That dangerously high fever at the end
of June marked the beginning of Adam's last week. He spiked a fever
on that Friday night, and then again on the Sunday. Over the
weekend, he lost the ability to hold his head upright, and by Tuesday
his chin was completely resting on his chest. The liver pain was
constant, but controlled by painkillers. He was still as stubborn as
a mule, however. He insisted on coming downstairs when he should
have been in bed. While taking to his parents on the phone one
morning, once again trying to convince them that he was fine, he
refused to sit down and he fell. By Tuesday night, it was the fifth
night in a row of Adam needing through-the-night care. He was having
episodes of incontinence and needed his bedpads changed, and also
needed morphine every two hours to keep his pain under control. It
was clear that I was in way over my head, and I needed to summon an
on-call nurse for help in the early hours one morning. A friend also
stayed one night to help me bring Adam down the stairs when he
insisted on getting up at some ungodly hour and needed a change of
scenery. By Wednesday, the nurse agreed that it was time for Adam to
be transferred to the hospice care unit. Adam was so debilitated
that morning, that he couldn't even lift his head. He agreed to be
transferred. As the day wore on, he started to feel better, and when
my mom and I weren't looking he escaped out the front door to go for
a walk on his own. I yelled for mom to quickly follow him, and the
hospice transport ambulance pulled up at that moment. The paramedics
were quite confused, as they didn't expect their patient to be
standing outside the front door on his own two feet. The last they
had heard that morning was that Adam was completely bedridden, and he
was. But, those past few days, Adam would go from lying in bed,
needing to be spoon fed and completely unable to lift his head, to
walking down the stairs on his own two hours later. It was the most
incredible emotional roller-coaster I had ever experienced.
Once in hospice care, Adam felt much
better. They connected him to a morphine pump, which thanks to his
catheter took mere seconds after he arrived. The regular dose of
painkiller perked him up and made him much more alert. It also made
him feel much better than he really was. He kept asking day after
day when he was going to be discharged, which was really difficult.
I managed to convince him each afternoon that it was too late to be
discharged home, and why don't we just spend the night and see how he
feels in the morning. I was beyond exhausted, and the break I got
from being in the hospice unit was priceless. My prayer group
friends all created a schedule so we didn't have to spend one moment
alone. At least one or two friends were always in the room, even
through the night to offer company and support. I can't put into
words how magnificent that was. And the hospice nurses did
everything. Absolutely everything. I was able to eat, sleep through
the night, and relax. Adam's parents arrived from England, and were there to provide Adam with company and cherish some tender
final moments with their son. As each day passed, Adam spent longer
periods sleeping. I had suspected all along that he wouldn't make it
through the weekend, but Saturday morning I left to go home and
cuddle the boys, get a shower and change of clothes, and run a couple
of needed errands. I had remained in contact with one of the ladies
who was “on shift” and she told me via text messages that Adam
was alert and smiling. But by the time I had returned with Calum
(who wanted to come and spend the night), he was already asleep. And
he never regained consciousness again.
It was late afternoon when the nurses
noticed that his breathing had changed, and he seemed to be
struggling to inhale. They changed his position and increased his
medication, which helped somewhat, but the nurse let me know that she
thought Adam might only have 24 hours left. We all started making
phone calls to invite close family and friends. Within a couple of
hours, the room was packed. My parents arrived, and my sister with
her husband drove three hours to get there. By 10:00pm everyone was
accounted for, and Adam continued to sleep. The nurse explained to
me that it appeared that he was suffering from a brain bleed, and he
was deteriorating quickly. We all watched as Adam took
one breath after another. Suddenly in the early hours of the morning, I had a really uneasy feeling and felt that I needed to pray for him. I prayed like I had never
prayed before. After what seemed like an eternity, the uneasy feeling went away.
It wasn't immediate, but after a short while I smelled a
sweet fragrance, like lilies but much much stronger. That is when I
knew with all certainty that Adam was going to be fine. I was filled
with a euphoria like I had never felt. For hours I rode the most unusual wave of joy, while watching my beautiful husband slip
away. I kept whispering to him that I was so proud of him, that he
was so strong, and that he was almost there. I kept encouraging him
the best I could. My mother-in-law suggested we play some music for
him, and I found the Abbey Road album in his iPhone. It just felt
right, and when “Here Comes the Sun” came on I started to cry.
We always loved that song, especially the boys. It was like a family
anthem to us. I leaned over and asked Adam if I made the right
choice in music, and he smiled. It was so fast, but he smiled, and
that was the last communication I had from him.
The late night hours of Saturday turned
over into Sunday. A couple of times the nurses excused everyone from
the room so they could reposition Adam, and I stood behind the bed
holding his head. When they would turn him, he would stiffen, but as
soon as I stroked his face and assured him I was there, he relaxed.
Eventually, as the early hours of the morning passed, I began to
break down. I was so tired, but everytime I closed my eyes, Adam
would stop breathing for a second. I couldn't do it. No matter how
tired I was, I had to keep watching him. I just didn't want to look
away for one second and miss his last breath. Finally, my
bladder was crying out so loudly I had to take a break. I quickly
went to the bathroom, and was able to stretch my legs and revive
myself. It was nearing 5:00am. I got back into the room and my
friend rubbed my back for me. I was in so much pain from bending
over the bed, holding Adam's hand and his head for so many hours. A
few minutes later the nurse came in and swabbed Adam's mouth. She
tested his reflexes, and inserted the swab deep into his throat.
There was so reaction, and she assured me that he was feeling
nothing. A few breaths later he was gone. Nothing dramatic. He
just didn't take another breath.
In the Catholic faith we often pray to
St. Joseph, the Patron of a Happy Death. I never understood what
that meant until that night. Adam had a Happy Death. He was
surrounded by family and friends who loved him dearly. We were all
praying incessantly through the night. He listened to his favorite
music. And there were even moments of joy, like when we were
listening to some of Adam's favorite 60s music and a few of us just
couldn't help dancing a bit in our seats. I cannot imagine a better
send-off into the next life, and I am so glad that Adam had that.
I'm not going to lie, and say that this was easy to write. It was
awful. I have put it off for many weeks, but I really needed to do
this. I started this blog, and so I have to finish it. I don't know
what the future holds for myself and my boys, but I am not
despairing. I am completely at peace with Adam's passing, and I am
so happy for him now that he is healed and with our Heavenly Father.
And, oh by the way, he is still very present. He has communicated
things to me, to family and to friends since his passing that could
have come from nobody else. I smell him sometimes when I am walking
through the house. And I have seen bunnies. A few times. I always
called him “Bunny”, never “Adam”. He was always Bunny to me.
And now I know that when I see a bunny, he's here. I saw him when
I went to pick out his final resting place in the cemetery, and I saw
him again on our anniversary. And he is still providing for us as
head of this family. We have received incredibly generous gifts that
covered the funeral costs and allowed me to pay off all of our debts.
Every last one. And I know that's him. He always agonized over not
providing a better standard of living for me and the boys, and now
he's doing it from Heaven. There are brief moments when I feel
tearful, but otherwise I am fine. I miss him. But, before I know
it, I'll be taking my last breaths. We all will. And when that time
comes, I can look forward to being with him again. It won't be in
sickness or in health. It won't be for richer or poorer. It will
only be perfect.