Two years ago today the love of my life departed on a conscious level. We were sitting, having our morning coffee when she put her cup down and said, “I don’t feel well, help me to my bed so I can lay down.” Those were the last words she ever spoke. I laid her down on the bed and I said, “We need to get you to a doctor.” She was unconscious in little more than a minute. I called 911. That was so frustrating; the operator wanted to know who I was, where I was and half a dozen questions that seemed inappropriate. The idea of 911 was that the police and medics knew where the call was made from and I felt that all she needed to know was where I was and what the emergency was.
The ambulance arrived and the medics put Joyce on a gurney and left for the hospital. I was headed there myself, but had a delay when I saw they somehow caught the striker plate and ripped it from the door. I had to find the plate and then find some longer screws to replace it into the door frame.
I called our daughter and told her to be ready when I stopped at her home on the way to the hospital. By the time we arrived, the staff was running scans to see what was wrong. They brought Joyce back to the ICU unit and left. They were not allowed to tell us anything. That was for the doctor to tell us. We sat there with Joyce. I held her hand and arm that was already getting cold. About two hours later her neurosurgeon (The one who had saved her life after the first aneurysm) came into the room and gave us the bad news. Joyce had a second aneurysm right below where the first one occurred. The surgeon told us she could operate, but the best she could hope for was to keep Joyce alive in a vegetative state. The surgeon said Joyce would most likely die on the operating table. She then said our best option was to remove the life support. I asked how long Joyce would live and if she would be in any stress or pain. The surgeon said no pain and Joyce may live another hour or so. That hour turned into multiple hours, I don’t remember how many. We were exhausted, drained from grief. We finally left about 10:30 that night to get some rest. My phone rang at 5:10 the next morning, a nurse said Joyce had passed and I could come over and spend some time with her before they had to send her to what is called “The cold locker” an ominous sounding place. I spent time beside Joyce, by then she was already cold to touch. I spoke to her for a while before finally kissing her forehead and departing.
One final note, Joyce was an organ donor. The funeral home called me hours later and said the folks that harvest organs would not release Joyce to them. I was given a number to call and find out how long she would be in their charge before being released to the undertaker for cremation. I spoke with a representative there and I asked how long Joyce would be in the cold locker? The representative said they had no time frame for me. I knew Joyce was gone and not feeling the near freezing cold of a locker and I also knew they could hold on to her for days on end. I called back and demanded they release Joyce to the funeral home. Something told me that what they were doing was wrong. They released her body to the undertaker. I had to go there and verify her body before they would cremate her. I understood that and that made me wonder even more about what the organ harvesters might be doing with the bodies. It was tough going in to verify Joyce’s body, but someone had to do it and that someone was me.
Joyce’s ashes reside on a shelf in my closet beside those of her mother and someday mine will be beside them.
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