Till Death Do Us Part

"Police, fire, or ambulance?"

"Ambulance"

It is Monday afternoon and I walked through the door only to find you bleeding so profusely that blood is coming out of both your nose and mouth. It clogs your cannula making it impossible for you to get the oxygen you so desperately need. I quickly find a touch free cannula I special ordered to prevent sores in your nose. As you gasp for air at least there is a chance of some oxygen getting into your weak lungs.

"It is just a nosebleed but considering his history we will keep him overnight."

Luckily, a doctor who knows you is on and decides for a hospital stay. Others would have just sent you home. Back at home I find your pajamas, your favorite hair brush that does not hurt the fine skin on your head, your toothbrush, your Bible, and other essentials. The hospital bag we have just for these occasions is waiting for me at the door. Part of our regular hospital routine. The dogs anxiously ask for their dinner and whine at the door for a potty trip.

"We are moving your husband to the ICU, he started bleeding again and we are waiting for a surgeon to cauterize the vein."

"I will be right there."

My car's engine must be wondering why it suddenly feels like Indianapolis 500.

"Am I dying?"

"Of course you are not dying. This is just a nose bleed. I would never tell you that if it was not true. You know I never lie to you!"

"Thank you for being my wife. You were the best wife I could have ever had!"

I laugh nervously as my husband thanks every single person around his hospital bed for taking care of him and brush it off as an effect of one hundred percent oxygen.

"Before you cauterize the vein can you give him a little bit of Ativan?"

I know that he is not able to go through this without some sort of a sedative.

"Have you been in the military?" My husband anxiously asks a young male nurse who is taking care of him.

"No, I haven't."

"I order you to serve the Lord!" Sitting up hysterically in his bed he leans back and drifts off to sleep as he is administered minimum dosage of Ativan.

The phone rings. I am trying to get my thoughts together. Woken up in the middle of the night after two hours of sleep I am trying to make out what is happening.

"We need to intubate..."

"If you intubate he will be on a ventilator for the rest of his life."

"If we do not intubate your husband will die!"

"Go ahead and intubate. I will be there is ten minutes."

I arrive right after the doctor leaves. One hundred percent oxygen and a high CO2 level. The nurse tries to tell me everything is looking well. Unfortunately, being married to someone with a pulmonary condition I have learned a lot over the years. I wish I did not know what those numbers mean.

"You need to go to sleep. There is nothing you can do here."

The nurse is right. It is 3am.

I am back at the hospital on Tuesday morning. By Tuesday afternoon exhaustion sets in.

"Do you know what is happening?"

"Yes, he is on hundred percent oxygen, his O2 is eighty and his CO2 level is over a hundred. He is dying."

"How long do you want to keep him alive?"

I just handed the nurse your living will. No heroic measures to prolong your life. The truth is, your whole life has been a heroic measure!

"Till Thursday when my parents arrive so that they can see him one more time." The nurse thinks that that is reasonable.

Wednesday I am lucky enough to catch the doctor as he is making his rounds.

"He has a kidney failure. When he gets better…"

"He is not getting better, this is it! We are done! He does not have enough strength to pull through a kidney failure!" Startled by my perception of reality the doctor is trying to keep his composure. He has seen you make it a million times.

"I guess you are right. Yes. You are ahead of me. You are right."

I call all of your friends to come and see you one more time.

"It is OK if you want to go. I will be OK. I will make it!"

I don't know if you can hear me. You went into a coma yesterday. I need to say these words for myself. I need you to know that you don't have to suffer anymore and that you don't have to worry about me.

Thursday morning comes around. First I wish I never came. Then I realize I need to see you lifeless with your oxygen hovering around sixty. I am the one who decides when you get disconnected from life support. I could never do that without knowing there were absolutely no chances of you making it. What an evil honor for a wife! Every now and then the monitor shows only stars. Did it just happen?!? Did you just die?!? As you fought misery all your life you fight death even now. The numbers come back every time.

"You should go home and rest. There is nothing you can do here." I know the nurse is right. I have to pick up my parents at the airport later in the afternoon.

"My parents did not arrive on this flight. My husband is in the ICU waiting to be disconnected from life support. Can you please tell me what happened to my parents?" I am pleading with the immigration officer.

"I am not supposed to tell you but considering the circumstances I will make an exception… Your parents were not on this flight. Call the airline and see what happened."

"The flight from Prague was late to Amsterdam and your parents were rerouted to Chicago. They will be arriving to Boston at midnight." I cannot believe my ears. My coworker and friend is giving me a ride. I don't have the strength to drive. I have to be back at the airport at midnight. I place a call to the ICU.

"Please disconnect my husband from life support. My parents did not arrive. No, I do not want to be there." I do not want to see you die. I have seen enough. There have been one too many near death experiences you and I have been through. I do not want to live with the horrid memory of your dead body in the cold, rigid, impersonal intensive care unit. Fifteen minutes later I get a phone call from my father-in-law.

"He just passed away," As difficult as it is I am thankful for the news. You did not struggle and that makes it so much easier on me! The grayish black skyline of Boston behind me witnesses the sun softly set both on me and on your life.

"You are worried that he will die. He will live because now he has you!" An advice given to me as a newlywed. You made it thirteen and a half years. Much longer than anyone thought you would. Good and bad. Very good and very bad. Happiness and pain. Real happiness and a lot of very real pain. For better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death did us part.

I gave it all I could. One day I will see you in heaven.

Rest in peace.

June 2011