Saturday, October 02, 2010

The Vanishing Point

My husband died today. My husband, partner, buddy, prep master, shooting buddy, political guru and all around best friend died when I removed the ventilator circuit from his tracheostomy and shut off the IV fluids which were keeping him alive.

There was no hope. He had been fighting West Nile encephalitis since March and had contracted almost all of the conceivable hospital borne infections. Now, because of all the antibiotics and the resultant c. difficile opportunistic invasion, he was hemorrhaging at both ends. And despite the best of intentions, big medical brains, intensive nursing care, and all the work I could do, there was nothing left to be done. Through a series of decisions with increasingly minimized options, the final choice was to end suffering and bring release. The sad reality and irony was that for the past six years I had been manically following H5N1--and what took Bill down was a avian virus delivered via the mosquito vector. The assassin's mace; you never know quite where to look for the next threat. And then, suddenly, here it was.

Bill accepted Christ into his life in his last days (something which I never expected to happen, but then, there are no atheists in foxholes!). And when the end came, he accepted it with a dark grace. His eyes had a cold, blue, distant gaze, fixed into some middle distance where we could not see. Then, as his heart slowed, blood pressure dropped and breathing ceased, his grasp around my hand weakened and dropped away.

I know that life will go on, that I will get up and go to work, pay the bills, feed the dogs, cut the grass. But somehow, I feel like a deep, critical part of me has been cut away, and that wound will bleed for the rest of my life--blood looking, in its bright, slow and sinuous way, to heal the missing heart.

Vaya con Dios, Bill. Go with God, sweetheart.

4 comments:

Mary said...

His battle was long, brutal and homeric. I thought of the sonnet "Death Be Not Proud" by John Donne:
DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

Jessica said...

Jen,

Thanks for posting this, reading it definitely allowed the reality of the situation to set in. I know you have had a difficult past few months and I know grandpa was in good hands. Take care and God bless,

Jessica

Jennifer said...

Bless you. This is heart wrenching. Telling you that you will be in my thoughts and prayers sounds trite, but you are. May God comfort you and give you the peace that is beyond understanding.

Anonymous said...

I'm so sorry.

Prayers...

Michelle