One day recently, I met with Jill and her husband, plus a member from their church who was visiting her. According to the patient list she was 40-something, so I was surprised to hear that her admit diagnosis was a mild stroke. It really shouldn’t have surprised me, because though it’s highly unusual to see stroke victims this young, it DOES happen. About two months ago, I had a 36-year-old man as a patient in one of my units for five days following a stroke that rendered him unable to speak. It shocked me; even more shocking – downright scary, in fact – was the talk I had with his nurse prior to my visit. His nurse told me that he had no medical history that provided any evidence that this would have occurred. It simply happened. When I tried to communicate with him, it was clear that he understood me; he simply was unable to form words to respond. I asked a few questions and he grunted in reply. When I said something about what a shock this must have been, he became very animated and his grunts increased in both volume and intensity. I met with his brother and his father, both of whom had a very strong faith that things would get better, though the road was going to be difficult. Unfortunately, I did not get a second chance to meet with him, as he was transferred to a rehab facility before I could.
I didn't get a second chance to meet with Jill, either, only in this case, there was no rehab facility. I met with Jill on a Tuesday afternoon; Friday morning when I showed up to work, I was the on-call chaplain for the morning. As is my habit, I checked our log book from the night before to see what had occurred. We record routine calls in black ink, and deaths in red ink. Imagine my shock when I saw Jill’s name, written in red, by the night chaplain. It seems she coded (that’s medical speak for reaching code blue status, meaning imminent death) and the team was unable to revive her. Death is always difficult for me, but it’s especially tough when it’s someone close to my own age. It takes me back to my high school days; I think about my graduating class – 1983 – and wonder what they’re doing now, but it’s tough to imagine them outside my adolescent memories. They remain frozen in time, like a dream I once had. I don’t see them as adults, parents, or (God forbid – we’re not THAT old!!) grandparents, with expanding waistlines and graying hair. I’m thinking that maybe it’s our way of comforting ourselves over our own mortality, this inability to see ourselves as part of the aging process. The drawback to this mindset is that it’s that much harder when death slaps you in the face.
I met another member of the class of ’83 this week; during an illness, Nancy accidentally ingested too much medication, which caused irreparable damage to her major organs. She died this morning, while I was speaking with her husband in the consultation room. It was the second marriage for both of them; he’s got an adolescent daughter, while she has a son in college. According to her husband, this relationship “seemed too good to be true”….he’d finally found his soul mate after 40 years of searching, and they had four precious years together. His family was unable to come here to grieve with him, due to the terrible weather systems over much of the country, so the best he could do was make phone call after phone call to his contacts. To every person, when asked how things were going, he said, “Not so good….we lost her.” He paced the room like a caged tiger, unable to sit but unable to stand. His hands shook every time he dialed numbers. As a chaplain, sometimes I offer to take care of these things for family – make phone calls, alert people, etc., - but it seemed to give Nancy’s husband a sense of purpose to have something to do, so I let him be. I mentioned prayer only once, but like so many members of my generation, he didn’t quite seem to understand why we would pray when she had already died. What was the point? His answer stunned me into silence, though I did pray for him and his family later. When I finally asked if he’d like to go see her again, he asked me, with the tone of a little boy, if I would go with him. He wasn’t sure he could go in to her room at all, much less alone. I escorted him back down the hall to her room, where her body lay in state with a breathing tube still attached. The thoughtful nurse quickly grabbed a chair so he could sit, since his legs seemed about to buckle. He reached out and touched her cold, dead hand, which was already losing color and stiffening with rigor mortis. Then he put his head down on her chest and sobbed to me, “Tell me it’s not so.”
I can’t write this without crying myself. Death at any age is tough enough, but at my age, it’s simply incomprehensible. Furthermore, he had no chance to prepare himself. She was fine on Thursday afternoon, and by Saturday midday she was dead. While I sat with him in that consultation room, listening to phone call after phone call to people who couldn’t be here, I thought of Liam Neeson and what he must going through. Thinking of the support he must have received from family, friends and countless fans, I drew on that when I spoke with Nancy’s husband. Unfortunately, she has only two family members: her ex-husband and her son. Her current husband’s only wish was that they get here before she died. Sadly, her heart stopped while they were still at the airport, 30 minutes from here. His own family was still trying to find flights to New Orleans, and because this death was not due to natural causes, I had to leave him after a while to make phone calls to the coroner’s office and complete paperwork. I so hated that, but there was nothing else to be done. I’m not Jesus, so I can’t say to Nancy, “Talitha Cum!”, as he did to the little girl who had died. What I can do is urge all who read this to take the time today to let your loved ones know how much you care. Yes, it’s a tired old saw, and we’ve all heard that you never know how much time you have. But let’s face it: whether we’re 44 or 84, we always see ourselves as having another day to say those things we want to be said. But there are no promises in this life beyond the one that God loves us. You never know when that moment will happen to you, so let today be “another day” for you.
