From Depths We Rise Page 7
I peered in the room and caught the eye of the woman I had spoken to on the phone. She came out to talk to me.
“He nearly coded on the way to CT. His breathing tube came out, and we were seconds away from having to shock him,” she said. “I’ve seen the scan, Sarah, and this is bad. You just need to know it’s really, really bad.”
They later confirmed it was another third and massive stroke. Once again, I felt like I had been kicked in the gut. When would this ever end? Would we ever catch a break? We were so close. So close.
Before I left for the night, I walked over to her, and she gave me a hug. She kept telling me over and over again how sorry she was. I could tell by the look in her eyes she thought it was over. I was not willing to concede. We had fought too long and too hard for Joel to lose this battle now.
“I just believe that somehow, some way we are going to still get our miracle,” I told her.
She looked to the ground, then to Joel, and then to me.
“I hope you do, Sarah. I really hope you do.”
Even as she said it and meant it, I knew wholeheartedly she didn’t believe we would ever get it.
It was the morning after, and the hospital routine was the same, but things definitely felt different. As I sat in the giant chair beside Joel’s bed, my legs to my chest and a blanket around my shoulders, the doctor entered the room and sat in the chair beside me. Neither of us said a word as we both stared intently at Joel.
“I had a hard time sleeping last night. This one hit me hard,” he started off.
“I didn’t, either,” I said softly, still looking at Joel.
“I told you that I would tell you when there’s no hope,” he said and then paused. “There’s no hope.”
The words I had been praying I would never hear were just uttered. They hung in the air, heavy with meaning.
Unable to feel any lower than I had ever felt through our journey, I asked softly, “What’s next?”
“The only option is for us to declare him brain dead. Then we have to legally turn off all forms of life support. I can do the first part of the check today, but we will have to wait another forty-eight hours or so to do the last part of the check. If he fails both of them, then that will be noted as his time of death and the machines will be turned off when you are ready.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Is there anything else I can answer for you?” he asked.
“No,” I simply said.
“I’m really sorry. Truly I am.”
I nodded silently in agreement, staring straight ahead.
I knew he was, but not for the same reasons that I was. We were two people in the same situation but two very different realities of what that situation meant for us. He was losing a patient; I was losing a husband. I couldn’t wrap my mind around what had just happened. I wanted to scream but also dissolve in tears. I asked God over and over again how I would make it through the horrifying reality of what was ahead of me. I knew He promised to always be with me, yet in this moment, He had never seemed so far away.
They came back a little while later to do the first part of the brain death test. I held my breath and closed my eyes. I couldn’t stand to watch. I once again prayed, pleading with God for a miracle. When I heard the doctor taking his gloves off, I knew the test was complete. I raised my head to look at him. He shook his head.
“No signs of brain activity. We will do the last part of the check once his levels get to where they need to be so the test is uncompromised and complete.”
And with that the doctor left.
It wasn’t forty-eight hours later—it was actually seventy-two. Seventy-two hours I cried out to God and prayed like never before. I knew how things looked and knew it did not look good. I also knew God had been with us the entire time and performed many miracles on Joel’s behalf already. I didn’t believe He would stop now. Not even a little part of me did. When fear would grab hold at the thought of attending a funeral or being a single parent, I would stop those thoughts right in their tracks.
“My husband will live and not die” was a mantra I repeated out loud over and over again. “My husband will live and not die.”
The morning finally arrived when his levels got to where they needed to be for the final part of the check. Part of me was relieved we would finally have resolution; part of me was dreading to know what that resolution would be.
The morning drive to the hospital was so beautiful: a perfect sunny, unusually mild summer day. I parked my car, walked to the building, and hit the button to the second floor, repeating the same routine I had done daily for nearly two months. My parents and three close girlfriends met me there. The nurses did not waste any time in calling in the doctor to perform the test. This was a new doctor, whom I had met only once. He entered the room, nodding professionally.
I sat down in the big chair beside Joel’s bed, just as I had many days before. As he explained the details of the test, I crossed my legs and bent over, curling into a ball, hiding my face. My girlfriends surrounded me on every side, rubbing my back and holding my hand. My parents were in the corner beside us. During this check they would physically turn off the breathing machine several times in a row to see if Joel would start to breathe on his own. They would also put water in his ear and other annoyances to see if he would respond. The small room was jammed with respiratory techs, nurses, and the doctor himself. It felt as if all the walls were closing in on me.
“We will go ahead and begin the test now,” the doctor said.
I heard him mechanically going from one part of the test to the next. Over and over again I shut my eyes and willed my husband to breathe. Even the smallest of a breath would signal that there was still reason to hope.
Breathe, Joel, breathe, I would say again in my mind. Come on, please, please breathe. God, please.
The test continued for several minutes until I finally heard the doctor ask for the time.
That is when I knew. Joel had failed the test, and this was his time of death: 9:36 a.m., Friday, July 23, 2013.
The hospital staff gave their condolences and told me we could have some time with Joel before the machine was turned off. Our friends and family used that time to pray over Joel and sing his favorite songs to him.
