Caden looked around to make certain no one else was in the room before he spoke again. “Dad, I want you to do two things for me. First, I promise not to interfere with the doctors who will be treating you, but I want your assurance that you’ll keep me posted on what they say before you make any final decision about treatment.”
His father rose from his chair and stood for a moment in silence. His countenance revealed nothing. “All right. So long as you realize that I’m the one who’ll make that decision, not you.”
“And the other thing that’s important to me is that you put the idea of suicide out of your head for now. There’ll be enough time to consider it further down the line if it comes to that.” But I hope it won’t.
“We’ll talk about it when I think it’s time to talk about it. You’ve never told me no in your life, and I imagine you won’t start if I ask for one last favor.”
When they reached the table, his father went to the chair at the head—the same one he’d occupied during all the years Caden was growing up. “Let’s sit down and eat before the food that Jean prepared gets cold.”
Beth looked at Caden, who inclined his head toward the chair to his father’s left. She sat down, and he took the place across the table from her. There was an empty chair at the other end of the table—the one his mother had typically occupied. Caden looked at it and almost cried.
“Caden, would you ask the blessing?” his father said.
Caden couldn’t recall the last time he’d prayed audibly, and he certainly didn’t feel like praying now. As if the specter of a government investigation looming in the background wasn’t enough, he’d discovered that his father had received a tentative diagnosis of a fatal disorder. And not only did his mother lie unresponsive in a nursing home, but it appeared that a woman he’d thought of only in her role as his father’s nurse was now slipping into a different role. Nothing was the same anymore. Everything was bad and getting worse. What was there to thank God for?
Then Caden looked across the table at Beth, who was smiling at him as though she were saying, “You can do it.” He felt like gritting his teeth, but instead Caden bowed his head and asked God to bless the food. Then he prayed that God would meet the needs of each person sitting there. He thought about praying specifically for strength and wisdom for himself. But he didn’t, although he felt sure that was exactly what Beth was silently asking God for on his behalf right now.
“I’m glad you’re going with me to see your mother,” Beth said as she buckled her seat belt.
Caden started the car, shrugged, but made no response.
Beth thought back to the times she had visited Nancy Taggart at Sunset Rest. Those visits had consisted mainly of sitting at the bedside, holding the woman’s inert hand, and trying to think of something to say. She always came away from those times wishing Caden had come with her. But his refusal was based on his contention that he wanted to remember his mother as she’d been.
Her mind went back to the last time she’d seen Caden’s mother—she started to say, “alive,” but that wasn’t accurate. She supposed the last time she had seen the real Nancy Taggart was at Beth’s wedding with Caden. The person she pictured in her mind was that woman—the one with the vivacious smile, the one who’d looked up proudly at her son as he and Beth hurried down the aisle together after exchanging vows.
Nancy Taggart was a woman Beth would have traded her own mother for in a heartbeat. Whereas Beverly Cummings never missed an opportunity to get in a veiled criticism of the man her daughter married, Nancy was kind and caring, a lovely person inside and out. Then the sudden rupture of a small blood vessel in her head had turned her into . . . the best words Beth could come up with were that her mother-in-law was now in a vegetative state. Although the woman’s body was alive and might be for many years to come, she was in a deep coma, totally unresponsive to all but the most painful stimuli.
Why couldn’t the intracranial hemorrhage have killed her? Beth had wondered this so often that she no longer was shocked by the thought, although she never expressed it. The neurosurgeon had been able to control the bleeding and relieve the pressure on the brain, but not before irreversible damage occurred. The medical team had been successful in stabilizing Caden’s mother, but days turned into weeks with no improvement. The family prayed for a miracle that didn’t happen. Nancy had gone from the recovery room to the ICU to a regular room, but there’d been no change.
Now at age 57, Nancy Taggart lay unresponsive in this nursing home. She was able to breathe without the support of a respirator. Her circulation was good. The staff took every precaution to protect her skin from breaking down. She was fed regularly, a special liquid administered through a tube surgically placed into her stomach via a small abdominal incision. Nancy might live another twenty years or more . . . and during that time her husband and son would also live with the situation, undoubtedly wondering, as did Beth, “What if?”
Caden pulled the car into a space in front of the nursing home and parked.
She looked at her husband. “Ready?”
Caden nodded, unfastened his seat belt, and exited the car.
Hadn’t Henry told them he came every week? Beth wondered how he’d been able to tolerate sitting at the bedside of the woman he loved, seeing her this way, trying to think of things to say.
Nancy was in a private room, one that was bright, airy, and clean. Beth was pleased with that, contrasting it with the nursing home where her aunt spent the last two years of her life. There were no people in wheelchairs lining the halls. The doors to many of the rooms were open, with the sound of music or images from the TV leaking into the hallway. But the rooms themselves were otherwise quiet.
Nancy Taggart lay motionless in the center of the bed. Her eyes were half-closed, directed toward the ceiling, blinking occasionally. Beth wondered if any of the images those eyes saw registered on the woman’s brain.
