And so today’s moment of happiness despite the news.
I’m very late with this today. I held off deliberately, because I knew tonight, I was going to a special celebration for people who died this year at Angels Grace Hospice. Michael was one of those people. I was both looking forward to and unsure of attending. I thought of little else during the day, so if a Moment happened, I didn’t notice. My mind was elsewhere.
The hospice stay was both soothing and traumatic. Michael had been through so much by then, and, by connection, so had I. I was Michael’s power of attorney, and while we’d talked a lot about what our final wishes were, it still felt very heavy and uncomfortable having to call the shots. Working my way through all the medical-ese, watching Michael as he made huge leaps forward, followed by huge falls back, trying to decide what was best, was the hardest thing I ever had to do.
And the decision to go to hospice was the hardest decision.
Michael was doing so well. We both thought he’d not only turned a corner, but he’d left it behind. We expected that he’d be going back to work in August. And then everything went wrong. The hardest thing to understand was Michael’s brain told him he was eating, but he wasn’t. He would hold his food for fifteen or twenty minutes, and then set it down. When he was asked if he was going to eat, he’d say, “What are you talking about? I ate the whole thing!” When the nurse or I would point out that his plate was just as full as when it came in, he saw it as empty.
Michael told me while we were planning that he wanted no artificial means of nutrition. I wanted to follow his wishes, but I was also desperate to get him back. So I agreed to something called a TPN, which was a step up from a stomach tube. It put nutrition directly into his veins. I hoped it would lift the brain fog and he would return.
He didn’t.
The day I agreed to hospice was the day a doctor was brutally honest with me, and told me that if I sent Michael to a long-term hospital, the end result was going to be the same. He was not going to recover. So I agreed to hospice. They had an ambulance there within the hour.
I had to run home for a couple clients, but then I went to the hospice. When I walked into his room, his beautiful, amazing room, and I looked at him, I knew I made the right decision. His bed was neatly made, fresh white sheets, a blue blanket, good pillows. There were huge French doors, looking out over a small lake. And he was asleep. Peaceful. Five days later, he was gone.
I received an invitation to go to this angel tree celebration. Everyone who passed at the hospice received a ceramic angel for those left behind to hang on the tree. Neither Michael nor I are really angel people. But something told me this was a good thing to go to. Olivia came with me, and my son Andy, and Olivia’s boyfriend Tim.
It was held in a church, and it was so full, we ended up sitting in the balcony. Over 400 angels were hung on the tree over the course of two hours. They didn’t go in alphabetical order, so I found myself straining to hear Michael’s name. To hear him. I was so worried I would miss him.
While we waited, I noticed that I’d received an email. I could see it was from a magazine I submitted a lyrical essay to, and the header was, “Thinking of you.” That’s an unusual response from a magazine, so I looked at the email.
The magazine is Months To Years, which devotes itself to poems and nonfiction pieces about death and dying. I’ve been in there a few times. The essay I submitted was the first thing I wrote after Michael’s death, about him and about what happened. And as I sat there, waiting to hear Michael’s name, I read that the essay was accepted. The response said,
“I am very backlogged on reading submissions and just read your lyrical essay “The Forest.” I love it (and we will accept it) but the reason I am writing is to say that I am so deeply sorry to hear of your husband’s death in June as well as of the traumatic accident and health ordeal your family had to endure. My heart aches for you and your family. I hope you are finding your way as best can be expected. But it can certainly be moment by moment….for a very long time.”
And now I’m writing a Moment. I am amazed, over and over again, by the compassion I’ve received.
Michael’s name was called out and Olivia and I went down together. We chose a spot on the tree and hung the ornament up with all the others. Michael’s in good company, surrounded by people who were well-loved. Before we hung the ornament, I hugged it to my heart.
Both Livvy and I wept our way back to our seats.
But as we sat there, through the rest of the names, watched people walking up and hanging their ornaments and weeping their way back, I looked again at the words from this editor, who accepted my essay.
“It can certainly be moment by moment.” Yes.
And I remembered my own words from this essay, near the end. When Michael was still in ICU, the doctor told me that he was improving, but that “he’s not out of the woods yet. He is deep, deep in the woods. All he can see are the trees.”
On August 1st, a month and a half since Michael died, I wrote the essay and ended with, “But you return to the woods and you lose your way. Even though I call your name. Over and over. Until I have no voice left. You look over your shoulder, glow that smile, and then you’re gone.
I hope the forest is beautiful. I hope the sun comes back. There is no summer. Oh, to see your smile.”
Tonight, I saw his smile. I smiled back. The forest he is in is beautiful.
And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.
Lovely, Kathie. I am sorry for your loss.
Thank you, Michele.