
As they turned to leave, Doctor Beam motioned with his head for me to follow him out of the room.
In the hall, he sent the residents away and then he said,
"Do you know what's going on?"
I wasn't sure what that question meant and while I tried to frame a reply, he said,
"He's dying, your husband is now dying; you seem to be pretty tuned in to what's happening. What we want to do now is keep him as comfortable as we can. We'll stop all tests."
I knew, I'd known for so long, but we'd never talked about it before, the doctor and I. I wept quietly and we talked a bit. I told him my parents were both dying, the cat had been euthanized that morning and here I was, at my age, about to become an orphan and a widow and the family pet would be gone as well. That was a ludicrous statement and we both laughed a little over that.
He offered me sedatives and I heatedly replied,
"No, no I can't do that; I need to be clear headed if I'm called back at night. I want to be here for him."
He said, "There's one other thing; I need to know what your husband feels about resuscitation should his heart fail. We're legally obliged to try to revive him unless he states otherwise."
"Oh, you mean DNR; I know he'd never want that, please give the order not to resuscitate."
"Well, it's not that simple; he must make the decision. It's okay if you ask him and pass on the message or I can go in and ask him now if you like."
No, that should come from me. I'll leave a message with the nurse after we discuss it."
I returned to the room and Hal immediately asked what we had been talking about. I took his hand.
"Honey, you've had some close calls lately and the doctor wants to know what you want done if your heart gives out. Do you want to be resuscitated? We talked about the possibility of his brain being deprived of oxygen and finally Hal said,
"Well, if my heart fails, then let me go."
"If this does happen, what kind of a send-off do you want?"
"Well, I'd like some kind of a gathering of friends, eating and drinking and telling nice things about me--if you think anyone would come."
He was so tender and so serious. I joked that I'd try to rustle up one or two people.
While I sat by the bed waiting for him to fall asleep, I thought about what the doctor said and also about his strange behavior at the bedside. He's unsure of death, I thought. He works with death all the time and he doesn't know how to deal with it. Some of the nurses have begun shouting also. They seemed to know intellectually he was beginning his journey but they seemed to think his hearing left in advance.
When Hal fell asleep, I sat and watched over him for a while. Then, I pulled a notebook out of my purse and began jotting down names of people who would have to be told, when he died. When that was done, I got up and emptied out his storage locker; I bundled up his clothes and his shoes and took them all home. I had turned into an efficient zombie—there was no feeling left in me.
continued in chapter 14; part 7
Friday, October 5, 2007
Chapter 14: part 5
continued from chapter 14: part 4
Hal was in pain and the doctors thought the bowel might be kinked and inserted a GI tube and took him off food for a couple of days.
In his third week there he woke from a nap gasping for air and the doctors ordered oxygen on an ongoing basis.
Hal always made it clear to the doctors that he wanted to fight on. The doctors stood by his bedside each day and discussed what else they might do. They had to get the pain under control but they didn't dare return to the site of the previous two operations. They had done palliative surgery the last time and that was it. Still, the pain was intense and Hal was struggling for some answers and relief. They were in a quandry knowing that Hal wouldn't quit and there wasn't much more they could do.
The pain wasn't being controlled by medication and as a last resort the surgeon decided to do a percutaneous gastrostomy . This is the insertion of a tube directly through the skin into the stomach, and the intent was to draw out secretions and gases. There is a bag attached to the tube on the outside. The procedure is done in the X-ray department, so that the medic can see the direction the tube is going. Hal was in terrible pain that night after the procedure and the next day and then during the evening, the pain stopped and it was never unbearable again.
This procedure was done on Monday. By Wednesday he felt cheerful and was able to eat selectively, mostly yoghurt or sherbet. He feared eating anything more solid in case the pain returned.
On Thursday, he developed a temperature and blood infection, which was treated with blood transfusions and plasma.He had only a few days left.
That same Thursday morning after I left for the hospital, Lorrie came to the house and took Hepzabah, our twenty-year old cat, to the veterinarian to be euthanized. Hal didn't ask about her even though we had made the decision together the previous evening. She was deaf, blind and appeared to be in pain and she had been howling all night for weeks.
continued in chapter 14: part 6
Hal was in pain and the doctors thought the bowel might be kinked and inserted a GI tube and took him off food for a couple of days.
