I checked out of the hotel this morning, sure that it wouldn’t be necessary to stay any longer. Of course, I thought that the day before that…and the day before that. We’ve seen signs of decline in Vernon, but they are still so slow that I never know until the afternoon what to expect for that evening. My friend Andrea, who was keeping me company this afternoon, offered to stay with me tonight, but the hotel was booked up. No room in the inn. So I decided to take Suzanne up on her offer to stay with her.
I met Suzanne in passing in the early days of Vernon’s time at Mesa Verde. I don’t remember how long she said her husband had been living there, but he had a stroke five years ago. They have been married 30-something years. We noticed each other because there aren’t many other wives we’ve seen taking care of their husbands…at least not on the notably younger side. Though we’ve exchanged numbers and sometimes chat in passing, I haven’t really talked to her at much length until this week. As soon as she heard Vernon was going to be on hospice, she offered a room to stay in if I needed one.
So tonight, finally deciding it was safe to leave Vernon there another night, asking the nurses to check on him every hour and let me know about any significant changes they might see, I drove down to the address she gave me on the Balboa Peninsula, about three miles away. Now I wish I could stay longer. It’s lovely. And she brought me tea.
Thank you, Suzanne, for giving me space to rest. Just what I needed, right when I needed it.
Citizen:a person who legally belongs to a country and has the rights and protection of that country
(Vernon under this photo in Joshua Tree, a place he resonated with. He was always fascinated by the deserts of America, so mythic and unusual to his European experience.)
This morning I started filling out new forms for the removal of his body. I discussed options with our Chaplain. Of course he was okay with the options I decided on immediately after coming into the hospice season. It seemed much more efficient to have all my major decisions over and done with right away, but after all this time of waiting with Vernon, I had a change of mind. So for that alone, I’m thankful this is taking longer than expected. Maybe that’s even why.
But I can’t bring myself to fill out the forms any more than the very basics on the first page. Not right now. Not this morning. Not today. Fortunately, I don’t have to. The basic things I will need handled have already been arranged.
I’ve filled out SO many forms for Vernon since his accident. But the great irony lies in the forms I filled out for him for naturalization. They literally took me all summer to finish. When he had gone to the hospital last week, I had printed the last letter out and made all the necessary corrections. There must have been 50 pages. In fact, the last thing I had to do to finish up the packet was take a 2×2″ passport-style photo of him with a white background. Of all the the things I’d collected, I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten that detail till so late. So I used the pillows of his hospital room as a backdrop, even though I knew already it was pointless. Those papers would never get sent. He opened his eyes and tried to look straight at my camera. He was always on board with this citizenship idea, to the very end: in his mind, I believe it solidified him with the land his family was in. That’s where he wanted to be. It didn’t seem to matter if he had a temporary catheter sticking out of his neck and wires running across his chest. *
But Vernon has never really belonged to any land. He grew up in England but was happy to leave and live in Norway as soon as the chance came up as a young art student. He lived there for many years, learning the language and finding a wife. He lived in Dusseldorf, Germany for a time. He lived in England again. He moved to America. He was a citizen of the world. And soon he will be a citizen of heaven. I don’t even have to fill out anymore paperwork for him till after he goes. It will be an afterthought.
As my friend Sandy used to say when her husband died: “I haven’t lost him like everyone says…I know exactly where he is.”
A few Here is our favorite Simon and Garfunkel song. We both always loved it.
We managed to get through last night and all of today. I hear changes in his breathing, and they are ordering patches that will help with the wetness in his chest and throat. He seemed much more regulated as far as medication goes, and he hasn’t been noticeably awake since yesterday. Still, I think he hears. His toe still taps from time to time and his eyebrows raise when he hears certain names or even my voice when I enter the room. And then we medicate him again as soon as he starts to move too much. I feel much better today, even though I was tired from lack of sleep, merely because I knew he was feeling much better. It’s been a weird symbiotic relationship that got more intense over the past two years, but it’s nice that we are still seeing signs of that to the very end. It feels right, though not always comfortable.
Nap time.
My mother being wonderful, as usual.
Here’s Ramona, his beloved CNA, watching the video of Vernon giving his speech on free Type. She loves him and will miss him. She keeps saying how handsome he is now. Before she left her shift this afternoon, I heard her ask him to wait till tomorrow morning.
Justine came up for a bit in the afternoon. I missed her so much so we planned a getaway at the hotel pool. But first she had some time with her dad. I wasn’t sure how well it would go as he was much less lively than when she saw him last week. She asked why he looked so young. I told her (much like before) that he was going in and out of heaven and therefore he was becoming more beautiful.
I also suggested she think of a sign, a symbol that her father would be watching over her. It didn’t take her long to think of something. “A butterfly landing on me.”
I think he heard her. They say hearing is the last thing to go.
Tonight, I am back in a hotel. The nurse has promised to call if there are any major changes. He looks and sounds much more ready to go than he did even this morning. But this is a slow transition. I trust that I’ll be where I need to be in the morning. And that he is where he needs to be too.
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
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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