One long week
By DelMio Editor
May 8th, 2008 | Leave a comment
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Dad was in a coma-like condition in ICU at Mount Carmel West. Nobody knew exactly what had happened. I suspected a stroke. He was on a ventilator, with that rhythmic hissing and clicking ever present. His hands were strapped to the bed rail. He had no apparent control over his movement, and the hospital staff tied his hands so he wouldn’t pull the ventilator or one of the multitude of wires and needles stuck to him. It was not a pleasant sight.
My sister seemed to think he recognized my voice and calmed down when I was in the room.
The doctors wanted to give him some time to see if he’d stabilize or regain consciousness. I was doubtful, and his living will loomed in my mind. This was precisely the kind of thing he didn’t want.
Several days later I brought my wife and kids down. DeAnne and Matt didn’t say much — Matt never handled stuff like that well and it creeped him out. Lindsey, all of 6 then, spoke eloquently for all of us: “Papa Willie,” she said, “We love you. It’s OK if you want to die. We understand.”
Well, you’d have needed a forklift to pick my jaw off the ground.
We went back home, told everyone of the most recent events, then stepped into the daily routine of calling the hospital to get an update. Usually it was nothing new. They tried to wean him from the respirator, but he couldn’t sustain it. One of the nurses thought she saw his eyes following her, but others believed he was blind. A week later the hospital called. They wanted to meet with us the next morning.
I pretty well knew what that meant.
So my sister Yvonne and I drove down to Columbus the next morning. It was May 4, 2005.
A couple of nurses took us into a room; I believe it was the chaplain’s office, but that part is fuzzy. They had concluded that there was very little likelihood that he would recover, and that the cancer had spread. It was a matter of days or weeks at most. We all agreed it was time to remove the life support.
Next we went into his ICU room. On the odd chance he might understand what was going on, I told him what the hospital planned to do. I asked him if that’s what he wanted.
What happened next amazed me.
He nodded. Twice. Emphatically, with all the might he could muster.
“That was a nod!” I blurted.
My sister agreed that was indeed a nod.
They say hearing is the last sense people lose as they’re dying. I suppose it’s true.
We bade farewells, the staff came in and removed the ventilator, and he took his last gasps. We untied his hands and held them. One of the monitors started squawking and, irritated, I shut the thing off. It was of no use now.
Fifteen minutes later, he was gone.