Caden walked to the edge of the bed where his mother lay. He took her hand and said, “Mom, it’s me—Caden. I brought Beth with me. You remember Beth.” His voice caught, and he seemed to take a moment to recover his composure. “Anyway, we were in town to visit Dad, and I couldn’t let the opportunity go by without seeing you too.”
Nancy didn’t look toward him when Caden spoke. So far as Beth could tell, the woman didn’t respond to her son’s touch by so much as a twitch of her hand. It was as though she were in suspended animation, with no more movement or change of facial expression than a department store mannequin.
Often patients in Nancy’s condition displayed claw-like hands and drawn extremities that resulted from long-term disuse. There was only minimal evidence of them here, probably due to regular passive motion activities by a physical therapist. Beth was certain that Henry Taggart spared no expense on his wife, even though she was undoubtedly unaware of any of it.
Nancy’s hair had been shaved for the surgery that followed her intracranial bleeding episode, and when it grew back most of the naturally auburn color had changed to brown interspersed with gray. Today her hair was combed and styled. She wore a flattering shade of lipstick. Her gown was a pleasant shade of coral, not the generic white ones Beth was used to seeing on hospital patients.
If one looked past the makeup and the lovely gown, it was possible to see the tube from a catheter, snaking under the covers, leading to a urine bag hanging unobtrusively at the end of the bed.
And despite everything else, Beth noted a faint odor in the air, one that aerosols and electronic air fresheners couldn’t eliminate. Although the smell was barely discernible, there was no doubt about its composition—a mixture of urine, feces, and decay. There was no mistaking the fact that Sunset Rest was a place where patients came to die.
“Beth and I had lunch with Dad,” Caden said to his mother. “He’s doing fine. He told me he comes by here regularly.” In the brief silence that followed, he seemed to be searching for something more to say. “You’re looking good. I guess they’re taking good care
of you.”
Beth tried to join in, but if Caden was having a hard time thinking of subjects for conversation, her own struggle left her feeling like she’d been butting her head against a wall. She could hardly keep from crying. Beth began to realize why Caden had avoided visiting his mother in the nursing home. He said he wanted to remember Nancy as she’d been, and Beth could see why. This was merely the residuals of the woman he’d known growing up.
Beth’s visits on a monthly basis had been difficult, and she was only related to Nancy by marriage. How could Caden do it—spend time talking with this woman who had been an integral part of his life, was once vibrant and alive, but now was merely an inanimate shell? What must it have been like for Henry, coming here week after week?
Once more the thought Beth couldn’t get out of her mind came to the surface. How much nicer it would be for everyone if Nancy Taggart were dead.
Finally, Beth could stand it no longer. She turned away from the bed and lowered the volume of her voice until it was almost inaudible. “How much longer do you think we should stay?” she asked her husband. “Is your mother even aware of us?”
Caden shook his head. In an equally soft voice, he said, “No one knows. Science doesn’t have the answer to whether a person in a coma can hear or perceive outside stimuli, but just in case, I want to talk to her.” He looked down. “Actually, I guess this is as much for me as for her.”
“Then we’ll stay as long as you want to,” Beth said.
4
At the Taggart house, Caden turned the knob of the front door but found it locked. When no one answered the bell, he fished in his pocket and brought out a single key, which he used to let them in. “I’m glad I remembered to bring this.”
“You’ve kept it all these years?”
“Yeah. Even after you and I were married, I guess I thought of this as my home.” Until mother had her stroke. Caden realized that his visits to Dallas had essentially ended then.
“Anybody home?” Beth called once they were inside.
“Guess Dad’s gone out.” Caden took a step toward the door. “I’ll bring in our suitcases.” He turned and looked at Beth. “Unless you’d feel more comfortable at a motel. Things are a little . . . unusual right now.”
“You’re talking about Jean being a part of all this,” Beth said.
Caden nodded silently.
“We came to be with your father, and I think our place is here with him.”
“I guess you’re right. I should be around for Dad.” Then Caden muttered something under his breath.
“What was that?”
“Besides, I want to find out what’s going on between him and Jean.”
“Why do you think anything’s going on?” Beth said.
“I don’t like the way she’s acting, like she’s more than just an office nurse.” Before anything more was said, Caden heard the garage door open. “Guess Dad’s home.”
“Why don’t you go talk with him?” Beth said, heading up the staircase. “I want to freshen up.”
Caden called out, “Dad?”
“I’m headed for my study. Sit down and talk with me.”
Caden’s father was in the process of taking his usual chair. The drapes were open, and rather than turning to look at his son, Henry stared out the window. His head still turned away, he gestured toward the chair facing him. “Were things at the nursing home about like you expected?”
“Pretty much.” Caden didn’t like the juxtaposition of the subjects, but there was a question he needed to ask his father, and this was as good a time as any. “Dad, I was surprised when Jean opened the door for us. Honestly, I didn’t expect her to be here. I don’t want to be rude, but you taught me to be direct. So, is something going on between you and Jean?”
His father was silent for a moment, as though considering the question. Caden had never known him to do anything without careful deliberation. Whereas most surgeons made rapid decisions, his dad took his time. Finally, he turned to look directly at his son. “When your mother had her cerebral hemorrhage, I hardly left her side in the ICU for over a week.”
