The following poem was read at Carl’s memorial service.
When tomorrow starts without me,
And I’m not there to see,
If the sun should rise and find your eyes
All filled with tears for me.
I wish so much you wouldn’t cry
The way you did today,
While thinking of the many things
We didn’t get to say.
I know how much you love me,
As much as I love you,
And each time that you think of me,
I know you’ll miss me too.
But when tomorrow starts without me,
Please try to understand,
That an angel came and called my name,
And took me by the hand,
And said my place was ready,
In heaven far above,
And that I’d have to leave behind
All those I dearly love.
But as I turned to walk away,
A tear fell from my eye,
For all my life, I’d always thought,
I didn’t want to die.
I had so much to live for,
So much left yet to do,
It seemed almost impossible,
That I was leaving you.
I thought of all the yesterdays,
The good ones and the bad,
I thought of all the love we shared,
And all the fun we had.
If I could relive yesterday,
Just even for a while,
I’d say good-bye and kiss you
And maybe see you smile.
But then I fully realized,
That this could never be,
For emptiness and memories,
Would take the place of me.
And when I thought of worldly things,
I might miss come tomorrow,
I thought of you, and when I did,
My heart was filled with sorrow.
But when I walked through heaven’s gates,
I felt so much at home,
When God looked down and smiled at me
From his great golden throne.
He said, “This is eternity,
And all I’ve promised you,”
Today your life on earth is past,
But here life starts anew.
I promise no tomorrow,
But today will always last,
And since each day’s the same way,
There’s no longing for the past.
You have been so faithful,
So trusting and so true,
Though there were times
You did some things
You knew you shouldn’t do.
But you have been forgiven
And now at last you’re free,
So won’t you come and take my hand
And share my life with me?
So when tomorrow starts without me,
Don’t think we’re far apart,
For every time you think of me,
I’m right here in your heart.
(Author Unknown)
-----------------------------------------
The following statements were written by various family members and also read at the service.
“Carl would want us to spend our grieving time with happy memories; memories of things he did that were funny, silly things he would say, or crazy situations he would get himself into. Carl and our sister Sondra’s lives were both cut short, but the short lives they did live were filled with more joy and laughter than many people who would live to be 100 years old.
When Carl was young Dad called him, ‘Captain of the Clouds.’ He is now truly ‘Captain of the Clouds.’ His great smile, the sound of his laughter, and wonderful sense of humor will be greatly missed.”
Donna
-------------------------------------------
“Carl was always my ‘Big Brother.’ I always looked up to him. He was the first to get the car; first to get a job; and first to begin dating. As the younger brother, there were times that I was envious of the time Carl spent with Dad, but as a father, I now realize how special every moment is that we are able to spend with our children.
My wife Molly’s first memory of Carl was the day of our wedding when we picked him up at the airport. Carl was the first person from the Bailey family to meet Molly. Before I could finish introducing them, Carl opened up his arms and said, ‘Welcome to the Bailey family!’ He always had a way of making people feel comfortable. Thoughts of him will be with us always.”
Don
--------------------------------------------
“One of the best times I can remember about Dad is when we went to play golf together. He always loved golf and he would take the time to teach me the fundamentals of the game. He was always patient with me and pretty soon I was becoming quite a challenge. Those were the greatest moments we had together.”
Jonathan
--------------------------------------------
“It was so easy to be around Carl. He could walk up to a total stranger and return with some intimate detail of that person’s life. Before we knew each other well, Carl and I would have discussions only friends would dare.
Carl and I enjoyed being together even after 17-½ years of marriage. He knew how to make me laugh, and he knew how to make me cry, but we still wanted to work together. We were fortunate to have had the opportunity twice.
Carl, you touched me with you heart.
You were not just my husband, you were my best friend.
I will never forget you.”
Debbie
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Saturday, February 24, 2007
DEATH CALL
[Unlike Law & Order, Law & Order Criminal Intent, and Law & Order Special Victims’ Unit, the following story is real and does depict actual people and events.]
Teardrops fall as rushing seas of memories of eight months passing. The heartache has no end, no waning edge of reality. Sons without fathers. Wives without husbands. This is the reality of life as it has befallen us. What is to come? No one knows. The tragedy of loss that time can only heal. The male dominant factor evaporated in the midst of ocean waves. A boy who must become the grown up and watch after the remaining parent. The young man who must face life without his father. No male figure to imitate or speculate the whys and wherefores.
“I’ll get that Dad.”
“Thanks, Jonathan. I’m getting a little tired.”
