Weave a New Net
Death is a Dialogue between
The Spirit and the Dust.
“Dissolve” says Death – The Spirit “Sir
I have another Trust” -
Death doubts it – Argues from the Ground -
The Spirit turns away
Just laying off for evidence
An Overcoat of Clay.
Emily Dickinson
January 3, 2001 my wife paged me. Nan was rushed to the hospital. I met my family in the emergency room.
An old friend of mine, Tommy Giles, was her emergency room physician. At first he thought it was “atypical” chest pain. Non-cardiac. Whew.
Further workup revealed that it was indeed a heart attack. “But a small one,” he said. Nan was admitted into the Intensive Care Unit.
I stayed with her until 12:30 AM. She was awake, alert, oriented and in pretty good spirits. I went home and slept well.
Aunt Shirley called at 6:30 AM. Nan’s heart attack had “extended” – worsened. At 3:30 that morning, she was put on a ventilator.
Nan NEVER would have wanted to be put on a vent.
Shortly after Pop died, Nan asked me, “Why didn’t you take me out in the field and shoot me like I asked you?”
“Two reasons, Nan. One, you never asked. Two, you know I wouldn’t have done it.
Nan was the last of her generation. She outlived Pop, her 11 brothers and sisters, and all their spouses and all their friends. She was worn-out and done.
We never thought to ask for a “Do Not Resuscitate/Do Not Intubate Order.” Too late. Too late.
Dr. Azanza had been Nan’s doctor for at least thirty years. I was there when came into her room for the first time since her heart attack. He pointed at the ventilator. “What’s this? She didn’t want that.”
There were tears in his eyes. We talked. He did his doctor thing – listened to her lungs, looked at the monitor – and then he sat in the chair next to her and quietly cried. He excused himself to go look at her chart.
He had been off-duty the previous night. Another doctor had covered him. Like us, he never expected what he saw.
He ordered medications to keep her partially sedated and pain-free. Generous orders.
The consensus was that we’d give Nan twenty-four hours on the ventilator and then make a decision. If she miraculously rallied, we’d get aggressive with her treatment. If she didn’t rally, we’d turn off the ventilator.
“Best case scenario,” Doctor Asanza said, “is she becomes bed bound”.
oh. shit. “Nan would NOT go for that. She’d kill us all.”
“I know.” He, like the rest of us, was crying again.
The vigil started. Our family rallied around Nan’s bed. The hospital said they’d let us stay the night if we wanted. But she was in good hands. I trusted her nurse and, again, went home sometime after midnight.
Doctor Asanza would be in the early morning. We’d discuss options.
The option we’d decide would be to take her off the ventilator. “She never wanted to be on it anyway,” we thought.
If she could have gotten her hands on a wooden spoon, she’d have cracked me on the side of the head for letting things go this far.
Sorry, Nan.
The day before we decided not to take Nan off the ventilator. She was taking a few unassisted breaths each minute. There was good volume to those breaths. We’d give her another day on the ventilator to give her some strength.
That extra day surprised everyone – me, Aunt Shirley, Doctor Asanza. My wife, a veteran nurse who has shepherded dozens of people (and families) off life support, made a compelling case to wait.
“I know she didn’t want this but this is where we are. And this is what we have to deal with. Now we have to give her a chance. We owe it to her.” And then, with tears in her eyes, she said, “She’s my Nan too.” I’ll never forget and always love my wife for those words. I get choked up just recalling that moment and those words. My wife is very special.
Nan opened her eyes that day. I was holding her hand. She looked at me.
“Are you in any pain, Nan,” I asked.
She shook her head, “No.” That was a relief.
I thought she might not be alert for very long so, with her eyes still open, I took the opportunity to explain things:
“Nan, I want you to know what’s going on. You’re hooked to a machine that’s helping you breathe. We’re going to start turning it down soon. We want to get the tube out of you. We want you to be able to breathe on your own. Are you okay with that?”
She didn’t shake her head. I think she understood. At the very least, I knew that she wasn’t adamantly opposed to her treatment. And that was a relief too.
“I love you, Nan,” I said.
“We all love you,” echoed Uncle George.
Throughout her hospitalization Nan had short periods of alertness that surprised all of us -doctors, nurses, family.
Instead of “pulling the plug”, the doctors decided to try to gently wean her off the machine. “We’ll see what happens,” they said.
They weaned her over the course of the day and decided to turn the machine off and take the tube out.
My family and I were prepared ourselves. We just want her comfortable. And, so far, she had been.
All I could think was, “What if this old battle ax breathed?”
On Monday, January 7 2001 at 3:33 pm, Doctor Crisanti turned off the ventilator that helped Nanny breathe. A moment later, he took the tube out of her trachea. Nan’s nurse, Steve, made her comfortable and called us in.
Aunt Shirley, Uncle Jeff, Uncle George, Laura – my sister, Sandi – my wife, and I gathered around her. Held her hands. Stroked her head. Told her we loved her. Told her everything was alright.
