Friday morning I woke up and knew it was Friday. Exactly 3 weeks since Dave died. I laid in bed in sadness . . . thinking about that morning. The awfulness of it. The phone call from the nurse who said “there’s been a medical emergency; you need to come to the hospital immediately.” I asked what had happened and she wouldn’t say, just repeated that there was a medical emergency, you need to come right away. The drive to the hospital (about 20 minutes away) was horrible. I was crying and driving – probably not very safe. I prayed over and over and over. I think I knew, but I held out hope. I remember parking my car in the multi-level parking garage, and the endless walk/run from there to the front door of the hospital, having to wait in line to get my ID badge to go to the ICU. The wait for the elevator, the wait at the ICU doors for them to open them up so I could enter the ICU unit. My mad dash down the rooms. The nurse who announced loudly when I was about 15 feet from the room, saying “his wife is here.”
I remember seeing them administering CPR with about 10 blue-clad uniforms surrounding Dave’s bed. The nurse I knew who held onto my shoulders and made me sit in a rolling desk chair outside the room, the ICU doctor crouching in front of me telling me what had happened. Hearing the people in the room say something like “let’s try the paddles again one more time.” But I’d heard what the doctor had said, the one crouching in front of me, that even if they were able to get the heart to beat, his brain had had no blood for 25 minutes. And he said “you need to let him go.” I turned to the nurse who had been so kind to me and she said the same thing, “you need to let him go.” I said yes. And I sobbed. They stopped. It was over.
So, on Friday, as I went about my morning routine, I thought a lot about Dave. About those 9 days he’d been in ICU with all the ups and downs of the brain in trauma, the rhythm of the ventilator, the blood pressure cuff that automatically took the readings every 15 minutes. The tones of the machines that administered drugs hanging on the pole by the bed. His temperature was up, then down. Blood pressure up, then down, then up again. Then down very low. His blood sugar up and down, up and down. Pulse fast, then slow. His brain must have been struggling mightily during those days. He was peaceful. Of course, the early days it was a drug-induced sleep and peace, but he didn’t wrestle with anything, which is comforting. I remember the day before he died when his eyelids flickered open often, but he didn’t seem to see. Or follow. Or respond to my voice.
I’m sorry if this is more information than you ever wanted to know. I try not to relive those moments all the time – it’s too heart-wrenching. But Friday, at that 3-week interval, I mourned hard. Some hours later I glanced at my watch at exactly 8:30, that was when his heart had stopped. And the Code Blue team had been called. I just think Dave somehow let me know that that’s really when he went to heaven. I hadn’t been watching the time – I really didn’t want to. But at exactly 8:30 I did look at my watch. I don’t want every Friday to be a bad day. Or every 21st day of the month to be a bad day. Dave wouldn’t want that for me, I know.
All the food has been eaten now – all my wonderful friends who brought things for me. Last night I defrosted a flat Ziploc of cabbage patch stew, one of my favorite things. My cousin Gary, who is still with me, and I had that for dinner. Very much comfort food for me. Today I need to cook. Todd, one of the sons in law arrives with his daughter for a few days. They were here last week, but this is Taylor’s spring break week, so they’re coming down to spend it with me, which is nice. So, assuming what I’m making today tastes good (a pork shoulder recipe) I should have something new to report in another day or two.
Dave’s chair, the one pictured at top, isn’t a comfortable chair for me – not an emotional discomfort, but a physical one – because it has a very deep seat. Dave was a tall man, and that chair was definitely his. It sits directly facing the big TV in the family room. It’s where he watched his favorite westerns, the 007 movies, the news. Golf tournaments and football games. I think I’m going to need to rearrange the room because the chair is very uncomfortable for me – I’m a short person, so I have to slouch to sit in it at all – not at all an easy angle to watch TV. One of these days I’ll think about it. When I have some strong backs to push and shove the furniture to new positions.
My cousin Gary, who is still here with me, you might recall, has to eat gluten free. Or at least flour free. The only thing I did make a few days ago were the absolutely fantastic GF peanut butter chocolate chip cookies. I made them the first time this past December and posted about them. There’s nothing IN them except peanut butter, brown sugar, soda, salt, vanilla and chocolate chips. And you’d absolutely swear there must be flour because they look and taste just like a cookie that contains flour. I made a double batch and he’ll take most of them home with him. I kept out a few.
I wrote the program for the memorial service we had last Monday. About 300 people came. What a tribute to him that so many people came to bid him goodbye. The program was really crowded with information. I wrote this on the back cover – just information about Dave that most people might not know. Our 3 children wrote a paragraph each also, but this is the paragraph I wrote first, when I sat at my computer and started to write the program.
Did you know about Dave’s favorite things? That he loved red roses? And jazz! And travel. His favorite movie was The Music Man, and he’d cry every time at one particular song in it. His 2nd favorite was Casa Blanca. Western movies made him happy, especially those starring John Wayne, and anything 007. Sailing gave him such peace and freedom and he was very proud of his boat, Decadence (so named because it has a shower and an oven in it). It was his pride and joy, along with his new BMW convertible and his wine cellar. Many mornings he visited one of the local coffee stores for good conversation with people. He loved the Lord; he read and reread Psalms and Romans. And he truly loved his guy friends in his men’s Bible study group. He loved music – God spoke to him through music especially singing in the church choir. He loved candlelit dinners any night of the week – ribeye steaks along with a good bottle of Zin or Cab, enjoyed in our dining room with the sun setting on the horizon. He was fanatic about washing dishes – funny, but true. He loved his children (and grandkids), worried about them nearly every day as parents are wont to do. He was a real romantic and he loved me for 31+ years. Goodbye, my darling. . .
Melynda
said on April 13th, 2014:
It is never easy in the telling of our journeys, especially the very hard ones. Thank you for sharing these words.
You are so right about the telling of the journey is hard. But it is therapeutic for me, I know. . . thank you for being willing to read through it . . . carolyn t
Debbie
said on April 13th, 2014:
Dear Carolyn,
My heart is still grieving for you and your family, but so glad to hear from you through your blog. Thank you for sharing Dave’s favorite things, my own husband is also a fanatic about washing dishes. He says it is his time to relax and reflect. In honor of your post and also because my daughter has celiacs, I made the peanut butter chocolate chip cookies. They are delicious, easy and GF or not, one of the best peanut butter cookies ever.
Oh, I’m so glad you liked the cookies too. I think they are just SO good. . . carolyn t
hddonna
said on April 14th, 2014:
Carolyn, you need to talk about Dave and the pain you are going through, and as a friend through your blog, I am honored that you have shared your feelings and experiences so eloquently with us. I was greatly moved by your piece about his favorite things. Please don’t hesitate to keep writing whatever is in your heart to say. Your readers care!
Donna
Thank you, Donna. My family all know how miserable I am – they’ve been very kind to listen to me day in and day out. Every day I think maybe it will be a bit better. Some days it is, and some days it isn’t. As everyone says, the journey through grief is different for everyone. It’s a maze of landmines, I’ll tell you. And no one understands unless they’ve been through it. . . carolyn t