“The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away; may the name of the Lord be praised.”
This chapter of my story starts nearly three years ago during the summer of 2008. Graduation was less than a year away, and I was dreaming of moving to Colorado. I was so determined to graduate and move that I was taking a couple summer classes to ensure my goal and save money. While sitting in Chemistry, doing all I could to make the equations make sense, my phone rang. My dad knew I was in class, so I stepped out to see what he needed. His formal, business tone instantly alerted me to the fact that something wasn’t right. My grandmother, his mom, had been diagnosed with peritoneal cancer, simply explained- a cousin to ovarian. It had already progressed rapidly to stage four, and the doctor warned us we had about twelve months left with her. I tried to reason myself into staying into class. Leaving was pointless, but I couldn’t focus, so I left. The only time I had missed that class- the class I was working my tail off to get a C in.
Fast forward to September of this past year, 2010. My grandma (Bear) was still alive and doing well. We had celebrated each holiday as if it were our last, and we were blessed with more, but we were preparing for the end. For that reason, my grandfather called me. He had been healthy as a horse, exercising daily and eating horribly, but the doctor had noticed a slight problem with his heart. He wanted me to know that he was having tests, but it wasn’t a big deal. Testing revealed that it was a slightly bigger problem than he insinuated. He needed to have double bypass surgery for a forty percent and a ninety percent blockages. He went ahead scheduled it, knowing that he’d have enough time to recover before my grandmother really started getting worse.
After a few schedule and thin blood conflicts, my grandfather (Pops or Poppie) worked out a date and went in for surgery on October 1, the day before my birthday, a day kicking off “birthday season” in our family due to the plethora of birthdays and even my grandparents’ anniversary in those first two weeks of October. A large part of my extended family surrounded Bear in the waiting room trying to keep the mood light, distracting her with photos and random stories all while we waited with bated breath ourselves. The entire family was home for various reasons, so we banded together and waited. My gut had been giving me all sorts of bad vibes for a few days, but I wrote them off with a sigh when the doctor pronounced that Pops had come through surgery beautifully and how he wished all of his patients did that well. We got to see him before we went home to rest. He looked really good. He wasn’t able to talk yet due to the ventilator, but he kept thumping his chest and then gave huge, empathic “ok” signs with his hands. I laughed and asked if that was his way of saying he felt good. He replied with another “ok.” I corrected myself and asked if that meant he felt great, and he nodded dramatically, doing his best to reassure us. I tried to laugh through my tears, but the laugh got caught in my throat somewhere. I told him that I was leaving but expected him to be sitting up the next day to wish me a happy birthday. The nurse said that he was progressing so well that that would be a definite.
My Dad and I decided to start the birthday celebrations early. He insisted that despite his exhaustion from his recent trip to Scotland, his Parkinsons, and the general stress of the day that we go out to lunch and then go shopping. We celebrated at Carrabba’s, picked my brother up from school where his entire basketball team lined up to shake our hands and offer their support for our family. It was such a relief to be able to offer them a positive report. After that touching gesture, we ran all over town to find a new pair of Nikes. My mom and sister were out of town on a school trip, so I was spoiled by the boys. We finally dragged ourselves home, physically and emotionally spent. Dad was starting to teeter, a sure sign we had aggravated his Parkinsons. I sent him to bed. I contemplated bed myself since my uncle had called around 8 saying that Pops was off the ventilator and doing well.
Then the phone rang.
I intercepted it so Dad wouldn’t be bothered, but it was my uncle insisting to talk to Dad. Dad stumbled out of the room, not making much sense, so I piled him and my brother into my car and flew to the hospital. All my brother and I knew was that Pops had taken a turn for the worse. We flew up the stairs of the cardiac unit despite a security guard running after us telling us we weren’t authorized to enter that way. When we reached the top, we waited- my dad, brother, aunt, uncle, cousin, grandmother and myself. For what seemed like forever. All we knew was that an electrical mishap had happened in his heart, there was a crash cart in the hall, and that we didn’t want the doctors coming out anytime soon. I gave my mom a heads up, and we waited some more.
The doctors eventually came out to talk to us. It was at this moment that I was thankful for nonverbal communication. Both doctors came trailed by nurses, orderlies, and anyone else that had helped. Every face was a look of sorrow, and the head doctor was honorably stumbling about his words and not making eye contact. He gracefully stuttered about how hard they had tried and how confused they were. I knew what he was saying, but my family wasn’t catching on. He continued for another minute when his colleague, Dr. Greene, clarified, “He’s gone.”
The next hour was full of shock, tears, having to tell my mom, and witnessing and experiencing grief I had never even imagined. I walked around in shock trying to get done the things that needed to get done such as calling in backups for prayer and forcing my dad to sit to prevent him from being admitted to the hospital.
One thing that I realized in those moments was that the doctors and nurses had one of the best and the worst jobs ever. They get to save lives and deliver miraculous news, but there is also the flip side. They also, on occasion, have to deliver news that makes families crumble. The sadness on their faces was very real. It wasn’t a staged emotion. You could tell they had thought that they had already given the miraculous news: “He made it, and he will be on track to help his wife dying of cancer!” I was thankful for their kindness as they did their best to tend to our family. They went above and beyond their call of duty. I tried to voice my appreciation accompanied by a smile, but tears overtook the smile.
We rallied together back at my grandparents’ house mostly sitting in quiet grief listening to the clocks tick away the seconds and my grandmother occasionally wondering aloud what she was going to do now. A little after one am my grandmother looked up and said, “Well, happy birthday, Amanda Grace.”
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