Dec 26: Martha update
Martha was barely conscious throughout Christmas, some change in expressions when we would talk to her, mostly unresponsive. The nurses come in every 2-3 hours to change her. I feel so humiliated for her, having to have such basic things done. They pull off the sheets, remove her diaper (an inelegant chux with tape), expose her privates, clean her, put on another diaper, put the pillows under her to prevent bed sores then cover her up again. They are wonderful nurses: caring, always talking to her, concerned for her comfort. A woman with a master's degrees, held public office and was supervisor of her township, energetic, willful, organized to the nth degree, and none of those things change the indignity of the situation.
John had decided to spend Christmas overnight with her; Fernando, Lyle, Emma and I were going back to the house. But just as we were ready to leave her temperature spiked to 104. This is one of the signs that the body is shutting down, not an infection, but the body's cells just going haywire. That in combination with 12/25 almost being over gave a clear indication that she might be ready to let go--she had met yet another goal of living through Christmas.
John asked me to talk with both the kids, tell them the above, give them both the option of staying. But then I added that, quite frankly, my opinion was they had seen enough already. They came to their conclusions separately, and left with Fernando. There was no way I was leaving John alone, so I stayed with him. He is prepared, he is hoping for her to be released from her pain and suffering, but he doesn't realize that the time of death is still going to be terrifically emotional, because of the finality.
On December 26th at 12:01 am I went to Martha's bedside and told her that it wasn't Christmas any longer. John shot me a look, and I knew what he wanted me to do. We have discussed this before, and he wants her to know that it's OK for her to let go, OK for her to die and be released. And yet he can't do it himself, he can't tell his wife to die. Who can blame him? The tenderness he displays with her, constantly, is just wrenching to watch. The way he caresses her face, wipes it with a cool cloth, holds her hand, dips a moist sponge and wets her lips. It makes me cry to watch him. So few of us have ever experienced a love that deep. Why does one of the few truly loving marriages have to end like this? Why does he have to watch the love of his life suffer, whither away, groan in pain when moved, lie there with her face slack and her mouth hanging open?
John left the room, I sat next to Martha and stroked her burning face. I told her how much John loved her, what great children she had raised, how much she had helped her brothers, how she had taken care of one of her nephews when her brother got into a bad spot, which allowed him to pull himself together and become a great Dad. I told her what an incredible legacy she was leaving, how many people she had affected, how the world was better for her having been here. A single tear ran down her left cheek, confirming that she heard and understood me, but making it very difficult to not start crying. I told her that we loved her, but knew she was suffering. And that it was OK to let go, it was OK to leave us. John returned to the room while I left, breaking down in the hallway at the unfairness of it all.
She hasn't let go, however. I don't know why. How can anyone know what is inside her right now? As John said, she's always done things her own way in her own time, and her dying will be on her timetable as well.
So I'm back home. I wanted to stay, wanted to be there for John and the kids at the end, wanted to see it through. But life goes on, I have commitments tomorrow and have to work all four days next week because of other's vacation schedules. Fernando is still there, John's sister arrived from New Zealand (where she's lived for 20 years) a few hours after I left, and I'm only a phone call away for suggestions or support. But it's not the same as being there.
Right now I desperately need a full night's sleep, since last night at the hospital was less than restful. I also very much want to go to Fellowship tomorrow, to be renewed and surrounded by the love and support of people I care about. That, to me, is spiritual.
More later, thanks for checking, Laurie
John had decided to spend Christmas overnight with her; Fernando, Lyle, Emma and I were going back to the house. But just as we were ready to leave her temperature spiked to 104. This is one of the signs that the body is shutting down, not an infection, but the body's cells just going haywire. That in combination with 12/25 almost being over gave a clear indication that she might be ready to let go--she had met yet another goal of living through Christmas.
John asked me to talk with both the kids, tell them the above, give them both the option of staying. But then I added that, quite frankly, my opinion was they had seen enough already. They came to their conclusions separately, and left with Fernando. There was no way I was leaving John alone, so I stayed with him. He is prepared, he is hoping for her to be released from her pain and suffering, but he doesn't realize that the time of death is still going to be terrifically emotional, because of the finality.
On December 26th at 12:01 am I went to Martha's bedside and told her that it wasn't Christmas any longer. John shot me a look, and I knew what he wanted me to do. We have discussed this before, and he wants her to know that it's OK for her to let go, OK for her to die and be released. And yet he can't do it himself, he can't tell his wife to die. Who can blame him? The tenderness he displays with her, constantly, is just wrenching to watch. The way he caresses her face, wipes it with a cool cloth, holds her hand, dips a moist sponge and wets her lips. It makes me cry to watch him. So few of us have ever experienced a love that deep. Why does one of the few truly loving marriages have to end like this? Why does he have to watch the love of his life suffer, whither away, groan in pain when moved, lie there with her face slack and her mouth hanging open?
John left the room, I sat next to Martha and stroked her burning face. I told her how much John loved her, what great children she had raised, how much she had helped her brothers, how she had taken care of one of her nephews when her brother got into a bad spot, which allowed him to pull himself together and become a great Dad. I told her what an incredible legacy she was leaving, how many people she had affected, how the world was better for her having been here. A single tear ran down her left cheek, confirming that she heard and understood me, but making it very difficult to not start crying. I told her that we loved her, but knew she was suffering. And that it was OK to let go, it was OK to leave us. John returned to the room while I left, breaking down in the hallway at the unfairness of it all.
She hasn't let go, however. I don't know why. How can anyone know what is inside her right now? As John said, she's always done things her own way in her own time, and her dying will be on her timetable as well.
So I'm back home. I wanted to stay, wanted to be there for John and the kids at the end, wanted to see it through. But life goes on, I have commitments tomorrow and have to work all four days next week because of other's vacation schedules. Fernando is still there, John's sister arrived from New Zealand (where she's lived for 20 years) a few hours after I left, and I'm only a phone call away for suggestions or support. But it's not the same as being there.
Right now I desperately need a full night's sleep, since last night at the hospital was less than restful. I also very much want to go to Fellowship tomorrow, to be renewed and surrounded by the love and support of people I care about. That, to me, is spiritual.
More later, thanks for checking, Laurie
posted by Laurie @ 10:05 PM
2 Comments:
At 12:13 AM,
Anonymous said…
Laurie,
This is such a sad event for what appears to be a wonderful woman and family.
They and you are in my thoughts throughout every day.
May she leave this earth in peace knowing she is so loved, and that she has such a great friend in you, helping her and her family understand this sad process. You are a great friend and an incredible woman Laurie.
Deneen
At 2:28 PM,
Unknown said…
Laurie,
You are amazing.
Tom
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