Two weeks since you left
Dear Mom,
It's been over two weeks since you passed on from this life. I must confess that I am still finding it difficult to believe you are gone.
It's really ironic that I would start writing you letters after you left this world, since I was never terribly good at writing while you were here. Had it not been for e-mail, we might not have stayed in touch. How we take those for granted that we love, until they are gone!
Speaking of e-mail, after I arrived back to Michigan, following your funeral, I fired up my laptop and discovered that I still had the final e-mail that you had written to me. You mentioned how you were going to try to help Sheila get insurance after you returned to work. You had big plans, big ambitions, big goals. But they were all cut short. Understanding why, has been most difficult for me.
I'm glad that I went down to Alabama the first time to be with you prior to your surgery. I remember missing my exit in Nashville, and worrying that I wouldn't get to see you prior to your surgery. After arriving just 20 minutes before they took you away, I was proud that I got to see you.
After your surgery, you seemed to be doing so much better. The way you were putting makeup on in the intensive care unit, impressed the doctors who admitted that it was a first among all their patients.
I am thankful that I was able to spend the time that I did with you. I am thankful that I was able to pray with you. My only regret is leaving as early as I did. I was worried about getting back to Michigan; I was worried about getting back to work. Little did I know that it would be the last time that I would be able to see you in a responsive way, in this world.
Our thoughts were focused upon getting you into a special place where you could receive the proper care, intended to heal — not just treat the disease.
Michelle and I were also very busy with Michelle's family, as her mother had just had a stroke at about the same time you went into the hospital again.
When I had returned to Michigan, I knew I might have to make another trip down. Little did I know how soon.
I think it was about a week after I returned to Michigan, Sheila called and told me I had to get down there "now". She said that your blood pressure had collapsed, that you were on a breathing machine, and that you again in intensive care.
I packed only a change of clothes, and left for Alabama, leaving Michelle behind to care for her mother. I drove the 700+ miles to Birmingham again. I went straight to the hospital, as I had the last time.
As I entered the room where you lay, I saw you there — well, your physical body, anyway. There was a vast web of tubes, and wires going every direction, monitoring all of your vital signs, beeping at regular intervals. Emotion overwhelmed me, as I stared at you that day. You were so heavily sedated, that you couldn't open your eyes, couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but lay there asleep. You, who were so proud of her independence, couldn't have been more dependent. It became harder to see you in that condition, as the days passed.
Daily visits with the doctors indicated that your condition was steadily worsening. They said your lungs had been clogged with blood clots from the surgery and with the cancer. They said your kidneys were failing from the medication you had to have to support your blood pressure. They were asking us to make decisions on how far we, your children, wanted the hospital to take their efforts to keep you in this world. To say that we struggled with the questions, would be a massive understatement. Of course, we'd do all we could.
But as the days passed, it became obvious that we couldn't leave you in that condition. How could you improve when your lungs wouldn't function? How could you improve when your blood pressure had to be artificially supported by a constant flow of medication into your veins? And even if you were able to overcome those obstacles, you still had a long fight with stage 4 cancer. There would be months of chemo, at least. What kind of life would you have?
I told Sheila and Tammy that there comes a point at which we have to ask ourselves, are we doing this for Mom, or are we doing this for ourselves?
With much praying, weeping, and anguish, the decision was finally made to withdraw support. We believed that if God chose to perform a miracle, he could do so in those final moments.
I'll never forget waiting there during those final hours at the hospital. I'll never forget getting the call from Michelle, back at home, when she told about how her mother — herself at the hospital in Michigan — burst into tears and said, "Sad tears! It's Janet! Get the Lord!" And no one had even told her that you were "dying"!
At first, it was too painful for me to stay in the room with you, as they began to turn your machine down. I left to check on your sister, Pat. She was in the parking garage, praying. She had a very difficult time dealing with your illness.
After staying with her for a few minutes, I wondered what was happening in your room. I had to know. I went back and stayed at your bedside, even though all I could do was weep.
As we watched your heart rate and blood pressure drop on the monitor, memories flooded my mind of the good times we had together on this earth. You were everything in a mother that any son or daughter could ever ask. Your generosity and love always showed in everything you did.
Lower, lower, lower your vital signs became. Finally, your blood pressure made a dramatic drop. I remember commenting on how quickly it dropped. Then, in another few seconds, the line indicating your heart rate was perfectly straight. It had only been 40 minutes from the time they started lowering the settings on the machinery, and you were gone.
I wept.
Like a whipped baby, I cried harder than I ever had. Life would never again be the same.
In the coming days, we would plan your funeral, and say our final goodbyes to you. But the experience changed us all forever; I know it changed me.
I have often said that this world holds very little appeal to me. If it were not for Michelle and the children, I wouldn't mind if I crossed over to the next life.
But that feeling has been made stronger by your absence. And though I know that I have to live here for all of my appointed days, I look forward to seeing you again someday.
I miss you more than words could ever describe.
There is more that I want to say to you. There probably always will be things I want to tell you. I'm not sure if heaven has Internet access. But I suspect that you will be able to read my words, whether or not you have a computer.
And you're welcome to talk back, however you're able.