She opened her eyes for a couple moments. Perhaps she saw we were there. I hope so. And then closed them and went to sleep.
She was breathing easily. Regular, even breaths. There wasn’t a hint of pain or discomfort.
At 5PM everyone but Sandi and Aunt Shirley left the hospital. I went home to tend to my children whom we’d left in the care of Sandi’s mother. I planned to come back around 8PM and stay the night.
“Sandi called. Go back to the hospital,” my mother-in-law said.
My daughter asked, “How’s Nan?”
“She’s okay. She’s off the breathing machine.” And back to the hospital I went.
Sandi was on the other side of the Intensive Care Unit’s automatic doors waiting for me as they opened.
Our eyes met. Pause. “Nan’s gone.” Tears in her eyes.
I rushed to the bed side. Nan’s hand was still warm. We sat in the dim light for a while – Uncle George, Aunt Shirley, Laura, Sandi and I. We said little. We cried.
I was the last to leave. I knelt beside her. Held her hand. Kissed it.
I turned off the dim light on the way out. At 5:55PM, Ida Mae Peterson – my Nan, my very special Nan – breathed her last. Aunt Shirley was holding one hand. My wife, the other. They said her breathing simply slowed, slowed some more and then stopped. Quickly, quietly, peacefully.
“You know, Aunt Shirl, it’s like living life without a net now.”
“Well, Jim,” she hugged me. “Now we have to weave a new net.”
We love you, Nan.
…
January 11. Cold and rainy. It had to be.
We filed in by twos and threes and fours. Stories still being told – some repeated from the day before. Times and tears were shared.
Not only had Nan passed, a whole generation did.
Aunt Shirley and Uncle Jeff were with Reverend Bowering when I got there. They’d already shared their thoughts with him. Now I gave him mine. He needed to know, really know, that Nan lived the cliché: She did for others first and for her last. But for Nan, it was not a cliché. It was honest and real. I gave him examples.
It was also important to realize that Nan raised children – all of us – all her life. It was what she did; it was who she was. She never let go of us and continued to nurture and teach all the way ’til the end. Again, I shared stories.
Reverend Bowering knew Nan. This helped give a personal touch to his service and her eulogy. He peppered the morning’s hour with personal anecdotes. And through our tears, he was able to make us laugh.
I liked that.
And as quickly, we were standing in the freezing rain. The Reverend offered prayers. He led us through the Lord’s Prayer. And then set a cross of three roses onto Nan’s casket. Moments later, family and friends, one by one, silently laid flowers beside Nan. And offered Love.
We were all very slow to leave. Standing there. Not knowing quite what to do anymore. What can you do without Nan?
Some of us took flowers from the grave. But mostly we just stared at the brown box and thought about the wonderful woman who brought us together one last time.
And we left. Disappearing into the harsh day.
Each of us alone.
…
Why write this? Why record and publish the details of Nan’s death and funeral?
For me. It is therapy and mourning. And a record to assist my very fallible memory when I try to recall that very difficult week.
For Nan. To honor her.
For you. So that you may share in the human experience and let you recollect the passing of your own loved ones. Or, perhaps, ease you through some future transition.
As I sit here, seven years later, I think of all of you who left my family and me kind messages, I sincerely and humbly thank you. I think of all of you whom have lost loved ones since: my condolences to you were sincere; I feel for you and know that only time can cool the sting.
The recollection of these events have reminded me of my family. What a wonderful, large family I have. A family that is there for each other. A family that can laugh through the tears. A family that can share so many stories. A family that can come together so quickly and so closely.
And this is on both sides of my family: my wife’s and mine. I am lucky.
Dr. Asanza has since retired. What a most wonderful physician he is. He kept Nan out of the hospital through heart disease and kidney failure and worsening diabetes. He trusted her family to administer his prescriptions. He graciously and gracefully assisted Nan through her most difficult hour, through this life and to the next.
Aunt Shirley. Like me, she still feels like a teenage child in Nan’s presence. But she with uncommon courage, love and duty spearheaded the family through Nan’s illness and passing. I could not be more proud of any person. And I’m honored that, though she has two children of her own, has always called me her first born.
And, finally, thank you to my dear wife, Sandra, who loves Nan as much as I do. Who was there for me at every turn, at every moment. She comforted and counseled me. Held me at my saddest and allowed me to hold her. Who was at Nan’s side through life and, like Aunt Shirley, held her hand at death. What a wonderful woman.
I am eternally thankful for all of you. Sincerely.
It’s been seven years and I’m still weakened without her. I am not unique. Most of us go through this. In a way, it’s a privilege to hold the memories of someone like Nan. To be there through her death as she was there through our lives.
A privilege.
Thank you, Nan.
And now I must stand up, dust off, and – as Aunt Shirley said – weave a new net.
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If you liked that, you might like one of these:
- How Not To Die
- Enjoy Every Sandwich, Part III-1
- Enjoy Every Sandwich, Part III-2
- I’m Dying
- Enjoy Every Sandwich, Part I
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