By 11:00 a.m. the time had come to turn off the machine. The nurses and respiratory personnel came in and removed the tubes and machines within minutes. As they quickly exited the room, I sat by Joel’s side and held his hand. I knew the time was drawing near. Still, for a long while, I begged God to let him live. I begged God for a miracle. I begged Joel not to leave. I knew it was against all odds, but I was determined to keep my promise to Joel and fight for him until the very end.
About ten minutes later, I felt a tangible shift in the room. I knew my husband’s spirit, the essence of who he was and not the shell of his physical body, had left the room. My heart was broken.
It was over.
I nuzzled my cheek to his cheek, buried my face deep within his shoulder, and cried. Everyone left the room to give me a moment with my precious husband, the love of my life, the man present for me every moment of the last nine years. I’d waited a lifetime for Joel to enter my world, and now our planned life together had been stolen from us. It felt unfathomable to have found my life’s greatest love and know the rest of my life would be spent apart from him.
I looked at him lying in that bed and realized in an instant I had not only lost my best friend, but my son had lost his father. I also knew at only one year of age my son would never remember him. That thought brought an aching pain to my innermost being.
How do you say good-bye to someone you love so much? I didn’t know.
I sat beside his bed, gently taking his hand and placing it on my head, as if to comfort me as I wept. The loss was deep, the pain so heavy, I could hardly breathe. My greatest fear had come to life. After several moments I stood, went over to my bag and grabbed the oils I had used to soothingly rub his feet every day of
his hospital stay. I poured the oils into my hands and rubbed his feet one last time. Upon finishing, I walked over to his side and whispered in his ear: “JoJo, I know you know how deeply I loved you. You fought so hard, and I am so very proud of you. Milo is proud of you. Not one day will go by that our hearts will not ache for you. I love you. I love you. I love you. Good-bye, my one true love.”
I gently placed his hand I held back onto the bed and kissed his cheek once more. I went to grab my purse and belongings and walk out the door. Before I left, I slowly turned around one last time to look at him, knowing my eyes would never again see the man who I loved more than my own life. I wished it was my own life that left instead of his, or at least with his. I couldn’t imagine living life without him.
I walked out of the ICU in a trance, not believing the finality of what had just occurred. My three dear friends were waiting in the hall ready to enfold me in their arms. I cried, telling them I couldn’t believe this had happened. I wanted so badly for Joel to get his miracle, and I always believed he would. I cried for my son, who at this moment was oblivious to the fact he had lost so much. I cried for our hopes and dreams, which had taken years to build, only to be gone in an instant. I cried for the pain I felt then and the pain I had yet to endure. I cried for the life my husband would never get to live and the life he had to endure at the end. I cried for the memories we had and the memories we would never be allowed to have. I wasn’t just grieving losing a person; I was grieving the loss of our entire life.
Gone in the blink of an eye.
My girlfriends looped their arms through mine, steering me to the elevator and down to the parking garage. As we were about to step out the door, I hesitated. I had come in through this same door earlier that morning and I still had a husband. I was still a wife. No longer. I now exited the door having just lost my husband, myself a widow. It was unreal the difference a few hours could make, a life here at one minute and gone in another. Nothing about it made sense to me.
“In these doors with one life, and I now walk out with another,” I told my girlfriends. “When I leave this hospital, I don’t know what I am walking into. I just know that life will never be the same.” Tears were pouring down my face.
They looked at me and nodded slowly with tears in their eyes. There was nothing they could say.
With that, I took a deep breath and slowly but surely walked out the door.
CHAPTER 5
The Decision
I opened my eyes, turning to my left, to the empty spot in my bed. It took a while for my brain to catch up to what happened the day before: my husband was never coming home. Suddenly, a bed that once seemed at times crowded was all too large. Silent tears poured down. It felt as if they would never stop.
Today was the day I would go to a funeral home and plan my husband’s service. The thought was overwhelming. Writing his obituary the night before was heartbreaking enough.
The day ended up being as difficult as I’d imagined. Every choice at the funeral home was, well, old. From the programs, to the flowers, it all reeked of stiffness. Of course it was geared toward their main clientele, which was not men in their midthirties. No one that age should die in the prime of his life. My family, girlfriends, and I worked hard to pick out choices that were youthful and vibrant and spoke to who Joel truly was. We used a Valentine’s Day print I had made Joel that year, with twenty of his best characteristics, as the program guide. We planned a balloon release, scheduled for after the service, and planned to play songs he loved. We tried with everything we had to plan a personal service that spoke to the spirit of who he was. It was an exhausting and emotional process.
I was spent when I got home from the funeral home. My mom took my son into the playroom so I could have some moments to myself. I was in my closet changing into comfortable clothes when I looked over to a picture of Joel and me on top of my dresser—a photo-booth style. The first photo we were smiling normal, the second I was kissing his cheek, and the last we were sticking out our tongues to the camera. I stopped and stared at that photo, having the sudden realization that as I continued to age, I would one day look back at that photo and see my younger self with my husband, who would never age another day. Something about that thought brought me to hysterics.