Jonathan did not always make things easy for his dad, but lately it was different. Carl felt more tired the last four months. After struggling with diabetes for 17 years, Carl developed end stage renal disease and would soon need dialysis. The illness kept the father and son relationship distant although Carl tried to compensate by playing the role of scout leader and golf instructor. Baseball would have been the crowning glory, but the sport did not beckon Jonathan. Basketball had that honor.
“You gonna make it to the game or do I need to get a ride home?”
“I’ll be there, but not sure about your dad.” His face said it all--he would not hold his breath.
“He’ll try, but he has to get an iron injection this morning.”
Jonathan sighed. “I know, Mom, but he doesn’t seem to be able to do anything anymore.”
“And you know why--he has to get ready to begin dialysis. We already postponed it and should not have cancelled his heart echo last week.”
“I know.” His frown so sullen that the tips of his brown eyebrows met.
“Try not to worry about it. Uh, you better get. Have a good day, and I’ll see you at the gym this afternoon.”
It occurred to me how life conflicted with Henry David Thoreau’s sentence from Walden--”They were pleasant spring days, in which the winter of man’s discontent was thawing as well as the earth.” Our discontent was not dissolving.
Southwest Secondary Learning Center was regarded as New Mexico’s premier alternative educational institution. Four moves in four years was ludicrous for a nonmilitary family and it took its toll on Jonathan. Making and leaving friends and trying to excel in basketball was difficult and finding SSLC seemed to make it worthwhile. At least his grades did not suffer although satisfactory soon became the norm.
The bleachers were crowded and had to settle for a seat near the end with full view of the backboard. Carl was tired after spending more time than usual at the hospital. Besides the iron injection, Carl was given two pints of A+ blood. The game went into overtime. The Monarchs were never the favorite pick in tournaments, but were quite competitive. Travis and Robert were the spit fires like Karl Malone and Dave Stockton of the Utah Jazz, while Jonathan and Derrick were the Starsky and Hutch of the backfield.
Only ten seconds left. Monarchs behind by two. Their possession. Derrick dribbled down the court at a trot, his blue eyes focused on the net. He passed it to Travis. Travis to Robert. Back to Travis who was back at midcourt. To Jonathan. His six foot frame crouching down giving way to the muscular spring. Going for a three-point shot--swoosh. The buzzer. The crowd sprang to their feet cheering and screaming. The Monarchs won 85 to 82. Quite an upset. Jumping and shouting, high fives all around. They were going to the finals.
“Mom, did you see that? It was sweet!”
“I’m so proud of you.”
“Wish Dad could have been here, but...” His contemplation was obvious--no need to finish. Discontent one minute and jubilation the next. It was forgotten and Jonathan could relish in the victory.
“Hey, Dad. We won. I made the winning shot and we made it to the finals. His smile made the Golden Gate bridge seem minuscule.
“Great! Sorry I missed it. Just so...”
“Yeah, Mom told me,” sheer exasperation in his voice. Jonathan did not want to hear the same old excuse again.
Bedtime was a welcome change although living with a diabetic was difficult. Monitoring blood sugars, controlling diet, injecting insulin several times a day. Fear of insulin reactions consumed every thought especially at bedtime when the majority of the reactions occurred. Over the years it became apparent that Carl had lost a significant portion of his mental capacity.
What a day I thought lying under the plaid comforter with Carl peacefully by my side. Reaching over to softly caress his strong back, a cold wet mist filled the palm of my left hand. Bolting out of bed, I felt a twinge in my heart and a lump in my throat. Not unusual but still unexpected.
“Carl! Carl!” I shouted while shaking his body with urgency. “Wake up!”
“Uh...”the stuttering like a severely drunken sot who had tied on one too many the night before.
“Carl, come on.” Sheer reserve helped me lift Carl up to the side of the bed. There was no need to take his blood sugar--the proof slapped you in the face. “Stay there.”
I ran to the refrigerator and grabbed the can of Red Bull. This worked so much better than the claims of orange juice. With anxious haste I poured some into a crystal cut juice glass and hurried back to the bedroom.
“Here. Drink this,” as I steadied his hand as it reached to touch the tip of his lower lip. Half a cup of a sugared beverage every 15 minutes as needed. Not for Carl-- trial and error proved this fact a fallacy. When you had the chance to get something down, you needed to make it worthwhile.
“Carl, are you okay?” I queried while placing my left hand on his back. No more sweating.
Carl groaned. “Yeah, I’ll be all right.”
His blood sugar machine registered 60 but you could always tell without taking it--he became coherent. After changing to some dry pajamas, Carl fell asleep. Laying another blanket over the bed I was relieved that the paramedics were not needed this time.
