Of Covens, Comforters, Aztec Gods, and Light-3
Final Act
If you haven’t read part one CLICK here. For part two CLICK here. And then…
… skipping over thirteen years to…
25 September 2014.
3:30 p.m. I sat across from Bill in Room B-5 of Good Sam. He’d been there about a week this 3rd or 4th, or maybe even 6th visit since June. Exhausted, I hadn’t planned on returning that night. I felt sick; ten days later I’d learn a nasty black tumor was growing in my lung. Ironic, huh? At the time I thought I might’ve picked up one of those fall bugs. Plus, my daughter was at a Girl Scout meeting so I needed to stay home with her ten-year old. I figured I might even clean the house, which had been neglected for weeks, AND go to bed early in hopes it was all I needed to revive myself.
I told Bill I wouldn’t be back until morning. His response was that “Finally!” I planned to get some sleep. “You look like you need it,” he said then, because of who he was, added: “Don’t get me wrong. You’re still beautiful but you look exhausted.” He told me to bring him new pages in the morning. “Forget cleaning! Work on the script and don’t come back until you have something for me to read.” I saluted then he laughed and said he could survive a night without me.
I told him “good luck with that,” grinned, and left around 4. Driving home I couldn’t shake the look on his typically smiling face.
5:00-ish I opened my computer to look up Hyperbaric Oxygen Therapy (HOT) a procedure that could potentially save the leg doctors said they might have to amputate. I printed the article to bring to Bill the next morning. I turned to Nice Guys, my nearly finished screenplay, and stared. All I could see, really see, was Bill’s expression when we kissed goodbye and I said, “see ya in the morning, Handsome.” He echoed “see ya” and reminded me to not forget to call and say “goodnight” when I climbed into bed. “As if I would, Silly.” I punched him in the shoulder.
5:30. I phoned Sonja, mother of one of my granddaughter’s friends, to ask if Natalie could hang there until after her mother’s meeting. Of course, she told me. I grabbed the printed Hyperbaric Oxygen pages —I’d promised Bill I wouldn’t come back to the hospital without something for him to read— and we headed out. I told Nat to text her mother that she’d be at Sonja’s.
Bill’s face lit up when I walked into Room B-5. We kissed as I sat on the edge of his bed to discuss the Hyperbaric Oxygen procedure that, in my opinion, could save his leg. Bill had heard of it but being shoved into a tube wasn’t something he could tolerate. I moved to the chair as he studied the article that pointed out an alternative: large multi-person rooms. No tube. Bill was intrigued. I said I’d check to see if there were any HOT rooms in the Bay Area. Bill said he only knew of one place and all they offered was treatment in the tube.
As we chatted, the surgeon came in and told me Bill had agreed to let them put in a breathing tube. Red flags up, I asked Dr. N to step outside. The on-call resident joined us and I explained that I wasn’t certain Bill fully understand intubation. I reminded Dr. N that Bill was claustrophobic to the extent that he wouldn’t even let the dentist place a dental dam over his mouth; the one time he allowed it he had a serious anxiety attack and blacked out. He’d told me it felt like he was being smothered. Bill refused scans, I said, and anything that confined, trapped, or restricted him. I pointed out that he shot down the idea of Hyperbaric therapy even though it could save his leg. He couldn’t tolerate being restrained.
I asked if intubation was necessary. The resident shook his head. Dr. N said that Bill’s breathing was rapidly deteriorating and they preferred to intubate while he was stable. They didn’t want to attempt it in an emergency which the resident said was likely as Bill’s ability to breathe was so compromised. We returned to Room B-5. I wanted to ask Bill if he was 100% comfortable with the procedure. I had to be certain he knew exactly what intubation meant. He was so foggy so much of the time, I wasn’t confident he was thinking clearly when he agreed to allow doctors to stick a tube down his throat. I was frightened for Bill and wanted him to prepare. HOWEVER, I was also frightened that talking about it would project my own fears on to him which could cause him to panic and affect the procedure.
I didn’t bring it up. We resumed chatting. He wanted to watch the video I’d taken of Natalie saying “she missed him,” again. I showed it as well as the one I’d taken of him the previous night.
VIDEO (24 September 2014): Bill sends a message to Nat
who can’t visit due to ICU age restrictions
The team joined us. A nurse pulled out a needle and the attending asked me to leave. I balked but Dr. N insisted and said there were all ready too many bodies in the room. I looked over at Bill. He assured me he’d be fine and was looking forward to the “woozy shot”; it made him feel as though he was floating in outer space.
Our final exchange that night was emblematic of our relationship: Bill the romantic and me the comedian. “Enjoy your trip to Mars,” I told my husband and grinned. “See ya when you come back to earth.” Bill smiled and blew me a kiss. I’ve tried to remember if we said “I love you” to each other. I can’t but it almost doesn’t matter because it was something we both well knew.
When I backed out of the room, Bill waved with the hand that held the HOT article — funny, I just realized I have no idea where it went. Probably into the hospital’s shredder. He blew another kiss which I “caught” and pressed to my lips then turned toward that long dark hallway. Two or three or a thousand hundred yards away I slid onto the brown cushion of a stiff chair in the waiting room. I prayed to a God I didn’t believe in. “Don’t let Bill be frightened. Make sure he’s comfortable when he wakes. Don’t let him panic that his mouth is filled with tubes and he can’t speak.” At that I thought, Why didn’t I give him my notepad and pencil so he could communicate? It might’ve comforted him. I cursed myself again for letting the doctors chase me out of the room. I would curse myself a hundred million more times for not staying.
Some time later, Dr. N joined me in the waiting room. His first words were, “He’s stable though we almost lost him. Twice.” I asked what he meant. “The procedure went well but when he came out of it, he tried to yank out the tube. We restrained him but then his heartbeat got erratic. At one point he nearly flatlined but we got him back. He’s resting.” This isn’t completely verbatim, of course, but close. I caught my breath at “flatline” and made up my mind to spend another night in his room. It wouldn’t be the first time and I figured it wouldn’t be the last. I’d be there when he woke and discovered his mouth was blocked. Heaven help anyone who tried to stop me. Dr. N continued. “He’s very sick, you know.” Duh! “We’ll need to monitor him carefully over the next few days. As for when we can schedule the surgery — ” then I heard it.
“Code Blue in room B-5.”
Days later I stared at the patchwork spread on our bed. Bill was right, I thought, it is too dark. I yanked it off and stored it in the back of my husband’s closet. I replaced it with a soft fluffy white taffeta comforter. Attempting to retrieve what I’d lost. Determined to unearth the light my husband stole when he up and died on me. It would be over seven years before I reclaimed it.
Your writing is incredibly expressive, and I so appreciate you sharing your journey. It both made me smile, and brought tears. What a beautiful journey you and Bill shared. ❤️❤️
This is so sad, CJ. But so well written as well. I'm sorry you went through that.