I started sobbing violently, and before I knew it I was on the floor wailing, curled up in a ball. I was screaming out over and over, “I can’t live without you, Joel. I can’t do it without you.” The tears were flowing so fast and freely that the carpet beneath me was soaked, as was my shirt, from sweat and tears.
In the middle of my sobs, I had a picture in my mind of Joel standing over my curled-up body and holding me. It was so real and vivid. He had his entire body over mine and was cradling me. My outstretched hand was held in the palm of his, and he was stroking my hair. He was quieting me, telling me it would be all right and he would always be with me. Realistically I knew I was imagining it, but it was so vivid and seemed so real, as if he were really there. It was as if I could feel his very real presence right beside me.
I don’t know why my mind was creating this vision, but I never wanted it to stop.
After several moments the tears slowed, and I started to quiet as I felt a sense of peace wash over me. In my vision I saw Joel start to get up and tiptoe away as if he were thinking, She’s better now, I am going to quietly leave the room. I started to go into panic mode. Now I was crying even harder and screaming, “No, Joel, no. You can’t go. Please don’t leave me again. Please don’t go. Please, Joel, stay with me. You can’t leave me. Please.”
No matter how many times I asked, he still left. This time I knew it was for good. Cold emptiness washed over me once again. I stayed on that floor weeping from the most primal place within me in ways I had never wept before and hoped to never weep again.
The morning of Joel’s funeral, I woke up to a thunderstorm raging outside. The rain echoed how I felt in my heart: dark, gloomy, and angry. I got up and dressed in my funeral day best. Shopping for my dress had been a nightmare as I wandered aimlessly around the store muttering to myself, “Joel, which dress do I pick?” Even the smallest of decisions seemed monumental to me.
As I finished applying my waterproof mascara, I heard someone say the limo had arrived to take us to the service. I didn’t want to have to face what I was to face that day, yet I knew I had no other choice. It was time to honor my husband.
We pulled up to the church, and I stayed in the limo until it was time for them to seat our family. As my dear friend Julie sang “Great Is Thy Faithfulness,” the funeral director held my hand and asked me if I was ready.
Everything within me wanted to yell, “No! No, I am not ready! Please don’t make me go in there.”
I didn’t. Instead I said a silent prayer for God to somehow give me strength.
As I walked into the room, everyone looked up. I felt the discomfort of hundreds of eyes peering at me in my weakest moment. I silently looked at the floor. They sat us in the front row, and I looked at the massive family pictures spread across the front of the church. Photos we had taken during our most happy times, now on easels commemorating Joel’s death. It was unbelievable to me. I wanted to speak to honor him but knew there was no way I would be able to do so without breaking down into a sobbing mess. Instead, I wrote a letter and had our pastor read it.
I wanted to speak so badly on behalf of my husband but did not believe I could get through it, so I come to you with this letter. Our family has so much overwhelming gratitude to everyone that has prayed and interceded for us over the last three years and especially the last seven weeks. We thank all of you. We especially want to thank our Antioch church community, who have embraced our story and believed so completely for Joel’s healing. Your prayers will not return void. Joel and I always felt so humbled to be able to be a part of such an incredible community of people.
How do I even begin to describe how amazing this man was? Words cannot do him justice, but I will try my best. Everyo
ne who knew Joel would come to him for everything. If your computer would break down, Joel would be the person people would call, and he would walk them through how to fix it. If he knew you were going to buy an item, electronic items in particular, watch out! He would scour newspaper ads and the Internet to find you the best deal possible. People thought his passion about it was so silly, but really it was his way of always taking care of those around him that he loved so much. If you were in his life, he loved you deeply.
I will miss the laughter that filled our home even in the midst of extremely difficult circumstances. I remember when he was going through chemo the first time, we were watching TV and he casually said, “Babe, do you mind if I buy some Godzilla slippers?”
I responded by saying “Uh…that should be fine,” rolling my eyes, and that was the end of it.
I had forgotten about that conversation until about two weeks later a huge package arrived at our house. Joel opened it, and out came a pair of insanely huge Godzilla slippers, with claws and everything. He wore those ridiculous slippers all winter long. Sometimes we would be in the midst of a serious conversation and I would look down at his feet and burst out laughing. He was so childlike at heart, and it was one of the things I loved the most about him.
He loved God. His faith wasn’t one where he shouted it from the rooftops but rather quietly tried to display the Lord to people every single day. One of my favorite recent memories of him happened just two months ago. After the May 20 tornado, his heart was devastated. He wanted so badly to do something but couldn’t help with cleanup due to how sick he was. He came up with an idea to load up our car full of water and drive around giving water to people cleaning up the rubble of their homes. Block by block I would drive around, and he would roll down the window yelling out to people, “You guys need any WATTA?” in that glorious New York accent of his. He had the biggest smile on his face that day and said he was so glad he could do something to help those people. His heart was always full of compassion for those in need.