It is not yet 09:00 and I am blogging. There’s your first clue.
At 07:20 Rich is awake and agitated. Alert and oriented? He’s 2 for 3. A bit confused about location. He wants medication, he wants answers and he wants out of here. I get him calmed down, and while we’re waiting for the nurse to bring his medication, he looks me square in the eye and clearly asks
“Why are you pushing me to die?”
…….here in round 334 of this tremendous bout, we see the contender, slowing a bit, but managing to stay off the ropes….not quite as fast with her footwork, and we’re noticing some hesitation on her dodge and weave……. OOOooooh, ladies and gentlemen, she just took a terrible blow to the jaw….blood and sweat sprays across the ring……looks like her knees are buckling…….will she go down?…….can she survive another 10-count? ………..wait, wait……she’s staggering……she bounces off the ropes…..staggers back to center ring……..ladies and gentlemen……unbelievable……the crowd would be on their feet but they’ve all gone home……
“I’m sorry, Richie. I thought you wanted to ‘go’. I’m not pushing.”
“Yes you are.
“Sorry, Captain. I misunderstood the orders.”
“I don’t need you pushing me around here,”
One of the Voices says, “Alrighty then! We’ll head on down the road. See you at the funeral home!”
While I remain silent.
He tells me, less clearly now, that he’s working on a Plan. I ask if I can help; he tells me to stop pushing him. For a split second I think “yeah! my work his done. I can go.”
His eyes are getting glassy, words increasingly slurred. Familiar ground for me. If there’s anything I know well it’s how to communicate with a falling down drunk and this is close enough. (Thank you for that skill set, Mom and Dad).
He tells me he’s working on a plan….take a few days….working on a plan….what is this place?……
He wants water. He closes his eyes. He raises his head and looks around the room, lays back and
closes his eyes. “…not sure how to do this…..makin’ a plan…….be about a week……..”
As of 18:00 on May 19, 2012 my husband pulled several threads out of our Tapestry. Since that time he has not told me he loves me, he has not called me Pupshn. He will not maintain eye contact once he recognizes it is me. He continues to flow politeness, gratitude and boons upon all who enter his room. For me there are only requests and directives. He reaches for everyone’s hand but mine.
STOP RIGHT WHERE YOU ARE. DON’T YOU DARE PICK UP THE PHONE TO CALL ME.
Because if one more person tries to comfort me by reminding me that “you know Rich really DOES love you. You know you can’t take in anything he’s saying now.” blah….blah….blah….. I swear to god I will throw up on your shoes. And if you’re not standing in front of me, I will navigate my way to your closet and I will throw up on ALL our shoes.
I’m not stupid. I know. Sometimes knowing a thing just don’t make it better. If that doesn’t make it clear, then I guess you just have to be there.
There are two. 2. TWO people on this planet who are allowed to advise me on what I’m experiencing and how I’m processing this and they both have the decency and common sense to offer that advise in the form of a QUESTION. They are my ground control Unless you have received a message from Alanis Morrisette, Ben Affleck, Matt Damon, Chris Rock AND Alan Rickman, please assume you are not one of the TWO. I do however greatly appreciate all other kind words, prayers, well-wishes, blessings, hugs, and wisecracks directed at or about me. Keep ‘em coming. And it’s okay to tell me I look tired. You can tell me I look like shit. I’m the kind of warrior that takes no offense if someone comments on my war wounds. Please don’t feel obliged to state the obvious. Not only do I not require your directives to eat, sleep, take care of myself, the volume of such directives has reached critical mass. I assure you.
I would, however, appreciate it if you’d let me know if I failed to properly wipe my nose, if I’ve gone a bit too far past bath time; if one of my cowlicks is out of control to the point of distraction; if my fly is open; if there is toilet paper clinging to my shoe or waistband; or if I’m starting to scare people.
Actually, just about everything that comes from those close to us has been greatly comforting. My knee-jerk with the shoes a-la-vomit comes from the occasionally friendly intention gone awry and for those I will spare their shoes, but I am at the point where I will retort with “Really? Ya’ think?!?!”
