6/27/24

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

It’s interesting, really, how often the meaning of the word “news” in that opening statement has changed since I began writing this blog in 2016.

So it’s now been 1 week and 1 day since Michael died. 5 months and 10 days since the accident that ultimately took his life away. He was in Froedtert Hospital for 6 weeks, Milwaukee Rehabilitative Hospital for 3 weeks, home from March 22 to April 29, then back in the hospital for a week, then home from May 6 – May 25, then back in the hospital for a final time until June 14, then in Angels’ Grace hospice until he died the morning of June 19^th.

You would think, looking at that, that numbers mean a lot to me. They don’t. But the journey Michael took, and that I took with him, literally felt like one step, one day, at a time. The numbers started out as despairing as I didn’t know if Michael was going to make it, then they built in hope, and then they suddenly tumbled down again.

Michael was a numbers guy, and the severe traumatic brain injury he suffered made those numbers scramble for him. So I suppose, in a way, my focus on the numbers was to try to help him as he found his way back to the real world.

Which he did. Amazingly. Strongly. Miraculously.

And then he lost his way again. And I lost him.

I was power of attorney, and I was the one that decided it was time to go to hospice. But while I was the one who made that determination, I believe fully that I was in Michael’s head when I made it. We’d talked extensively a couple years before, when we drew up our wills, as to what we would each want, and, more importantly, what we wouldn’t want. When I had to step into the power of attorney role, I literally felt myself step away from my own consciousness and into his. It felt a bit like disassociation, but disassociation with purpose. I had to be Michael as fully as I could.

The hospital moved Michael to the hospice on the day I made the decision, which was sooner than I expected. I had to run back home for a client, and in that time, they scooped Michael up, put him in an ambulance, and delivered him. By the time I got to the hospice, I was only in the room for a minute before I knew he was in the right place. He was in a comfortable bed, tucked up to the chin in fresh sheets and a soft blanket, and he was sound asleep. The room was quiet and beautiful. French doors looked out and opened to flowers, trees, and a small lake. And he wasn’t plugged into anything. His arms were free.

He told me later, when he woke, that he didn’t understand where he was. I told him he was in a place where he could get some rest. He smiled and fell back asleep.

My Moment came three days before he died. He had a sudden burst of lucidity, and when I stood by his bed, he said, “C’mere. C’mere,” and motioned me into his arms. He had more strength than I’d felt from him in weeks, and he kissed me soundly. For that Moment, even though I was standing and bent in half so I could be close to him, I curled into his chest and relaxed.

And we set off the bed alarm.

“Michael,” I said, trying to pull away. “You have to let me go. We’ve set off the alarm!”

“I’ll never let you go,” he said, and held me tighter.

When the nurse came in, she laughed and said, “That’s the best possible reason for the bed alarm to go off,” and she shut it off and left us alone.

I stayed in that position until he fell back asleep.

He died three days later.

But he’ll never let me go.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.