5 years ago today, I woke up feeling that something wasn’t
right. Even in the midst of the
chaos that had taken place in the previous three weeks, this morning felt
different.
I called the neuro ICU unit where Chris was recovering from
brain surgery to talk to his doctor.
He told me that he had just checked on Chris, that he was doing well and
that he would be moved to a regular room later that day. An hour later, a nurse from the unit
called to tell me that soon after the doctor left, Chris became unresponsive. He was having a seizure, they
said. Brain tumor patients often
have seizures and they can sometimes last for hours.
Chris’s own doctor was in surgery by this point so I talked
to the attending doctor several times who kept assuring me that this wasn’t
that unusual. Should I come down
to the hospital, I asked? It was
snowing heavily again and I wasn’t sure if I should make the 30-minute trip with
my toddler and newborn if this wasn’t that “unusual.” By the time the doctor said that maybe I should come, my
anxiety had reached an unbearable level.
My sister-in-law and I packed up my babies and we headed down to the hospital
for what would be the last time.
Once there, I could see for myself this “seizure” Chris was
experiencing. Unconscious with
only his left arm moving spastically every so often, I knew in my heart
that this was more ominous than a seizure. My sister had met us at the hospital and she forced me to go
get dinner while we waited to hear from the doctors. Sitting in the lobby, now along with Chris’s brother and a
friend, I choked down some beef stew.
I was just biting into my apple when Chris’s surgeons came out from
behind the doors of the ICU and walked toward me. Time slowed down a bit as they came towards me and the apple
fell from my mouth. They didn’t
even need to say the words and we knew the news they were about to
deliver. Chris had no brain
activity, they said. I gagged on the
half-chewed piece of apple I still had in my mouth and started to wretch. I stopped myself from vomiting only
because I was half-screaming, “No! No! No!” Half-screaming because I was aware enough to know there were
others in the waiting room and I didn’t want to become a spectacle.
How could this happen when we had only learned he had two
brain tumors three weeks ago? How could this happen when he had just had
successful surgery to remove one of the tumors? How could this happen when he
was doing so well this morning that they were ready to move him out of
ICU? How could this happen when we didn’t get a chance to say goodbye yet? In the 22 days since we were told of our fate, I had
imagined all the ways we would spend his last year. There would be photos taken, letters written, and memories
made. And there would be
goodbyes. Lots of goodbyes. This was not how it was supposed to be.
My sister starting making the calls to family and friends as
a nurse took me to be with Chris.
I talked to him and recounted some of our favorite memories. I told him we would be ok and that we
would always love him. That is
what you are supposed to do, right? In reality, I felt like my life was over too. Within an hour, 30 of Chris’s friends
and family members gathered in his small room. Claire was baptized.
Chris was anointed. Everyone
said their goodbyes and left the room except for Chris’s mother, his sister and
me.
And then it was just Chris and I. I laid my head on his chest and at 10 p.m. on Tuesday,
January 13, 2009, my sweet husband took his final breath.
5 years ago today, I became a widow.