In his third week there he woke from a nap gasping for air and the doctors ordered oxygen on an ongoing basis.
Hal always made it clear to the doctors that he wanted to fight on. The doctors stood by his bedside each day and discussed what else they might do. They had to get the pain under control but they didn't dare return to the site of the previous two operations. They had done palliative surgery the last time and that was it. Still, the pain was intense and Hal was struggling for some answers and relief. They were in a quandry knowing that Hal wouldn't quit and there wasn't much more they could do.
The pain wasn't being controlled by medication and as a last resort the surgeon decided to do a percutaneous gastrostomy . This is the insertion of a tube directly through the skin into the stomach, and the intent was to draw out secretions and gases. There is a bag attached to the tube on the outside. The procedure is done in the X-ray department, so that the medic can see the direction the tube is going. Hal was in terrible pain that night after the procedure and the next day and then during the evening, the pain stopped and it was never unbearable again.
This procedure was done on Monday. By Wednesday he felt cheerful and was able to eat selectively, mostly yoghurt or sherbet. He feared eating anything more solid in case the pain returned.
On Thursday, he developed a temperature and blood infection, which was treated with blood transfusions and plasma.He had only a few days left.
That same Thursday morning after I left for the hospital, Lorrie came to the house and took Hepzabah, our twenty-year old cat, to the veterinarian to be euthanized. Hal didn't ask about her even though we had made the decision together the previous evening. She was deaf, blind and appeared to be in pain and she had been howling all night for weeks.
continued in chapter 14: part 6
Thursday, October 4, 2007
chapter 14; part 4
continued from chapter 13: part 3
Hal began his third series of chemo early in June and the morphine he was now taking sometimes left him with double vision. I took him to the hospital emergency a week later when his foot swelled and he had trouble walking. The emergency room doctor said nodes were pressing on the pelvic wall and he found signs of lumps in Hal's neck. He sent Hal home but urged me to take him to the adjacent cancer hospital as soon as possible so his doctor could see him. I did and the doctor-of-the-day at the clinic discounted the findings of the emergency doctor and declared the foot problem not serious and sent him home.
Two weeks later he was admitted to the cancer hospital diagnosed with deep vein thrombosis and both legs were now grossly swollen. He was treated with blood thinners and discharged a week later.
Two weeks after that, in mid July, he was admitted to the general hospital through emergency, suffering vomiting and severe pain. There were signs of a partial blockage and doctors felt another operation would be too dangerous and they tried other methods. He was taken off food for a few days and then he slowly started back, on fluids and then solids. He was discharged after four days.
At home, almost immediately we both knew he wasn't progressing and that he was in big trouble. He was weak and vomiting and his poor legs were swollen and uncomfortable.
One morning I dashed downstairs to tidy up the family room and he called to me from the top of the stairs.
"Patsy, can you be with me?"
I ran upstairs and helped him back into bed and cradled him in my arms for hours. While I lay there holding him I remember thinking, this is what a broken heart feels like.
He was readmitted to hospital four days later, on July 25, and he never left after that.
continued in chapter 14: part 5
Hal began his third series of chemo early in June and the morphine he was now taking sometimes left him with double vision. I took him to the hospital emergency a week later when his foot swelled and he had trouble walking. The emergency room doctor said nodes were pressing on the pelvic wall and he found signs of lumps in Hal's neck. He sent Hal home but urged me to take him to the adjacent cancer hospital as soon as possible so his doctor could see him. I did and the doctor-of-the-day at the clinic discounted the findings of the emergency doctor and declared the foot problem not serious and sent him home.
Two weeks later he was admitted to the cancer hospital diagnosed with deep vein thrombosis and both legs were now grossly swollen. He was treated with blood thinners and discharged a week later.
Two weeks after that, in mid July, he was admitted to the general hospital through emergency, suffering vomiting and severe pain. There were signs of a partial blockage and doctors felt another operation would be too dangerous and they tried other methods. He was taken off food for a few days and then he slowly started back, on fluids and then solids. He was discharged after four days.
