In Memory of Uncle Ric

(Nov 1950 - Feb 2010)

A week ago this moment, I was in the VA hospital. My husband was with me. It was the first time I had been separated from my youngest without the reassurance that her dad was there in case anything went wrong. She and the other kids were in the hotel room with their Grandma. Their Grandma had been there with the kids the other two times we were in the ICU, facing the last moments before death.

I held his hand. Earlier in the morning, I'd not been able to sleep well. I was thinking of him. Thinking of my Grandma, and knowing what it feels like when your child precedes you to the grave. It isn't the natural order of things. I wondered if she was there at the hospital. She is a pacer like me.

I decided to drive myself through the unfamiliar streets of a city that was named "the Angels." I was jealous of him, on the horizon of the eternities where he would be able to meet my little ones who I have gone far too long without seeing. It was raining outside. Pouring. The earth was literally in turmoil. The sun had not yet come up, but it was dusk. A cloudy hope for the day as I headed to the hospital, knowing his time was going to be brief. I felt it the night before when we went to that room filled with all the machines and medicines that had been keeping him alive after he suddenly crashed.

The nurse who had been there the night before was still on his shift. He was gentle. He radiated an understanding of things beyond the medical. I held my Uncle Ric's hand. The nurse gave me some privacy. And I cried. I tried to speak, but I couldn't say the things I felt in words. I finally whispered, "Thank you!" I thanked him for loving me, always. For being there for me in those critical times in my life when my own father -- who abandoned me when I was only four years old -- wasn't there for me. For staying here long enough that we were able to make the long trip out to be there with him. To touch him.

I was worried. I remembered the nurses in the NICU telling me not to rub Bridget like I instinctively had been doing. She needed to rest and the stimulation wasn't good for her. Firm pressure, but no stroking. I thought of when Dominic was in the PICU, and there were concerns about touching. I wasn't sure if it was okay to be holding his hand now. Uncle Ric's hand. The nurse came in, and we talked. He told me it was okay to touch him. That he thought Uncle Ric preferred it. So I continued to hold his hand. I stayed until shift change when the nurse on the next shift asked me to leave, even though the nurse through the night had told me he wouldn't ask me to despite protocol. I tried to be respectful.

We were back in that room. Exactly this time last week. The palliative care team came and talked with us all about the process of death. I called them the "palatable team" when I'd first been introduced to them when Bridget was in the PICU. Who would think you'd be getting vocabulary lessons when your child was dying?

I understood why they were there, and was relieved actually this time. I appreciated their details in explaining everything that was being done. They tried to explain what happened, why he got so sick so suddenly. He'd had a blood clot, went to his lungs, but they had taken fluid from around his heart and found cancer there. It was too spread, he was too sick. They assured us they had been doing everything they could to help him, but there was nothing more that could be done. They would continue to do everything to make sure to make him as comfortable as possible while the natural process of his life ending proceeded. He was in multiple organ failure.

I knew his liver must be pretty sick with how quickly he was jaundicing, and how rapidly the dull yellow was getting more and more pronounced. It made sense in my head, but in my heart here I was in another ICU. With my loved one, a dear loved one, tied to machines and medicines and knowing that their life could no longer be preserved.

In some ways, it wasn't as sad as Dominic and Bridget being there. He had lived 59 years. He had made such an impression on this earth, been a remarkable influence. But we loved him. We would miss him.

I held his hand. Different adjustments were made, and he was breathing on his own. But it was the kind of breathing that Dominic had just before he died. They called it "the death rattle." I wasn't surprised by it this time. It had scared me then, as I held my dying son. Though it wasn't as scary, the familiarity was still somewhat startling.

I held his hand. I imagined that my little ones, and other loved ones who had already advanced into the eternities would be there to hold his hand once his spirit was set free. I wanted him to feel loved, uninterrupted by transitions. I held his hand. His breathing slowed. Less labored. He took a deep breath. Then what seemed like a small little swallow. Then no more. I held his hand as he died.

A week ago this very moment, I held his hand.