Though of course we don’t know for sure, Vernon’s nurse suggested it would be a good night to stay here. I have a hotel room just a couple of miles away, but I’d rather be here. I think a couple of hours ago, I was feeling a lot more romantic about the idea. Now I’m just tired and achey and its not even 2 am. The bright side is that I’m sure people start moving around here before six…so less than four hours to go till morning. I can do this! I’ll just think of it as a red-eye flight. I can’t sleep on airplanes either.
I did try sleeping on a mat on the floor by Vernon’s bed, then tried the couch in the lobby area. But this place isn’t made for overnight guests, and there is always some activity going on. For now, I’ll just sit in the lobby, not sleeping. I have my computer with me…and in that, my pocket world of well-wishing friends. It’s not the middle of the night everywhere! I’m never alone if I don’t want to be.
One of these friends just sent me some Rilke to read. I’ll share a beautiful passage here (from 9th Duino Elegy):
Why then do we have to be human, and keep running from the fate we are made for and long for?
Oh, not because of Happiness — that fleeting gift before the loss begins. Not from curiosity, or to exercise the heart, which the laurel could do too….
But because simply to be here is so much and because what is here seems to need us, this vanishing world that concerns us strangely — us, the most vanishing of all. Once for each, only once. Once and no more. And we, too: just once. Never again. But to have lived this once, even if only this once, to have been of earth — that cannot be taken from us.
That said…Vernon is still here, a part of the earth. I’ll go and check on him now.
Nothing too different. His snoring is louder, his breathing still shallow. (We noticed the change earlier this evening.). That man has a strong heart. A lion heart. He’s still very hot, so I put a cold flannel on his head. He does not seem to be in pain. I just whisper to him a little and then let him sleep. Everything necessary has already been said.
“In heaven an angel is nobody in particular.”
George Bernard Shaw
That’s the quote I posted with this picture on Instagram three years ago.
I’d taken it off the pier in San Clemente and had marveled at its beauty, even though it was a common pigeon. The quote made a lot of sense to me too.
Last night, in a fevered fifteen minutes with Vernon, when he had woken in implacable agitation, he spoke of seeing ‘the Man of Light’ as he had often called Him. Now he could only answer in yes and no, but I got the gist. He had seen Him in the hospital over two weeks ago, before anyone even mentioned he’d run out of earthly options. He had said He was inviting him but he didn’t want to go. Since then, I’ve asked Vernon a few times if he’d seen Jesus again. He always said no, sometimes even angrily—or hurt that I would ask such a question. But last night he said he saw Him again…and though he implied the man of light was beckoning, Vernon still didn’t want to go. He couldn’t let go of life. I know he doesn’t want to leave me or his family. No matter how out of it he is, no matter how painful living has become. I’m trying to find the words to help him let go. There is a lot of reassuring going on.
But my friend Nicole was with me in the room. We both really thought the passage would happen for an intense session there. She told me I should ask him for a sign, something to communicate with me when he’s gone. I’ve had other friends suggest doing the same thing when the time is right. So I grabbed the moment. At least he was awake. I asked for a sign: an animal, a bird?
“Pigeon,” he murmured.
“What about an eagle, a hawk?” (Those are birds that held so much significance for him in his lifetime. And they are so much more powerful. I believe Maki has already connected this symbol with him through a few recent experiences.)
“Pigeon,” he said again.
Nicole urged me to ask more. What color?
“Common.”
Nicole and I started giggling. What a funny concept. A pigeon, of all things! Ok, a pigeon it is.
It’s so Vernon to pull up something so simultaneously odd and ordinary. He always cuts right through, doesn’t he? Even in his last will and testament.
There are lots of messages to be taken from this. You can be assured I’ve already looked up some of them online (Among other things, they represent home and security, as well as determination to get through difficult circumstances. They are also considered to be spirit messengers by many cultures. They are thought to bring love, peace and an understanding of gentleness.) But what I immediately took from it, was that they are common. They are everywhere. If Vernon is going to chose a messenger of his love for me, he’ll chose something I’m bound to see all often, wherever I may go. What a brilliant man. How can I ever forget him?
(Warning to readers: If you are a pregnant woman, please don’t read this entry. It talks about birth pains. You can come back and read it later if you want to.)
It’s been really hard the past couple of days. As soon as I think we are on top of his medication and he seems peaceful, he gets agitated again. Every day we go through meetings with the hospice nurses, have new orders written, get on a new schedule, only to have it change again by evening. As of now, he’s getting a higher dose of morphine every hour, but he also has a fever, fighting the toxin buildup. We are keeping cold compresses on his head, and I’ve come around to the need for Ativan (shocking, right?) to help with his temporary anxiety.