At home, almost immediately we both knew he wasn't progressing and that he was in big trouble. He was weak and vomiting and his poor legs were swollen and uncomfortable.
One morning I dashed downstairs to tidy up the family room and he called to me from the top of the stairs.
"Patsy, can you be with me?"
I ran upstairs and helped him back into bed and cradled him in my arms for hours. While I lay there holding him I remember thinking, this is what a broken heart feels like.
He was readmitted to hospital four days later, on July 25, and he never left after that.
continued in chapter 14: part 5
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
chapter 14: part 3
continued from chapter 14: part 2
Each day I felt more helpless and confused and finally I arranged a meeting with the oncologist at the hospital and the doctor managed to work me in on what should have been his lunch break. I described what was happening and the man was wonderful.
He winced when I told him that a resident had casually mentioned that the cancer had metastasised further into one lung, that Hal was wearing a binder for the surgically caused hernia and it was uncomfortable and he was exhausted about 80% of the day. There was a burning sensation in his lower abdomen and he felt a constant bloating, "As if something is expanding with no place to go." He was afraid to eat because pain might result.
The doctor heard me out, taking notes as I spoke and then gave me suggestions about making him more comfortable and urged me not to allow him to spend the day in bed because moving around was beneficial.
I took a deep breath and said, "Hal has never wanted to discuss the possibility that he might die of this. But I want to know-how much time has he got?"
"No more than a year."
In my heart I knew his estimate was optimistic because, after the recent by-pass surgery, that little inner voice had clicked on with the message, "Six months." That little voice was right.
I returned home feeling so much better. It may sound peculiar to return from hearing continuing bad news. Instead, I concentrated on the positive things we'd discussed. Hal said I looked much younger when I got home and I immediately set about to get him up on his feet.
A couple of days later I received an extraordinary phone call. A woman asked for Hal and I said he couldn't come to the phone. She explained she was hoping to become a writer and had the material for a book and heard that Hal might be the person to ghost writes it for her. I explained then that Hal was ill with cancer and rather busy dealing with his illness.
"Well, this is such a coincidence, because my book is an expose of the medical profession and my doctor's bungling may have just ensured that I will get cancer some day."
I murmured something non-committal.
Her mind was really clicking by this time and she continued, "Tell me, do you think Hal will die soon?"
Yes, that is what she asked. Could he possibly live long enough to write her terribly important book? I hung up the phone as he walked into the room. I broke into sobs as I repeated the call to him and he held me in his arms and comforted me.
Later Steven told me that when they were speaking on the phone shortly after, Hal told him about the call and cried out of sorrow that I should have to go through that. Imagine, he was crying for me.
continued in chapter 14: part 4
Each day I felt more helpless and confused and finally I arranged a meeting with the oncologist at the hospital and the doctor managed to work me in on what should have been his lunch break. I described what was happening and the man was wonderful.
He winced when I told him that a resident had casually mentioned that the cancer had metastasised further into one lung, that Hal was wearing a binder for the surgically caused hernia and it was uncomfortable and he was exhausted about 80% of the day. There was a burning sensation in his lower abdomen and he felt a constant bloating, "As if something is expanding with no place to go." He was afraid to eat because pain might result.
The doctor heard me out, taking notes as I spoke and then gave me suggestions about making him more comfortable and urged me not to allow him to spend the day in bed because moving around was beneficial.
I took a deep breath and said, "Hal has never wanted to discuss the possibility that he might die of this. But I want to know-how much time has he got?"
"No more than a year."
In my heart I knew his estimate was optimistic because, after the recent by-pass surgery, that little inner voice had clicked on with the message, "Six months." That little voice was right.
I returned home feeling so much better. It may sound peculiar to return from hearing continuing bad news. Instead, I concentrated on the positive things we'd discussed. Hal said I looked much younger when I got home and I immediately set about to get him up on his feet.
