I hadn’t missed a single dose.
“Did he get out of bed last night?” they asked.
I shook my head. “No.” And I was a bit sad about that . . . for so long I had been afraid that he’d get up in the night without my knowing and always prayed for him to have a long, restful sleep and stay in bed. And now, I would have given anything for him to be up and around and worrying me. I wasn’t going to need the chimes after all.
—
MY MOTHER-IN-LAW, Patsy, was the first to visit from the family. Patrick was sitting on the edge of the bed with Tina assisting him when he heard her voice call from outside the bedroom door. He shot me a look of pain and anguish . . .
“Why? Why did you bring her here?” he whispered.
How could I not? I had always been on Patrick’s side, but . . .
“She’s your mother,” I said with as much compassion as I could, “You have to. You know?”
I could see Patsy pacing outside the door, nervous, like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, as we say in the South. I decided that I was going to nip this in the bud right now and try to make them both comfortable.
“Patsy!” I called out to her.
“What?” she called back tensely.
“Buddy’s afraid that he’s going to upset you seeing him like this. He doesn’t want you to feel bad.”
“What?” Patsy had the perfect opportunity, and she moved into the room and to Patrick, “No . . . noo,” she cooed, “I don’t want to upset you. I’m just happy to see you.”
Patrick slowly put his hands by his side to push himself up.
Tina was there to help, asking gently, “Do you need to go to the bathroom?”
Patrick didn’t respond, but stood up, and once on his feet, he took one step forward, and put his arms around his mom to give her a big hug.
And then all was fine.
As the day went on, more family came by to visit. My sister-in-law Bambi’s husband brought the barbecue they were planning for a party. And my amazing friends Kay and Lynne dropped everything to bring food and to serve in whatever capacity was needed . . .
During the trail of visitors, I stepped outside Patrick’s door to privately ask Sharon for advice about something that was bothering me, really bothering me. It was difficult, and it hurt to ask. But I didn’t know what to do.
“I haven’t . . . Patrick and I haven’t talked about what’s going on,” I told her. “I haven’t brought up about him dying . . .”
She just looked at me. “He knows.”
Of course he does. Of course he does . . .
—
PATRICK SPOKE his last words on Friday evening. My brother, Eric, and his wife, Mary, came through the bedroom door, and a woozy Patrick looked up, pleased to see them . . .
“Heeeyyyy, Eric and Mary . . .”
My last words with Patrick? “I love you.” And he to me. I never stopped saying it—when I would leave the room, or when I came back into it. And he said it to me until it was only the movement of his lips without sound, and then . . . only his soft ears that my words would fall on.
After I brought him home, things went very fast.
He had already been in something of a semicoma, but late on Friday night, he slipped fully in. We still talked to him. Sat with him. I ended up limiting the number of people and the amount of time they could be in the room with him so it wouldn’t get too raucous. I chuckled to myself, because I knew that if Patrick had been able, at a certain point in these raucous times he would have jumped up and said, “Hey, would everybody get the f*!k out of here?” There are advantages to knowing someone so well.
In the evenings it would get quiet again when everyone left, and I cherished the alone time with him . . . holding his hand, listening to music, sleeping with my arm around him, my head on his shoulder, wordlessly.
I had been told what to look for that would tell me when the end was near: a weakening in the pulse, a change in the skin color, a gurgling in the breath . . . His pulse was strong, but clearly the rest of his body was not in good shape.
We kept on through the weekend. And in the quiet of Monday morning, September 14, Donny walked into the bedroom and stood next to the bed. Donny was horrified that he’d overslept by almost two hours and missed his turn to give Patrick his IV Ativan. As soon as he approached the bed, I surprised him by sitting up quickly, not panicked, but eyes open and alert as if I had never been asleep.
“I know,” I answered the question he hadn’t asked yet, “he’s been breathing like that for two hours.”
Patrick’s breathing was odd. It was shallow . . . incredibly shallow.
Donny looked worried and bemoaned that he had overslept, excusing himself to go prepare the Ativan in the kitchen.