Those at greatest risk are the complete strangers who have mysteriously acquired the Right to interject themselves into my marriage and interrogate me on my flight plan.
Doctors’ signatures for hospice were not yet illegibly dry on the paperwork when there appeared at the doorway of Rich’s room in ICU a hospital chaplain. At his heels was a junior hospital chaplain. I assume she was his junior because he talked, she listened, and occasionally he looked over his shoulder at her with a look that I read as “see how nicely I did that?”
The first time he appeared my eldest son had the bad luck of being in the best position to intercept him before he could come in the room to see me. Joe was polite, explained this was not a good time, family was not in need of outside spiritual counseling because we already had that covered. All of this was relayed to me shortly later because I asked, quite certain that I had caught the scent of a religious figure head in the nearby vicinity.
Thirty minutes later I am standing outside Rich’s door to give him the private visit he had requested with two people. Lucky me, here comes the chaplain. I must have been wearing a sign that read “The Wife”. He zeroed in on me like a starving mosquito.
This guy had to be at least in his sixties. He introduced himself to me as “the chaplain” --(no names please) and said “and YOU are?”
“The Wife.”
His mouth starts moving, there are sounds---something about being alerted that the patient is going to Hospice and this is the service they provide. I thank him very much but we have that service covered, and he responds with “and the Patient’s name?”
“The Richard.”
He’s talking again, like he’s explaining all the many things I’m ignorant of… Like what CCO means, and what the word hospice means…… I try to stop him a couple of times with assurances of my deepest gratitude and most desperate wish that he not trouble himself further, and we most certainly have all of this covered.
He talks over me. Apparently it is absolutely critical that he is convinced that I “know the proper words to use with Richard at this time”, because he refuses to let that question to me go unanswered.
Family and friends are leaning against the walls outside his door. I decide it best I not make eye contact with any of them, because any second now the Death Ray may start shooting from my eyes. I stop eye contact with The Chaplain because I don’t know what state penal code has to say about murder by ocular death ray. I stare at his tie, certain hat he believes I am hanging on his every word. I’m trying hard to maintain calm and prevent harm, but this is reaching the level of the absurd, and another two failed attempts to assure him of the sanctity and privacy of our marriage is dragging me towards anger.
Out of the corner of my eye I can see that my brothers Irish complexion has gone fire engine red, I know he’s coiled, waiting only for my signal. I almost want to ask the chaplain where he got his training, because that’s some shit that needs to be investigated. I’m aware of my brother’s readiness, I’m aware of the shock and disbelief that has descended like a fine mist in this hallway. Unfortunately none of this is enough to block the receptors in my weary little brain that are still able to receive and process the words that are coming out of The Chaplain’s mouth. My responses are no longer necessary. He continues to fill the air with the most self-righteous, holier-than-thou, vaguely Biblical, thoroughly putrid, saccharine-coated load of crap that I have been forced to listen to since I was nine years old and got dragged to a tent revival meeting so a pentecostal preacher could scare the evil out of me and save my wretched soul.
Maybe my grandmother was right. She always told me the strawberry mark on my forehead was the Sign of the Devil, proof I had evil in me. That would explain the beacon I am for all persons with higher training in certain religions.
I am frozen. Except for one teeny, tiny muscle under my left eye that must have twitched. All the sign my brother needs. I’m staring at the floor, but in a nano-second before it happens, I know my brother is about to spring forward. In the next nan-second I perceive the beginning of his propulsion towards the Chaplain and then….
This is one of those times when it is SO helpful to have a son who has ten years of experience as in inner city cop with SWAT training. Now I’m aware that Joe has been watching this pot simmer, assessing, waiting, on the ready. Instantly he is blocking his uncle’s trajectory, facing the Chaplain, calmly and politely explaining again everything he explained thirty minutes ago.
The Chaplain ignores him like I’m the only one in the hallway and continues on with his interrogation of me…
One of the Voices says with a Yiddish accent, “Would someone PLEASE show this poor, dumb, asshole the way out of town?” Once in a while I wish I wasn’t the only one who could hear the Voices.