A couple of days later I received an extraordinary phone call. A woman asked for Hal and I said he couldn't come to the phone. She explained she was hoping to become a writer and had the material for a book and heard that Hal might be the person to ghost writes it for her. I explained then that Hal was ill with cancer and rather busy dealing with his illness.
"Well, this is such a coincidence, because my book is an expose of the medical profession and my doctor's bungling may have just ensured that I will get cancer some day."
I murmured something non-committal.
Her mind was really clicking by this time and she continued, "Tell me, do you think Hal will die soon?"
Yes, that is what she asked. Could he possibly live long enough to write her terribly important book? I hung up the phone as he walked into the room. I broke into sobs as I repeated the call to him and he held me in his arms and comforted me.
Later Steven told me that when they were speaking on the phone shortly after, Hal told him about the call and cried out of sorrow that I should have to go through that. Imagine, he was crying for me.
continued in chapter 14: part 4
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
chapter 14: part 2
continued from Chapter 14: part 1
I had read that couples benefit from sharing the dying stage, and was open to talk with Hal always. But no matter what, he evaded the subject. I wasn't alone. Of the four women I spoke to after our husbands had died, each one had the same experience. Our men refused to discuss the fact that they were dying.
Rachael said that Evan had been raised to treat everything in a positive manner and to him dying was a negative. When she raised the subject he'd cut her off with,
“What do you mean, I'm not dead yet. You're not supposed to think like that."
Ever since early summer, Hal's eyes contained a heartbreaking sadness. They seemed to be looking somewhere I couldn't follow; they were seeing something much deeper than I could see.
There had been many changes since Christmas. He suffered pain which was controlled at first by codeine, then later by morphine. He got frequent chills. In February he began a round of chemotherapy; daily fifteen minute injections for five days. There was to be a follow up in a month's time, but then his operation site was blocked again and instead he had palliative surgery to by-pass the site. The doctor told me he could feel a mass but didn't dare touch it.
He began a second round of chemo about four weeks later. By then, late April, he had been in almost constant discomfort, his abdomen made loud squeaking sounds and he vomited frequently, often three times a day. My objectivity was taking a nose-dive, because it was clearly the time to discontinue the debilitating and useless chemotherapy. What option did the doctors have? Hal kept insisting that he wanted to fight on and unless I stepped in, what could they do?
In May, I took him to Doctor Beam the surgeon, because I noticed a pink rash-like stain on his abdomen. It was a cyst at the surgical site and it had to be lanced and drained with follow- up at home for a week, with visiting nurses.
After that cleared, he started hiccuping violently, lasting for days, up to ten minutes at a time and ten minutes apart, requiring strong medication to stop that. He was exhausted.
continued in chapter 14; part 3
I had read that couples benefit from sharing the dying stage, and was open to talk with Hal always. But no matter what, he evaded the subject. I wasn't alone. Of the four women I spoke to after our husbands had died, each one had the same experience. Our men refused to discuss the fact that they were dying.
Rachael said that Evan had been raised to treat everything in a positive manner and to him dying was a negative. When she raised the subject he'd cut her off with,
“What do you mean, I'm not dead yet. You're not supposed to think like that."
Ever since early summer, Hal's eyes contained a heartbreaking sadness. They seemed to be looking somewhere I couldn't follow; they were seeing something much deeper than I could see.
There had been many changes since Christmas. He suffered pain which was controlled at first by codeine, then later by morphine. He got frequent chills. In February he began a round of chemotherapy; daily fifteen minute injections for five days. There was to be a follow up in a month's time, but then his operation site was blocked again and instead he had palliative surgery to by-pass the site. The doctor told me he could feel a mass but didn't dare touch it.
He began a second round of chemo about four weeks later. By then, late April, he had been in almost constant discomfort, his abdomen made loud squeaking sounds and he vomited frequently, often three times a day. My objectivity was taking a nose-dive, because it was clearly the time to discontinue the debilitating and useless chemotherapy. What option did the doctors have? Hal kept insisting that he wanted to fight on and unless I stepped in, what could they do?
In May, I took him to Doctor Beam the surgeon, because I noticed a pink rash-like stain on his abdomen. It was a cyst at the surgical site and it had to be lanced and drained with follow- up at home for a week, with visiting nurses.