I felt Patrick’s warm pulse. Still strong. I looked at his face and listened to the tiny sips of air he was taking. Tiny, light sips of air . . . There was something . . . delicate . . . childlike about it.
I knew it was time. I didn’t want to leave the room, but crazily, I wanted to be thoughtful of Donny. Also, I didn’t know what I would or might do. I was afraid that suddenly I’d be afraid, or . . .
I raced quickly out and called to Donny that he should come. And went to lie back at Buddy’s side. I held his hand, and felt his pulse again . . . was it? . . . was it? . . . listening to the childlike breath . . .
And then he didn’t breathe anymore.
—
IT WAS ten o’clock in the morning. And he’d used that body. He’d used every last bit of it. That much was clear to me. He didn’t need it anymore. It was no good to him and he needed to leave it behind.
It was the way it needed to be. And I thought that maybe I’d have a hard time being with him as he, or his body, died. But it wasn’t creepy at all. It was a body that had used up its purpose. There was an acceptance. It was realistic and clear. And what was in the air transcended any puny little thoughts I might have dreamed up during my little lifetime about what this moment might be.
Donny came back into the room with the Ativan syringe in his hand and stopped at the side of the bed.
I looked up at Donny and saw that he knew. And then I suddenly had an urge and I lifted the bolus/button and pressed it, delivering one extra dose of Dilaudid. I had the strange thought that maybe Patrick needed just that little extra bit of comfort as he left. That maybe there was one little part that might have been having a hard time letting go in his body and needed help.
And I looked up at Donny and said, “Just in case . . .”
Donny put his hand out and pressed it over Patrick’s heart, and I heard him sniff back a tear. “That’s okay, big brother, you don’t have to take another breath.”
After a moment, I looked at the syringe Donny was holding . . .
“Guess he won’t be needing that anymore.”
In an hour or two, family started showing up. I sat outside the double bedroom doors that opened to our yard for a moment while family came in to visit and view Patrick’s body. Kay and Lynne sat down beside me.
“Oh, my God, yesterday when you were taking a nap in there with him,” Lynne said, “you had your head resting on his shoulder the whole time. You looked just like an angel.”
“Like you were his angel.” Kay nodded.
“And now he’s mine,” I said.
As more and more family and close friends came around, Lucio, our groom, brought Roh, Patrick’s favorite horse, down to the house. The same brilliant, white horse that Patrick had rode in on during our wedding vows renewal. I had straightened up the covers around Patrick’s body, hung a gorgeous coral, turquoise, and crystal amulet above his head that befitted his Warrior Spirit, and placed the most perfect white rose on his chest. Lucio and our friend, Steve, brought Roh right up to the double doors that opened into the bedroom, so close that the horse was almost inside, standing, towering, vibrant. Lucio gave Roh the cue, and this powerful horse bowed to Patrick.
—
&nbs
p; OUR SECURITY, Bill, was on hand to help get Patrick to the mortuary safely and privately. And late in the afternoon, when his body finally started to grow cold, a small SUV van showed up. I was glad that it was so late in the day, glad that Patrick was no longer feeling warm to my touch. I don’t think I could have let them take him earlier. The car that showed up, a smaller, family-style SUV, was so nondescript you would never know its purpose if you were driving on the freeway next to it. The vehicle would take Patrick, and then at the precise time he arrived safely at his destination, we’d release the statement that he had died. It would be perfect timing.
