As it turns out, chemo isn't the hardest thing we had to do this year.
July 23, 2012
Chemo number six today. The last one. Hooray. It is a day of great celebration, but I know that I still have to watch the stuff drip into my body one more time as I feel my body slowly decline from a state of wellness to sick, tired and nauseated. Chemo day is not easy. The couple of days after aren’t either. I have associational nausea now. Strange things make me sick. Last week it was the smell of my leather computer case which I bring to the hospital with me on treatment day. The smell of the bathroom soap here at the hospital turns my stomach. The sight of the cup which I have been drinking out of during each chemo session makes me need to vomit. In fact, I just told Amanda to throw it away.
As bad as chemo is, I can now say it is not the worst thing that happened this year. Two weeks ago today, on July 9th, Nana had a heart attack and was rushed to the hospital for surgery. She had a stint put in that night and we talked to her and the doctor afterward. The doctor said everything went fine and Nana was a bit out of it, but that is to be expected coming out of surgery. She stayed in ICU Monday night, Tuesday and Tuesday night. We visited at 1:00 on Wednesday afternoon and everything seemed to be fine. We talked with Nana a bit and she seemed tired, but still “with it”. I went to play golf. The skies were dark and rain was on the way. I was the only one on the course, but I forged through, trying to finish before the bottom fell out. On the tenth hole, my sister in law called to check on Nana and I was telling her how Nana seemed tired, but appeared to be recovering well. I relayed how I thought she would stay another 24 or 48 hours in ICU and then be transferred to a regular room.
While talking to her, I noticed a missed call from my brother and Amanda sent me a text telling me to call her immediately. I didn’t have to. Apparently, the doctor had been looking for us at the hospital to talk to us about Nana. He called my brother just after we left and told him that her heart had suffered too much damage from the attack and probably could not function without the IV medicine which increased her blood pressure.
I left the golf course, raced home for a shower and headed back up the interstate toward the hospital. We visited at 5:00 and then began calling the family in to say goodbye. At the 8:00 p.m. visit, all of the grandkids, most of the great grandkids and some of the great, great grandkids visited Nana in her ICU bed and one by one, said goodbye. My brothers stayed the night in the hospital in the ICU waiting room and at around 1:00 in the morning, there was a code blue. It was Nana, but since she did not have a living will on file, the doctors and nurses resuscitated her.
I got word of the code blue at 6:00 the next morning and went to the hospital at 9:00, knowing this would absolutely be the last time I saw her on earth. My brother had talked to the surgeon and Nana’s primary care doctor, both of whom recommended we stop the IV medicine and let nature take its course. We visited Nana at 9:00 and she was in and out of lucidity. She knew who we were, but about half of what she said was just crazy. She did tell us about reading the Bible and about how there were many good verses. She could not pick a favorite. I asked her to tell me the story about her throwing popcorn at Granddaddy at the medicine show before they started courting sometime in 1938. She said, “OH! What you know about the medicine show?”
“Just tell me the story Nana.” And she did. All about how they used to come around to the country and set up a tent and do acts and tricks to try to sell medicine. She and her friend or cousin were sitting behind Granddaddy and Nana threw popcorn at him to get his attention. I think she had met him before, but this event was kind of the beginning of their relationship.
She told me about walking around the house with Granddaddy before they got married too. During their courtship, Nana and Granddaddy used to go to parties, presumably with other young couples, and they would play games. One of the games involved a boy and girl walking around the house together. I never have known what else was involved, but Nana told me that story about her and Granddaddy walking around the house one more time there on that ICU bed at Princeton Hospital on the west side of Birmingham, Alabama.
Those stories are essentially the beginning of my family history and I needed to hear them one more time from the person who lived them so I could say goodbye and consent to closure of the earthly struggle of this 90 year old child of the depression who has been the one constant during my constantly changing 33 years.
I kissed her on the cheek, brushed her hair back behind her ear, told her I loved hear and said goodbye. My brother and I told the nurse that we wanted to stop the medicines that raised her blood pressure to functional level and I left the hospital at about 9:30.
I got a message to call Amanda just after 11:30, but I didn’t have to. She was gone from us. Gone to Heaven to be with her Lord and Savior, her beloved husband and only child. How sweet it must have been for her. I know that she had been accepting, if not looking forward to death for many years. But it was still hard on those of us left behind. Much harder than chemo. Bring it on today, doctors and nurses. No matter what happens today, it will, at worst, be the second hardest thing I have done this year.
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