I thought it would be a lot more peaceful. That it wouldn’t get me so stressed out at the end. That’s the idea you accept when you first come into hospice care. I suppose its like going into childbirth. You hope for the best case scenario, you make a list of your preferences, and then for some reason, you ABSOLUTELY EXPECT those things to happen, when all those things you hoped for were mere guidelines. Why should I be so surprised a Dying Plan would be any more successful than a Birth Plan? In my experience, though I held on to that due date like an anchor for the whole pregnancy, Justine still arrived in her own time, an excruciating 8 days late. I did not receive the epidural I’d felt entitled to, regardless of the fact that she was born in posterior position. I swore to myself I’d never forget that pain. I’d worked to hard to get through it to just forget it, as all the old wives told me I would. Truth is, that is why I even talk about that pain from time to time…not to dwell on how hard it was, but because I never want to forget it. Experiences like that deserve to be remembered, I think.
Now, because I did have a natural birth, my recovery period was very quick. I know this isn’t that case for many mothers. The old wives were right in this: the pain left immediately, and I had this wonderful gift of a little baby of my own. I also remember the words “Its a GIRL” bringing me back to earth. Suddenly, I was no longer a pregnant woman, but a MOTHER. I’ve been one ever since, but I refuse to forget the experience that got me there.
Vernon was with me then too. I look at him and remember this feels so much like labor. We do know that Mother Earth is releasing another of her children, so why should we expect different pain. There is pain every time a child is born (we like to think more to the mother than the child, but we don’t even know that for sure) but then…there is so much LIFE. We just have to comfort and encourage him till he breaks through. Not an easy task, but soon he will be a graduate of earth in a perfect body (whatever that means, we’ll find out soon enough) and I will be a widow (a title I accept with great honor.) I am not afraid of either of those new roles—indeed, I welcome them. But I hate the pain that gets us there. It’s been more work than I expected.
Everyone dies differently. Every birth is unique. And for everything in between, there is even less of a map (thank God for that!) 🙂
For now I watch the clock and listen to his changes of breath. Counting the time between morphine doses is like counting the time between contractions. It’s been steadily decreasing.
“You will grieve, but your grief will turn to joy.A woman giving birth to a child has pain because her time has come; but when her baby is born she forgets the anguish because of her joy that a child is born into the world.So with you: Now is your time of grief, but I will see you again and you will rejoice, and no one will take away your joy.” —John 16: 20-22
I took a break for myself a few hours ago, coming back to the hotel room for a nap, a salad, ten minutes on the elliptical, twenty laps in an empty pool, and a jacuzzi. I intend to head back to Vernon’s room soon. Some days I’m more tired than others, so I’m so thankful for this hotel. Every night, its been paid for by a different friend. Every day, my bed gets made and my towels get hung to dry. Every morning I can have eggs for breakfast. And I can stretch out on a queen sized bed of my own every night by myself without a little girl marking her territory with kicks and cuddles. I miss her though. I miss Maki too. But they are both entertained and happy where they are with lots of love and distractions around them. I’m still happy to be staying close to Vernon. Today I just happened to take a longer me-break than I have taken this week. So I must be feeling content about his medication…for now.
Every day has been different. Every day has been a chance to work through the bugs of hospice care. “To train the carers,” as the hospice nurse said when I complained how rough some of the transitions have been. I have no fault with the care home, not enough to complain about. They have been great for us for a long time. BUT hospice care is different—or “Comfort Care” as I believe it will soon more commonly be called. The care home staff runs on a different rhythm and routine than end-of-life care nurses do…so it has been confusing and frustrating when I expect certain things and don’t get them right away, having to explain, ask questions, track someone down, etc… But though Joe and I get to bond in our venting about these issues together, it hasn’t been bad. We are getting there.
I believe as of today (though it changes everyday, so why shouldn’t it continue?) we are on top of his morphine intake for now. It’s been easier with him sleeping, though of course I’m happy to see him come to the surface here and there.
Here is lovely picture of Vernon holding onto my leg yesterday. (Good thing I got my toes done the day before! Not that his closed eyes would notice…but better for a photo!) 🙂
But it’s been good. My sister Cambria has been in town and at my service, helping with Justine-pickup, laundry, coffee, lunches. Here she was this morning, getting to know Joe, my constant companion at Mesa Verde these days.
I especially like this picture I took of them yesterday:
Cambria has always been the kind of person who shows up in the difficult times. It was special to be the recipient of her unusual (but important) gifts.