The family stood in the living room as the body was lifted and wheeled through and out the front door to the vehicle. I followed closely along with family, but stopped away from the car as they loaded Patrick’s body in. The door slammed shut, the two men started the car and it rolled up the drive to the gate. And that’s when it hit me. They were taking him away. He would be gone. Like seeing your loved one board a plane and take off into the big, blue sky. But this time, he’s not coming back. You reach out, but you can’t touch him, you feel . . . severed from him. It was an awful feeling, one I hadn’t felt quite yet, and I couldn’t watch the car drive away. I turned to bury my face in my mother’s shoulder and started to sob. Deep and heavy and awful sobs. Sobs that weighed a ton. And when I had cried for a while, I lifted my head, blew my nose, and started to walk back into the house, unsteadily. Kay and Lynne moved in to flank me, each holding an arm to support me. But after two or three steps, I had to say through the blur that had settled over me, “I have to sit down.” My legs were wobbling and losing strength. “Okay,” they said, “we’ll find a place in the living room.” I took another step. “No . . . I have to sit down—now,” I warned them. And I sank to the ground into a crouched position, my head doubled over as I started to sob again. And when I could feel my legs again, I stood up to move back into the house. I know everyone was there . . . but I couldn’t tell you where they were or what they were doing. I was isolated in a small universe of fog. And they, and everything else, were mere shadows around me. And it didn’t matter. Nothing much mattered.
Chapter 24
THE IMMEDIATE AFTERMATH
At Rancho Bizarro, nine of our trees died suddenly
in August/September 2009.
AFTER PATRICK DIED, I sat outside with family and close friends gathered around a lit fireplace that evening, sharing stories, some of them funny. At a certain point, I’d had enough. I stood up and went back into the house. Everybody stood up with me and departed soon after . . .
Hard to imagine that little more than twelve hours ago I was listening to my husband take tiny puffs of breath that were his last. That he was lying in our bedroom growing cold, his beautiful countenance frozen into a crisp. Twelve hours ago that I cried as they were driving his body out the gate. Twelve hours since I entered a nightmare I was afraid of because I believed it would be terrible, and I believed it would be only as terrible as a small portion of how terrible it really is. And in the last four hours I got to see what it’s like to laugh as if he wasn’t lying breathing his last breaths in my bed. I got to see how bad it hurt to have laughed when it was only this morning I was left with devastation.
Early morning, September 15, 2009
I wish I had something good, or enlightening, or even remotely encouraging to say about the process of losing someone. But I don’t. There is nothing fun about it, nothing good, nothing hopeful. It’s like the world is twisted like a wet rag until all the color, all the poetry in life is squeezed out of it.
Sorry to say, I feel a little let down.
I can launch into cynicism. The cynicism that has come up since I lost my Buddy. I can talk about how the naïve thought that I’d always had—that life will reward those who are kind and do good things—how that’s not true, and just a man-made notion to ensure that in our society we just don’t all kill each other. Right? There’s no art here. Even the sad stuff is just made-up fantasy. Just stuff invented to make the real emotions of life bearable. When the fact is—there’s nothing romantic about life at all.
Hah! Case in point . . .
Yes, there are the songs about how I “Can’t Live Without You.” How about songs about breathing? “I Can’t Breathe Without You.” There are a number of titles with variations on that same “can’t breathe” theme. All beautifully composed, expressing loss in such a lovely and heartfelt way . . . Can’t breathe without you? Well, yes, that’s true. Losing someone you love so much does make you feel like you can’t breathe. But not because of some longing and lyrical sadness. It’s because you feel like someone is literally sitting on top of your chest. Try it. Say, “Hey Tim! or, Gladys . . . Come sit on my chest so I can feel what it feels like to lose someone I love so m—Ah!! Ah!! I really . . . can’t . . . breathe! Ah!” Seriously, this would be an accurate recreation of what it feels like. So much for poetry.
What else?
Four days after Patrick died, my wonderful girlfriends suggested we have a PJ party. It was great. The next night everyone showed up in their pajamas, we had a poker game (I had just started to learn Texas Hold ’Em), and in the spirit of “girls’ night,” I wore a dime-store rhinestone, pink and white princess crown, just thinking maybe it’d make me feel better somehow. We all sat outside around the fire later, one of Patrick’s favorite places on cool evenings in the past months, and one of my friends opened the big can of worms by asking, “How are you doing . . . ?” I cried, which was something I did many times during the day anyway, so what else was new. And had to point out that Patrick and I had been married over thirty-four years. Thirty-four years with the same person . . . always there . . . always in your life, in the morning, in the day, and the night. “Face it,” I reasoned, “even if I hated his guts I’d be having a hard time.” And I cried a little more . . .
