I debated with myself whether to do this today or not. And I won. And, I guess since it was with myself, I lost too. It remains to be seen if you think I made the right choice or not. Here goes…
Twelve years ago was very likely the worst day of my life. The day Diane died. Now, astute readers may recall me mentioning that that happened back in June. That’s because occasionally, I’m an idiot. The date in June was actually our wedding anniversary, not the anniversary of her death. That faux pas would have cost me big time (rightly so) had I screwed up an anniversary while she was alive.
Three years ago was among the best days of my life as we welcomed the youngest of my five grandkids, the Little Diamond, into the world. I wrote about this a couple years ago, in the aftermath of LD’s first birthday, the emotional turmoil I felt, albeit briefly. We just FaceTimed (a wonderful bit of technology) so I could see her on her actual birthday and I’m heading home for a week, leaving in a few days, but I wanted to see her on her special day. I know Diane would be thrilled with our grandkids. And she would spoil them unrelentingly, and support them unhesitatingly, as any grandma should. But it wasn’t meant to be.
While I have things to say, I chose instead to leave it at this and finish it with an excerpt from what I’ve been working on, this time from Diane’s stay in the hospital. I may close it with pictures, I haven’t decided yet.
I went into Diane’s room, for what felt like the hundredth time since I tried to get some sleep. She had almost constant nursing care due to the fragility of her condition. I don’t remember who was there on the overnight shift. I remember Dani, Manny, Laura, and Missy, but I know there were so many more. The perfusionists too, Paul is the name that sticks in my mind. These people were with her around the clock, working their butts off for all of their patients. I don’t think I could ever express my thanks to them enough.
There wasn’t much I could do except hold her hand and talk softly to her. I know there have been studies done that relate how comatose patients can hear even though they can’t respond. I was banking on that. Talking to Diane about everything I could think of. Telling her how much fun we were going to have with Elliott and our new grandson, just born in April, Damian.
As Saturday morning turned into afternoon, the CCU waiting area started to fill with friends and family. And again, the staff there was incredible. They brought us food, made sure the coffee machine was full, in short just went out of their way (it seemed to me) to make sure we were as comfortable as we could be given the circumstances. And I went back into “shuttle” mode just as I had when Caitlin was in the hospital. I knew I could go in and be with Diane pretty much whenever I wanted, day or night, so I thought I should defer to friends and family that came to visit. And this way Cassi could spend as much time at her Mom’s bedside as she wanted. I shuttled people back-and-forth from the waiting room to Diane’s room. By this time I’d already gotten to be on a first name basis with the nurses caring for her and they did a great job of keeping us informed of her progress.
Or lack of progress. By Saturday evening one of the nurses told me they thought Diane’s kidneys had shut down. She had stopped producing urine. The cardiac surgeon stopped in late Saturday night and we talked, for a while. I told him about our family, about what happened to Caitlin and tried to explain to him how important the relationship between Diane and her daughters was. He told me, in no uncertain terms, the seriousness of Diane’s condition. He said in addition to her kidneys shutting down, her brain didn’t appear to be functioning.
I understood. Whether I had been conscious of it or not, whether I was willing to admit it or not, I could see her deteriorating. I’m sure I wasn’t completely prepared to accept that she wasn’t improving. And yet, I distinctly remember telling her; when we were alone, after I spoke to the doctor, that I got it. That I knew she loved all of us. And that I knew, more than anything, that she missed Caitlin.
So, yeah, I understood. But I needed the doctor to understand too. And I told him, how important it was to me that Cassi knew we did everything possible for Diane. She’d already lost her only sister. I needed her to know that everything that could possibly be done for her Mother was going to be done. And he agreed. He scheduled a consultation with a neurologist for the morning.
The kids were waiting for me in the family waiting room that we had commandeered. They knew I was speaking with the surgeon. So I told them what the plan was. The neurologist was coming in at 9:00 in the morning to examine Diane.