The Logies also came yesterday. I knew they were aching to be with Vernon, especially being with him every time he’s had a crisis or special event in the past year. Even last week, they were at Hoag every single day. He wasn’t awake for much yesterday, but I know he heard the music. His foot was tapping. His antennae is still going strong. It helps us know he is still present.
Andrea took me out to dinner the other night at the most amazing restaurant that I’ve passed every time I’ve visited Mesa Verde. The kind of place that specializes in Manhattans. It’s sort of sad because I really liked that place, but can’t envision myself returning to the neighborhood in the near future. At least I got to experience it. Thanks, Andrea!
My dear friend Sandy stayed over last night. It meant a lot to have her near as I met her shortly after her husband went to Heaven at 59 years old. We’ve been close ever since. She let Vernon stay at her home when he first visited me that fateful 🙂 Christmas, and a few years prior to that, I was blessed to be her company as her own mother passed away. (The only other time I’ve witnessed a death. It’s a privilege I’ve never forgotten. And its important to share some of this time with her now.) We went to go see a wonderful movie last night: Florence Foster Jenkins. It was absolutely the perfect movie to watch in this time. I cried because of the love in the relationships in this movie. I’ve become a Hugh Grant fan again—I related so much with his character, and he played him wonderfully.
It has been hard for me, honestly, that this is taking so long. He may have a lot of life in him yet. It’s hard for me to not have him as present, but it’s easier to see him resting peacefully. I’d rather see more of that than his fighting to be alive. I know we aren’t extending his life…so I don’t want to extend his death more than necessary. It’s a very akward thing, to be honest. I’ve cried a lot tears these few days. It’s so damn sad. But it’s more sad to see him in pain and fighting than it is for him to look rested. I must say he looks like a young man without the stress on his face. And he has hardly any grey in his hair. And he has hair. He looks great for 49, don’t you think? Almost angelic.
“Now cracks a noble heart. Good-night, sweet prince; And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.” —William Shakespeare.
The hotel I’m staying in is just a short block from Newport Subacute, the first convalescent home Vernon stayed in. Vernon only stayed there for a couple of months before we moved him to Mesa Verde. I walked over there this morning because there’s a Starbucks on the corner. While waiting for my black americano, I strolled the parking-lot one last time.
Those who have been following the story for a long time might remember the quirky antique store I used to frequent as well. There was never much I wanted to buy but lots to look at. I could spend an hour at a time in there.
Vernon did buy me a ring there though. Remember? (I picked it out and paid for it as wives are good at doing. I’m not alone in this, am I, ladies?) I’m still wearing it regularly.
Pretty, right?
I’m really only writing about this this morning because I’ve been meaning to comment more on all the closures I’m seeing around me. I’ve been seeing them for some time. They were really strong last week at the hospital. Now I’m more used to the signs and connective memories popping up everywhere. I notice them, but I’m no longer startled by them. I just don’t want to forget.
Last week, when everything was intense and active with so much change, important choices, people to talk to, going back and forth from home to the hospital, it felt to me as if I was witnessing the forming of a bracelet clasp, mirroring the clasp that was formed at the onset of our journey. Everything in between was the bracelet, but it’s the beginning and end of the circle that complete it, make it into a piece of jewelry rather than just an ongoing strand of beadwork or metal. It’s the clasping of the thing that gives it a name, a purpose. It’s the closure of the clasps that we are experiencing: the circling around, the solidifying.
So many mirrored things. Too many to list here. So many faces showing up at the end that showed up at the beginning. I try to capture them all as I see them, but I know I will forget. People bringing food, coffee, wine…they did this in the beginning. People providing fun distractions and care for the kids. Even the hotel shampoos and lotions have a message for us.
From Ecclesiastes 7:
A good name is better than fine perfume,
and the day of death better than the day of birth.
It is better to go to a house of mourning
than to go to a house of feasting,
for death is the destiny of everyone;
the living should take this to heart.
The end of a matter is better than its beginning,
and patience is better than pride.
Also from Solomon, that old Wise Guy:
“you have captivated my heart with one glance of your eyes, with one jewel of your necklace.” (Song of Songs 4:9)
I just took this photo of Vernon…the first time I’ve seen his eye open since last night. It may be the last picture of him looking at me that I will get. I felt lucky to get it now.
A special cover of Vernon's fav song 'Waterloo Sunset' by friend and singer/song-writer Ian McGlynn. All proceeds support Vernon's recovery! Donate what you can and download a beautiful song in return.
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