A truly good cop is never out of uniform. I watch Joe gently take the Chaplain by the elbow that will pivot him away from me. “Sir. You and I are going to step down the hall here and talk.” IN uniform I think Joe might have gotten him a little further down the hall with a bit more ease. But it was far enough that others could close ranks around me. I could hear Joe’s gentle yet firm voice like he was on the scene of a potentially volatile domestic. Tense, precarious, but in the right hands still hope that no one would have to go to jail.
I feel myself starting to tremble from the flood of relief, anger, awe, and something gushing from my open, gaping wounds… The next few minutes were a blur, then I was re-focused.
After such an event you need a de-briefing. It helps. Trust me. Two, maybe three times I needed to hear what others present saw and heard. I needed them to tell me that I had not behaved poorly and they understood my perception of the event. I needed vindication.
So here’s another TIP you can take from this blog. I don’t care if you’re admitted for a head cold. When they ask you on admission about your religious preferences. “None” is NOT the best answer. Tell them something, anything that assures them there will be an official of YOUR religion in control of your spiritual care and feeding. The answers “none”, “atheist”, or “agnostic” creates an uncomfortable void that they WILL find a way to fill and correct. Final warning. I’m just saying’.
Short time later I am told hospice has a bed and transport is scheduled within the hour.
Everyone wants to assure me that if the poor, dumb bastard shows up again they will take his learning to the next step. I rear up on my hind legs and let it be known that if he comes back I will be the one to handle it. So it is said. So it shall be done. I detect a glimmer of fear move across faces like The Wave in a stadium so I explain.
I get a glimpse of that man entering my space and I will totally ignore him as I call the nurse and ask her to please call Security. Why? Because I guaran-fucking-tee you that nothing any of you say will kick him as hard in the ass as a call to hospital security with a complaint from family that they are being harassed by the hospital Chaplain. I didn’t work here three-plus years without learning a few things. This ain’t my first rodeo.
In no time this circus is packing up and ready to move on to our next destination. I’m almost disappointed I won’t get the chance to kick this guy in the nut sack.. I shall content myself in the knowledge that he will pray for us. Pray that Jesus will unlock my cold heart and damaged soul that I might see the Light and be guided to Salvation. Praise the Lord..
No, really.. There’s more,
Two days into the Pre-Paradise of hospice and I’m just getting comfortable when…. I step out of Rich’s room to give him a private visit with the person(s) at his bedside. Ten steps round the corner to one of many lovely family rooms. There is my brother and Alicia. Sanctuary!
Think again. There is a man sitting at the table in a a dress shirt and tie with an important looking notebook open in front of him and he’s taking notes, and clearly Christopher and Alicia are fueling his rapid scribbles.
Fuck. Double Fuck.
I will try to place this in a nut shell smaller than a cocoanut.
This is the hospice Social Worker. I’m thinking a serious cringe is in order but Chris and Alicia seem calm and this guy, introduces himself as Dennis. Dennis the Menace. Because his name IS Dennis but he’s here to perform a task that the Government requires be done in order for the hospice facility to maintain their license. “So I know I’m a Menace, but just a couple of forms for me to complete and then I won’t bother you again.”
I love forms, Just hand it to me please and I promise I will fill it out and turn it in before the end of the grading period so someone can determine if I pass or fail.
It doesn’t work that way. He has to do official Social Worker stuff. Thank you, Jesus, Chris and Alicia have already provided the fodder for most of the blanks so all that left are the blanks that can only be completed by information from The Significant Other/Family Member in Charge. Fuck. That’s me.
I’m not going to enjoy this but as a nurse I understand government/insurance demands, and he’s actually being quite pleasant about it. I could almost like this guy. The Facts about Me are pretty painless and easily recited. This ain’t my first rodeo. Just as I get comfortable with the game I know so well, he deftly guides me into his assessment of Me, Rich and this current Situation.
Hang on, maybe this guy can sling the same shit with a different spin.
Three questions later and I am no longer mildly amused. Either Dennis’ questions stem from zero background information, OR (and I’m going with option TWO) If you have the soldier recount the battle enough times he will be magically cured of his PTSD. Dennis. you disappoint me. Game On.
One of the Voices is whispering in my ear, “float, just float. Try not to scare the man.”