Love, Darren
It's been over two weeks since you passed on from this life. I must confess that I am still finding it difficult to believe you are gone.
It's really ironic that I would start writing you letters after you left this world, since I was never terribly good at writing while you were here. Had it not been for e-mail, we might not have stayed in touch. How we take those for granted that we love, until they are gone!
Speaking of e-mail, after I arrived back to Michigan, following your funeral, I fired up my laptop and discovered that I still had the final e-mail that you had written to me. You mentioned how you were going to try to help Sheila get insurance after you returned to work. You had big plans, big ambitions, big goals. But they were all cut short. Understanding why, has been most difficult for me.
I'm glad that I went down to Alabama the first time to be with you prior to your surgery. I remember missing my exit in Nashville, and worrying that I wouldn't get to see you prior to your surgery. After arriving just 20 minutes before they took you away, I was proud that I got to see you.
After your surgery, you seemed to be doing so much better. The way you were putting makeup on in the intensive care unit, impressed the doctors who admitted that it was a first among all their patients.
I am thankful that I was able to spend the time that I did with you. I am thankful that I was able to pray with you. My only regret is leaving as early as I did. I was worried about getting back to Michigan; I was worried about getting back to work. Little did I know that it would be the last time that I would be able to see you in a responsive way, in this world.
Our thoughts were focused upon getting you into a special place where you could receive the proper care, intended to heal — not just treat the disease.
Michelle and I were also very busy with Michelle's family, as her mother had just had a stroke at about the same time you went into the hospital again.
When I had returned to Michigan, I knew I might have to make another trip down. Little did I know how soon.
I think it was about a week after I returned to Michigan, Sheila called and told me I had to get down there "now". She said that your blood pressure had collapsed, that you were on a breathing machine, and that you again in intensive care.
I packed only a change of clothes, and left for Alabama, leaving Michelle behind to care for her mother. I drove the 700+ miles to Birmingham again. I went straight to the hospital, as I had the last time.
As I entered the room where you lay, I saw you there — well, your physical body, anyway. There was a vast web of tubes, and wires going every direction, monitoring all of your vital signs, beeping at regular intervals. Emotion overwhelmed me, as I stared at you that day. You were so heavily sedated, that you couldn't open your eyes, couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but lay there asleep. You, who were so proud of her independence, couldn't have been more dependent. It became harder to see you in that condition, as the days passed.
Daily visits with the doctors indicated that your condition was steadily worsening. They said your lungs had been clogged with blood clots from the surgery and with the cancer. They said your kidneys were failing from the medication you had to have to support your blood pressure. They were asking us to make decisions on how far we, your children, wanted the hospital to take their efforts to keep you in this world. To say that we struggled with the questions, would be a massive understatement. Of course, we'd do all we could.
But as the days passed, it became obvious that we couldn't leave you in that condition. How could you improve when your lungs wouldn't function? How could you improve when your blood pressure had to be artificially supported by a constant flow of medication into your veins? And even if you were able to overcome those obstacles, you still had a long fight with stage 4 cancer. There would be months of chemo, at least. What kind of life would you have?
I told Sheila and Tammy that there comes a point at which we have to ask ourselves, are we doing this for Mom, or are we doing this for ourselves?
With much praying, weeping, and anguish, the decision was finally made to withdraw support. We believed that if God chose to perform a miracle, he could do so in those final moments.
I'll never forget waiting there during those final hours at the hospital. I'll never forget getting the call from Michelle, back at home, when she told about how her mother — herself at the hospital in Michigan — burst into tears and said, "Sad tears! It's Janet! Get the Lord!" And no one had even told her that you were "dying"!
At first, it was too painful for me to stay in the room with you, as they began to turn your machine down. I left to check on your sister, Pat. She was in the parking garage, praying. She had a very difficult time dealing with your illness.
After staying with her for a few minutes, I wondered what was happening in your room. I had to know. I went back and stayed at your bedside, even though all I could do was weep.
As we watched your heart rate and blood pressure drop on the monitor, memories flooded my mind of the good times we had together on this earth. You were everything in a mother that any son or daughter could ever ask. Your generosity and love always showed in everything you did.
Lower, lower, lower your vital signs became. Finally, your blood pressure made a dramatic drop. I remember commenting on how quickly it dropped. Then, in another few seconds, the line indicating your heart rate was perfectly straight. It had only been 40 minutes from the time they started lowering the settings on the machinery, and you were gone.
I wept.
Like a whipped baby, I cried harder than I ever had. Life would never again be the same.
In the coming days, we would plan your funeral, and say our final goodbyes to you. But the experience changed us all forever; I know it changed me.
I have often said that this world holds very little appeal to me. If it were not for Michelle and the children, I wouldn't mind if I crossed over to the next life.
But that feeling has been made stronger by your absence. And though I know that I have to live here for all of my appointed days, I look forward to seeing you again someday.
I miss you more than words could ever describe.
There is more that I want to say to you. There probably always will be things I want to tell you. I'm not sure if heaven has Internet access. But I suspect that you will be able to read my words, whether or not you have a computer.
And you're welcome to talk back, however you're able.
Love, Darren
posted by Darren Weeks @ 1:39 AM
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