After that cleared, he started hiccuping violently, lasting for days, up to ten minutes at a time and ten minutes apart, requiring strong medication to stop that. He was exhausted.
continued in chapter 14; part 3
Monday, October 1, 2007
chapter 14 part 1 Winding Down
continued from chapter 13:part5
Excerpt from my diary: June
He’s slowly slipping away from me. He’s so brave and so thin. His smile stretches over his teeth, much like a skull.
Before the last (third) series of chemo three weeks ago, the doctor said there was a significant shrinkage of tumors and was so pleased. That was the same week Hal had to switch to morphine to control the pain.
I panic at the very thought of living without him, but in a sense, that is already happening.
We have some joyful moments, but he is so weak. We did manage a walk to the plaza a couple of days ago and that was a triumph. I had to dash into a store to buy some apple juice—he gets parched, presumably from the drugs. He also wakes up at night drenched with sweat and then he begins shivering.
He weighs 137 pounds now, down from the high 170's.
it's hard to believe I will ever feel lightness or joy again.
It's impossible to separate life from death; one flows from the other in an unbroken chain. I had never seen anyone I loved die and didn't know how to begin dealing with this incredible experience.
Yes, I knew Hal was dying; deep inside, I had known for several months. I was confused about what death meant, or what it entailed. When he was clearly terminal, I simply did not know what to expect or how to behave.
I'd heard tales of deathbed vigils lasting several days and I assumed that Hal would be lying quietly in his bed, surrounded by those of us who loved him so much. Then he would just peacefully fade. I took it for granted that I would know what to do and when to begin doing it.
I was wrong.
I really needed my imaginary interventionist to tap open the computer to check his files and say,
"Oh, yes, Hal; well, he is dying now because his body shows signs of thus and so. What you should consider is who you want to be with him, such as family and possibly some friends.
Then you begin to alert them so that someone is with him throughout the day and night. Think of it as taking shifts. You're confused because he is often so alert and speaks with you as though it's an ordinary time. But make your arrangements and if he refuses to discuss his imminent death then you'd better take pains not to make it look like a deathbed vigil."
That's what it would have taken to get my brain into gear.
continued in chapter 14; part 2
Excerpt from my diary: June
He’s slowly slipping away from me. He’s so brave and so thin. His smile stretches over his teeth, much like a skull.
Before the last (third) series of chemo three weeks ago, the doctor said there was a significant shrinkage of tumors and was so pleased. That was the same week Hal had to switch to morphine to control the pain.
I panic at the very thought of living without him, but in a sense, that is already happening.
We have some joyful moments, but he is so weak. We did manage a walk to the plaza a couple of days ago and that was a triumph. I had to dash into a store to buy some apple juice—he gets parched, presumably from the drugs. He also wakes up at night drenched with sweat and then he begins shivering.
He weighs 137 pounds now, down from the high 170's.
it's hard to believe I will ever feel lightness or joy again.
It's impossible to separate life from death; one flows from the other in an unbroken chain. I had never seen anyone I loved die and didn't know how to begin dealing with this incredible experience.
Yes, I knew Hal was dying; deep inside, I had known for several months. I was confused about what death meant, or what it entailed. When he was clearly terminal, I simply did not know what to expect or how to behave.
I'd heard tales of deathbed vigils lasting several days and I assumed that Hal would be lying quietly in his bed, surrounded by those of us who loved him so much. Then he would just peacefully fade. I took it for granted that I would know what to do and when to begin doing it.
I was wrong.
I really needed my imaginary interventionist to tap open the computer to check his files and say,
"Oh, yes, Hal; well, he is dying now because his body shows signs of thus and so. What you should consider is who you want to be with him, such as family and possibly some friends.
Then you begin to alert them so that someone is with him throughout the day and night. Think of it as taking shifts. You're confused because he is often so alert and speaks with you as though it's an ordinary time. But make your arrangements and if he refuses to discuss his imminent death then you'd better take pains not to make it look like a deathbed vigil."
That's what it would have taken to get my brain into gear.
continued in chapter 14; part 2
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