I float. I try not to prepare split second responses meant to sound “normal”, but only sound canned. sound normal as you satisfy his government form and make him go away. I suspect I am facing a worthy opponent. I relax enough so that he can see I am relaxed. I allow what I can only hope is the appropriate text book amount of emotion. I am sucking energy from Christopher and Alicia like a junkie. The anticipated questions of my relationship with Richard begin. Dude, I would be more comfortable recounting for you the details of my distant memory of our wild hot monkey sex, than give you one tiny drop of the current intimacies of our last three years together. I offer a meek smile, wondering if his skill set is adequate to read in my eyes how desperately I want him to shut the fuck up and go away.
But he’s so nice. He’s so calm and easy and unobtrusive. He’s Polite. I love polite. Feel like cutting you some slack, Dennis.
He wants me to tell him about Richard. Oh. You’re good, Dennis. “he’s magical,” I say with reverence. Yes, he’s heard that from everyone. He knows about my birthday party. He’s got specific information that can only come from certain sources and I know those sources. My move.
“Well, there you go. You know everything there is to know about me. And Rich. And our “Situation”. Just sorry you didn’t get to know him for yourself.” Because then I might not be dancing backwards in high heels.
We both dodge and weave. Quite a lovely dance. I am crystal clear that he is Fred Astaire, and I’m just Ginger Rogers in high heels and dancing backwards.
Every question is couched in apologies and explanations and I’m feeling this guy is not a bad egg.
Next item the government requires. He has to present to me that there are services available to help me through “This”. I feel the urge to channel Lewis Black--a one hour stand-up on “This”.
There are Counseling Groups. Only I can hear my brother stifle his laughter, knowing that my knee-jerk response is “I wouldn’t join any group that would have Me as a member.” I explain I am not a group person. At this point even I can tell I have driven too hard a point on assuring one and all and the heavens above that I have a phenomenal support system (got the lingo going) and really, really, truly, I’m okay. Got my peeps. I’m close to assuring him that I am crying the correct amount of tears and expressing the healthy level of anger and fear. And I swear to you on all I hold dear and sacred that my calm comes from the socially acceptable reliance and faith in the One True “God” most acceptable in this small sector of a Judeao-Christian society dominating this hemisphere on this planet. Are we Good??? Can I go now?
Then he asks me if I plan to take Richard home. Shit .I was SO not prepared for the whiplash resulting from THAT question. Or you fucking stupid? Deaf? Clueless? Still working your government form check boxes? Or you still don’t get where I’m coming from? Are. You. Kidding me….?
I might have laughed out loud. “No. We’re here for the duration. Next stop funeral home.”
Shit. Fuck. Damn. Wrong answer.
He’s explaining and apologizing for the question but I’m listening to the Voices. Breathe, float, breathe, float. I have now disconnected and the conversation has drifted into what I pray is a satisfying end for him and his government form. Nearing the Finish Line, I’m so relieved that I begin to gush gratitude and praise on all things hospice--nurses, doctors, the staff, the volunteers, the gardens, and just when I reach the point of praising the light fixtures in his room one of the Voices channels Pyett and pulls me back by the scruff of my neck.
I grew up believing in the Nature of Life. The mystical, basic, simple acts of Birth and Death. I grew up with an understanding and reverence for the basic right to Privacy. Bah-zinga!!
I’m at an age far enough removed from Birth that I can’t help you there. An age that brings me to center stage with Death and I’m here to tell you that it is no longer personal nor private. It is a play in which you are neither the author, nor the director. You are merely an actor on the stage, and only… ONLY if you’re lucky will someone hand you a script so that you know your lines and the basic plot line. Improv is a very exhausting way to spend each waking moment, no matter how good you are at it. And I’m not that good at it.
You might want to NOT be the next person to ask me if I need anything. Because what I need and may request is a sharp pencil. So that I could thrust it into my eye. I’m thinking a sharp pencil in my eye is about the ONLY adequate, welcome distraction from this high-heeled, backwards, Ginger Rogers flowing, glowing dance through the fucking shit-storm bureaucracy of the natural act of dying.