We all settled in for the night. I went back out to the main waiting area, ironically enough for privacy. Actually, since it was well after hours I had it all to myself. I settled in to my lounge chair and started reading “Marley and Me” again. I was getting close to the end, I knew I wouldn’t be sleeping much tonight so I figured I could finish the book by morning. I really enjoyed it to this point. As I said, there were many similarities between Marley and our pup Sophie. But the more I read, the closer to the end of the book I got, the more obvious it was to me how it was going to end. I had to put the book down. I just felt like I was certain Marley was getting to a point where I didn’t think he wasn’t going to be around at the end of the book. And I had to stop reading. I was getting too emotional to finish it. Too many parallels between the book and what we were going through with Diane. I put the book down and haven’t picked it up since. It’s at home, somewhere. Maybe on the shelf in her closet, I’m not sure. I still haven’t seen the movie either. And I won’t. I mean, I heard it was well done; I just don’t have any desire to re-live that night. I’m afraid that movie will do just that.
So I paced. And I went in to sit with Diane. I talked to her. I talked to God. I cried. A lot. It was my time for it. The kids weren’t there; I didn’t have to put up a front of being strong, so I could let my emotions go where they would. I knew there were huge differences in Diane’s condition. In addition to what the doctor and I talked about, I could see the physical changes in her appearance.
And I noticed that instead of two nurses, like she’d had Friday overnight, there was only one.
I was up before the sun again on Sunday morning; actually it was well before the sun. I know I slept a little, but Saturday night into Sunday morning was a repeat of the previous night. I finally got up for good, rolled up the blanket I had used, went into the back and got a cup of coffee. Ryan joined me outside the entrance to the CCU a little after 6:00 AM. As we sat there, making idle chit-chat, Dr. V, Diane’s cardiac surgeon, came in to do his rounds. He was carrying a couple boxes of doughnuts for the staff. I made a joke about him drumming up business. He laughed and said he liked to do little things like this for the nursing staff since they all worked so hard to make the doctors look good. I thought it was a pretty stand up move for someone that didn’t need to do it.
Around 9:00 AM the neurologist came in for a consult. We left Diane’s room so she could be examined. A little while later the neurologist came out to talk to me. She said she didn’t see any evidence of brain activity. She said she couldn’t say Diane was “brain-dead” (a phrase I’ve grown to despise as you might imagine) because she had to do two distinct tests, separated by time.
The rest of Sunday is kind of a blur. There were many visitors; family members, and friends, trying their best to keep our spirits up. I think we probably put up a good front, at least I’d like to think we did, but I’m not sure we pulled it off entirely. I remember being in shuttle mode again several times over the course of the day. I also remember thinking how noticeable the changes were now in Diane’s appearance. Her face was starting to retain fluid, she looked puffy.
When I had some time alone with her, I leaned in close and whispered to her, “It’s ok honey, I understand. I love you and I’ll miss you forever, but I know you need to be with Caitlin again. It’s ok.” I had that “conversation” with her several times over the next 18 hours or so.
It’s funny, as I’d looked at the weather forecast for the weekend; I thought Sunday afternoon would’ve been a good time to bring Sophie to visit Diane. We could’ve sat in the outdoor courtyard right outside the Cardiac Care Unit and Diane could’ve showed off Sophie to everyone and anyone that showed an interest. She was really pleased with what she accomplished with Sophie through their training. She loved socializing Sophie around as many people as she could. And Sophie ate up the attention. But now, with the way things had turned, bringing the dog over was the last thing on my mind.
As Sunday at the Cardiac Care Center progressed, we saw many people from across all of our various phases of life. Family, both hers and mine, coworkers from jobs both current and past, and so many friends. Once again, I was in shuttle mode between Diane’s bedside and one or the other of the waiting rooms. And, once again, the staff was doing their best to make things as pleasant for us as they possibly could. But as the day wore on, Diane’s condition spiraled down. The kids did their best to take host pressures off of me, and it helped. But we were all in the middle of the juggling act of keeping our best appearances up for the visitors while trying to get our heads wrapped around what was happening before our eyes.
This is an easy picture to post, from one of our best days after Caitlin was killed. The Quiet Child’s wedding reception held in our back yard.
Obviously we had no clue what the future would bring, but this day, in particular, helped remind us that life still provided us with some good days. And that, among those good days, you sometimes get visited by butterflies…
Peace
So sad and so sweet at the same time.