“You know, in all of our relationship,” I managed between tears, “I don’t think there were more than three times that we went more than one day without talking to each other . . .”
And it was true. No matter where each of us was in the world, we talked, we touched every day. India, Nepal, Russia, Africa, Illinois . . . It didn’t matter. We could have loved each other, hated each other, been drunk, not drunk, couldn’t wait to tell a story, couldn’t wait to get off the phone, mad, or delighted. Working on a scene, working on our lives, working on making dinner, looking at the stars, feeding the dogs and cats, driving home at night, lying in bed, watching a movie, crying, laughing, sighing, smiling, rolling our eyes . . . we did it all. And somehow we managed to do it together.
That night by the fire—it was Day 5.
—
ON DAY 2, I had spilled out of bed because I heard his voice. Out of a deep sleep, I heard him say, “Lisa!” It came from inside the bathroom, and had an intense, needy urgency to it. It sounded just like him. And it was a tone that I’d heard before from him when he needed my help, and quickly.
I tumbled to the floor out of the bed onto all fours, and sprang up to race into the bathroom to see what he needed. As I was scrambling, I was aware that he was dead. But maybe . . . maybe . . .
I rounded the corner, half desiring to see him, half afraid . . .
He was not there . . .
Dark night.
If I imagine, I can feel your hand
I hope that you are here with me
Because I am feeling so very alone without you.
This is harder than I thought
It’s beyond physical
Beyond a simple ache
It’s sickening and an attack on my being
On a cellular level
Like a life of its own
Like illness
Like disease
The wave catches me and does with me what it will
Plunging me down
Drowning me at a moment’s notice
My will is not my own anymore
It is lost in my love and connection to you.
>
Inexorably and forever
intertwined
Yeah . . . for me . . . Grief is something that happens on a cellular level. It’s not an emotion. It’s something that worms into your DNA. Splitting your nuclei. Grief is like little worker bees streaming through your blood, buzzing and working overtime at paralyzing bits of your life. I can see why spouses sometime follow their mates into death. It’s not a choice. Your body either survives the onslaught, or it doesn’t. It is meant to be, or not. It’s not your choice. Things are happening inside you. Things you have no control over.
As much as my world is rocked, or maybe because of it, I can sit for long periods of time not moving. No, really . . . not moving. I breathe. That’s about it. Otherwise, I’m as still as a rock. If there were radar out there, it would not pick me up on its screen. If there were people passing through, they would not see me.
I could think of a lot of other, happy things to say. But . . . I won’t. That’s the unfortunate truth. Sorry to disappoint.
Let me think of something that I can say that might have some redeeming value . . . Something that says something other than “Life sucks.” Uhm, can’t think of anything.
Well, one more thing . . . I found myself blaming myself. Blaming myself for taking him to the hospital, taking him out of the hospital, being the one to “give up,” for not making him well . . . And if that wasn’t enough, I started to blame myself for everything I ever did wrong in our relationship. Every time I was unreasonable, angry, grumpy . . .
And after that—I blamed him.
For what, you might ask? Hey. We were married for thirty-four years—trust me, I have a list. And I’d yell at him. I’d yell into the air. And I’d be very angry.
—
ON SEPTEMBER 29, little more than two weeks after Patrick died, his autobiography, The Time of My Life, was released and became an immediate New York Times bestseller. It had been hard doing the book at times in the last year, like a fish trying to swim upstream against a strong current, but I was glad we made the effort. It was something tangible that I could hold in my hand. It represented him in the world. It said, “Don’t forget me!” We were proud of how the book came out. It’s a good read, and you see what an incredible life Patrick had, how hard he and I worked, and also how we had a few laughs. A few laughs . . . that’s one of the things that always worked its way into our lives.
Worth Fighting For: Love, Loss, and Moving Forward Page 27