Dying—Dying is no fun. It’s not
particularly easy, but everybody does it. It’s the one time in your life when
the people around you ought to do what you ask of them. In the midst of serious
illness our loved ones and our medical helpers are concentrating on keeping us
going, making us well, if possible, and often subjecting us to treatments we
know are not appropriate. When we know full well that we are dying it’s time to
get our help from the practitioners of palliative care, a recognized medical
specialty.
What
follows is a very personal statement and maybe ought not to be on a public
bulletin board but it deals with a subject that we all begin to think a lot
about as we grow older. I’m 90 plus and most of my friends are of an age too. I
fly model airplanes with a group of about twelve or fifteen pals who call
themselves the ROMEO club (Retired Old Men Eating Out). Lately we’ve been
losing an average of about two a year to the fellow with the scythe. It keeps
us on our mettle to recruit replacements who are only in their seventies, will
hang around for a few years and have the energy and strength to chase out into
the brush to retrieve our occasionally crashed aircraft.
I
could go on at length with personal anecdotes connected with so many of my dear
friends who are gone now but I really want this testament to be about the
dearest person in my life, my wife, Barbara. Her death was an enduring and
indelible lesson and reminder to all who knew her on how to live a full and
rewarding life and how to leave it with unspeakably beautiful grace.
Barbara
had been ill with breast cancer and osteoporosis for several years before 2012.
This had not slowed her down much and we had some wonderful times in those last
years in spite of the medical episodes she had had to endure—operations and
hospitalizations. We even took a Holland America cruise about seven months
prior to her death in 2012 and enjoyed partying and associating with our
university and church friends during that year. In fact, she insisted I attend
an astronomy conference in Hawaii in early June of 2012 during which time our son
came out from Ohio for a week to look after her. They had a great time going
out for meals and socializing, as did I 2300 miles to the west.
I am
not too fit myself and we had some hilarious adventures in those final months
that we managed to laugh at. I remember one night she fell in the bathroom and
couldn’t get up even though she was uninjured. The two of us managed to get her
near the bed and then we struggled mightily to try to get her up onto the bed.
Our positions were so ridiculous and we got to laughing so hard that we thought
we might have to call 911 for assistance just to get to bed. We finally made it.
The
cancer had been in remission for nearly ten years but on a routine visit to the
oncologist in January of 2012 we discovered from the blood work that the
markers, which had been near zero, were on the rise. The doctor offered the
option of resuming radiation and chemo treatment but Barbara said, “No.” She pointed out that she had had a wonderful
and full life and was ready for the last chapter. He agreed of course and gave
her all the support she needed.
The
clock ticked on and we continued to enjoy life and one another’s company, then
on June the 18th, 2012, she awoke in great pain. She said we had
better call the doctor. It was just before 7 a.m. I sent him an email and he
called back by phone within a few minutes and asked if he should send an
ambulance. Barbara said “No,” we could make it in the car just fine. She put on
an old nightgown and a well-worn robe and walked out to the car with the aid of
a cane. She never looked back. I knew that she knew she would never see the
home again that she loved so much and that had nurtured our relationship for 44
years. Barbara knew how to move on. It was just like when we were married in
Charleston, South Carolina in1946. She was 19, living in Chicago where she was
born and had lived every day of her life to that point, and I was 20 and in the Navy. I called
her from a phone on our ship in dry dock and said “Come on down we’re going to
get married.” She came and never looked back.
There
was a wheel chair at the door of Mercy Hospital to greet us.
She
spent three days in the hospital. Tests and x-rays revealed widespread bone
cancer. On about the second day while I was present in the room she was
assisted by a nurse into the bathroom. After a few minutes I heard an audible
snap and she cried out “I’ve broken my arm.” She had indeed while holding on to
the bar next to the toilet. X-rays were taken and the orthopedic surgeon
offered to operate and set the break. She declined the treatment and her arm
was placed in a sling. The next day with all of us sitting in her room (the
oncologist, her G.P, and I), the doctor asked if she would like to go to
hospice. She said “Yes,” and he made a call on his cell phone. Fortunately a
room was available at San Diego Hospice, one of the finest institutions I’ve
ever seen, and she was moved that very afternoon.
Barbara
spent ten days at the hospice before dying at 1:50 p.m. on June 29, 2012.
During that stay she had many welcome visitors, including a lovely lady who
played the Irish harp. When the aroma therapist stopped by and asked if she
would like try that Barbara said “Sure, if it’s free. It can’t hurt.” I recall
that the eight year old twin daughters of a cousin of mine made a couple of
visits and brought her pictures they had painted. I know they had fun playing
on the lawn just outside the door of Barbara’s room.
…
Barbara
on her way to Hawaii aboard the QM II
“She
walks in beauty, like the night
Of
cloudless climes and starry skies;
And
all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet
in her aspect and her eyes; …
…
The
smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But
tell of days in goodness spent,
A
mind at peace with all below,
A
heart whose love is innocent!”
Lord
Byron
