Dying

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 18^th, 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