| By Michelle A. Mead-Armor
On Wednesday, August 11th, John went
in to have surgery for colon cancer. He had a wonderful, talented doctor,
and a highly skilled medical team. It was going to be a tricky operation,
but we had high hopes.
John was in surgery for longer than
expected and in recovery for many hours. I’d been up since 5:00 that morning,
so I was exhausted. At 7:30pm, I went to the hotel. John hadn’t come out
of post-op yet.
The next few days were tough for John.
He was in a great deal of pain. The pain killers made him nauseous, so
he tried to do without them whenever possible. They had to put a tube down
his nose to clear things out. He was reduced to eating ice chips for almost
a week.
The first day, he couldn’t get out of
bed; the second, it took two nurses to hold him up while he struggled with
his walker to make it out the door of his room, across the hall and back
again. His back was hunched; he could barely stand up. The third day, he
walked with strength and assurance. When he got to the end of the wall,
he even clogged a bit. He insisted on wearing his broad-rimmed summer hat.
With the long hair, it made him look Amish.
The days were filled with minor victories,
which took on major proportions. The catheter came out – hallelujah!
On every trip past the nurses’ station,
John would beg for strawberry ice cream. Finally, the day came when the
tube came out of his nose. He got his strawberry ice cream, and later on,
a single scoop of mashed potatoes. John ate them as if they were prime
rib.
The days ran in together, hour after
hour. I would arrive at 9 or 10, and stay until 7 or 8. Not always a patient
patient, John would ask for ice chips or tissues or his urinal. I was part
wife, part nurse. It was often tiring work, and I marveled at the skill
and dedication of the medical staff who attended to him with humor, kindness,
and efficiency.
Sometimes John was cranky, sometimes
almost mute with pain and discomfort. The nurses and I would plead for
him to take more pain meds, if only to get him a decent night’s sleep.
He fought us on many things. He was rude one day, charming the next. I
never knew when I walked in the door in the morning, which John I would
find.
Slowly, he began to improve, even recovering
his sense of humor. Friends came to visit; three lovely gentlemen from
our church brought him communion.
The day before my birthday, hospital
staffers saw I was very down and depressed. We’d hoped to be back in Highlands
by then, and the thought of turning 60 in a hospital and hotel room was
a grim one. One lady, Jackie, volunteered to come to the hotel, pick up
my laundry, and do it for me. She returned it the next day with a card,
and two gifts.
Cheryl in the cafeteria saw to it that
they baked me a huge birthday cake - chocolate. Several ladies got me cards,
flowers, and balloons. Cheryl made me a lovely pendant and matching earrings.
The folks in the cafeteria – mostly a group of strangers – joined in the
spirit of the day, and sang me “Happy Birthday” with gusto. John was overjoyed
and overwhelmed by such an enormous outpouring of caring consideration,
and touched that people would go out of their way to take care of his wife.
Finally, it looked like things were
really making a change for the better. John was walking well, eating a
few soft foods – we made plans for bringing him back to Highlands. And
then, things started getting a bit strange. John became moody, fretful.
The pain was back big time, and he dreaded the nausea that made him gag,
and pulled on his stitches. Reluctantly, I left him to go back to the hotel,
vowing to put my alarm on early.
On Friday morning, I was just about
to get into the shower when the call came. John had taken a turn for the
worse. Could I be in the hotel parking lot in 5 minutes? I jumped into
my clothes from the night before, grabbed my knapsack, my handbag, and
the carrier bag with all of John’s medical records. A van from Mission
Memorial was waiting in the parking lot, motor running. Michelle, a nurse
who had first taken care of John, was in the back seat to keep me company.
We rushed to the hospital, through the lobby, and into the elevator.
When we arrived at the 9th floor, I
saw the crowd of doctors and nurses standing around, looking dejected.
“Tell me the truth,” I begged. “Is he dead?” His surgeon looked at me,
and I knew. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. I don’t know how it happened.
We did everything to save him.”
The theory was that John had aspirated
some fluid, and his heart had stopped. Upon hearing the heart monitor beeping,
the medical staff rushed in, and did everything they could to save him.
Unfortunately, their best efforts failed. John died around 7:30am on Friday,
August 20th.
I refused an autopsy. Why put his poor
tired body through any more? John was still warm and pink. His hair had
been washed the day before; he’d insisted on shaving himself, too. His
face was handsome and peaceful, as if all the pain he’d gone through was
a distant memory. I pulled up a chair, and stroked his arm. On the suggestion
of my dear friend, Jill, we put lotion on his fingers, and pulled off his
Gilman School ring, and the wedding band I’d been so proud to put on his
finger barely two years ago.
Hospital staff came and went in a sad
ballet – all kindness and loving concern. Friends started arriving from
Highlands. Clergy members appeared, prepared to comfort and support me.
“Do you want to be alone with him?” people would ask, and I’d spent my
time holding his hand, and lean over and scoop him up in a huge bear hug,
just like the ones he was so famous for giving. I could almost swear he
hugged me back.
They didn’t need the room yet, so we
held on until my step-daughter, Karen, could drive in from Raleigh. John’s
daughter from Baltimore and son from York, PA would fly in the next day.
We talked, we hugged, we cried.
Eventually, Stanley came from the funeral
home, and prepared John, placing a beautiful blue quilt all around him.
We walked to the service elevator, a sad parade of shocked and grieving
people. At the elevator, I pulled down the quilt, and gave one last kiss
to the Love of My Life, my sweet Babboo. |