“I know Dad. I was there too.”
“Then you remember Jean was in the ICU waiting room with me. She was the one who sent me home to shower, shave, and put on fresh clothes from time to time.”
Caden reached up and wiped away the moisture from the corner of his eyes. “I know.”
“And you recall that when it was obvious your mother wouldn’t wake up tomorrow or the next day—or ever—I encouraged you to go back home. But I stayed with your mother. Eventually, I took a little time to go to the office, but even then, my mind was with Nancy, back there in the hospital. By the time we transferred her to Sunset Rest, I had about reached the breaking point.”
Caden responded, just to keep the words coming. “I know Dad.”
“That was when I decided I needed someone I could talk to. I certainly couldn’t dump all my depression and anger on you. And, unfortunately, I hadn’t made any close friends . . . at least, not close enough for that purpose.”
It didn’t escape Caden that his father made no mention of talking with his pastor. His mother had always been active in the church, but he remembered his dad tended to shy away from it. Apparently, that hadn’t changed. “And you turned to Jean?”
His father touched the breast pocket of his shirt, and Caden realized he was reaching for a cigarette, a habit he’d kicked more than twenty years ago. “Yes. And it helped.”
“And this has been going on for . . . how long? Since Mom’s stroke?”
His father looked at the ceiling and seemed to be remembering. “Nancy’s been in a vegetative state for over a year. I guess I held out for two or three months before I started unloading on Jean.”
“Why did you ask her to be here to meet us? Was it just to cook? Was I supposed to see her play hostess?” He felt a catch in his throat. “Did you want me to see her in this environment, sort of get me used to it?”
The elder Taggart shook his head slowly. “When I knew you were coming, I asked her to prepare something. But if you’ll notice, she didn’t eat with us. She prepared lunch, then left. Jean wanted us to have some family time together.”
“Where did you go while we were gone? Did you go to Jean’s?”
“Yes, after you left for the nursing home, I went to Jean’s to talk some more. I wanted to see if she thought you were taking this okay.” His father leaned forward in his chair. “She thinks the world of you, Caden. I wish you could see that.”
Caden took a deep breath. Here came the big question, one he was afraid to ask because of the answer he expected. “So, what’s your relationship with her?”
“I don’t know how to put this into words, but let’s just say that Jean’s been the person who’s helped me hold it together for the past year or so.”
“Has Jean taken Mom’s place in your life?” And is she trying to eventually replace her?
“I found that talking with her helped me,” his father said. “I needed someone to share things with, to bounce stuff off of. She was understanding and supportive.” Caden started to speak, but his father held up one finger. “But that’s as far as it’s gone . . . or will go, as long as your mother is alive.”
There it was. Jean was someone his father could talk to. Caden was as close as the phone, but his relationship with his father had always been distant. His mother was the one to whom his dad went. When Caden married Beth, she became the confidant he needed. Now Jean was filling that role with his father.
The next statement came out before Caden’s internal filter could stop it. “Did you ever think that Mother wouldn’t want to live in her present state?”
“Many, many times. Long ago, when we drew up wills, Nancy and I executed advance directives, giving each other the power to withdraw life support. Neither of us wanted to be kept alive when there was no chance of our ever recovering. I had that power for Nancy.”
“Dad, I—”
<
br /> His father shook his head. “I guess I’d better execute another advance directive, so you can do what needs to be done for me.”
Caden let that go. He had to follow the path he’d started down. “But, Dad. Did you think about withdrawing life support when the neurosurgeon told you Mom’s cerebral hemorrhage wasn’t a survivable event?”
“Yes, I thought about it,” he said. “But, in retrospect, the neurosurgeon and I were both dragging our feet, hoping for a miracle. Neither of us wanted to be the one to make that final decision. While that was going on, Nancy began breathing on her own. She started to maintain her blood pressure without IV medications. She stabilized while we thought things over. Soon she was staying alive without any artificial means—no life support in that sense. She could survive like that, but it was evident by then she’d never come out of her coma.”
“Why didn’t you do something?”
“We could have let her starve—withheld water or nourishment. But there was a chance she might still feel things. And I couldn’t do that to her.” Caden’s father wiped a tear from his eye. “The neurosurgeon and I talked about administering what amounted to an overdose of morphine, so Nancy would slip away with no pain. But I couldn’t do that either. It might be quicker than starvation, but it amounted to the same thing.” He turned his head away from Caden and once more gazed out the window. “It would be murder.”
Caden nodded. He wondered if his father realized that what he’d mentioned to his son would also be murder.
As their car pulled away, Beth looked in her side-view mirror and watched the Taggart home grow smaller and smaller. Finally, she turned toward Caden, who was at the wheel. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay longer? It’s only Saturday afternoon. We’ve been here for less than a full day.”
Caden’s eyes never left the road as he replied. “I think it’s time to head back home. I talked with Dad. I visited Mom. I did what I needed to do. Now I think we should leave.”
“We planned to stay the whole weekend. Does this have anything to do with finding that your father is leaning on Jean a lot?”
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