Fog dissipated the morning light. A bright sunny dawn was the norm. Sunday morning. The day to remember the Lord. How odd since church played such a small part of the day. Grocery shopping, reading the paper, practicing golf and sports on television deluged the remainder of the day. The smell of bacon and freshly baked Grand biscuits filled the air. Eggs sizzling in the Pam-soaked skillet. Coffee slowly dripping down into the carafe of the Norelco Dial a Brew. Sundays were the exceptional breakfast--not the mundane of cereal.
“I’m starving. Dad not up yet?”
“No, he had a problem last night.”
Jonathan rolled his eyes. “Oh.”
Poor kid, he had heard this so many times. What else is new?
“Are we going to church then?” He knew the pattern.
“Yeah, he will be fine.”
Jonathan devoured his breakfast with his usual gusto. How could anybody enjoy eating so fast. Could he even taste it?
Church was inspirational--"Faith be not Proud"--a living testament to over zealous arrogance. Judge not that ye be judged.
Sunday was a good day to shop. Vegetables and fruits were fresher. Shelves were fully stocked. Less dodging carts amid the aisles or kids manipulative screams to remedy their sweet tooths.
“If you won’t be long, I’ll wait in the car.”
Carl was somewhat ashen and the usual gleam in his large brown eyes lacked enthusiasm for life. He nodded off a few times in church. Insulin reactions usually exhausted him, but today seemed strange.
“I’ll try to hurry,” as I stepped out of the car.
“Mom, I’m going to Blockbuster.”
“Fine, just make it quick. I don’t want to come looking for you.”
After a few minutes, Carl was in the store. “I got tired of waiting,” he sighed.
Through the checkout and on the way to our Nissan, Carl had an unusually slow saunter similar to the old man Arte Johnson played on Laugh-In. Although observing changes in Carl’s movement and demeanor over the last two months, an eerie sensation shot up my back.
“Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
“Geez, Dad, you’re walking so slow.
“Nothing. Just feeling tired.”
Our confusing glance said it all--the remainder of the day would be uneventful.
The rush of Monday morning rituals. Getting ready for work. Jonathan arriving at school on time even when we only lived across the street. What a feat! Carl sat on the couch in his blue plaid pajamas. His eyes sunken in with big black circles underneath. I noticed how much older he looked. Illness was depleting his spirit.
“You gonna eat, Dad?”
“Yeah,” Carl replied as he slowly went over to the table.
It was quiet at the breakfast table. I was at the counter pouring the orange juice when Jonathan called out, “Dad!”
I turned around. Carl was shaking. In two seconds I was there supporting his body for fear of him passing out. Carl’s head suddenly rolled back; eyes opened and lifeless; his face turning a light shade of blue.
“Jonathan, call 9-1-1.” It never occurred to me that something besides an insulin reaction would cause such dread.
“9-1-1. What is your location?”
I rambled off the facts. “My God. He’s dead. Jonathan, I think he’s dead,” I wailed. ”Get him to the floor and elevate his head,“ the dispatcher said as he continued bellowing out instructions.
The cordless phone was difficult to hold to my ear while helping Carl. Jonathan grabbed the phone and continued talking to the dispatcher. I was in a frozen state, consumed with panic. Prior CPR training did not erase the sense of helplessness. Fortunately, the paramedics were at the door within minutes. Several times in the past year two of the EMTs had been at our residence and knew Carl’s medical history. They shoved over the loveseat and immediately grabbed the defibrillator paddles to begin resuscitation. One of the EMTs was on the phone with the ER doctor. The others lifted Carl onto a stretcher and rushed him out the door.
“Where do you want him taken?” the small Hispanic man asked. He had dark brown shoulder length hair that was tied back with a red band, one silver loop in his left earlobe overshadowed by the four inch scar just underneath, and a red dragon tattooed on his right arm.. Not the typical picture of a lifesaving hero.
“Presbyterian--downtown,” I said in shock. This was surreal.
Jonathan and I arrived at the hospital within an hour. Family members would be notified after there was a diagnosis. A petite blond nurse took us to Carl’s room. We were greeted by an orderly, nurse, and the attending doctor.
“We had to cut off his clothes and they are not salvageable.” He pointed to the clear plastic bag underneath Carl’s bed. “We can trash them for you.”
“That’s fine.” Nausea surfaced. Jonathan was very uncomfortable and went to the waiting room.
Carl was stable though comatose. I stood by his side and stared into his face trying to ignore the steady beeping in the background. The nurse--a male no doubt--came in periodically to check the monitor.
“Mrs. Bailey, please step outside for a few minutes.”
Confusion while waiting on the other side of the curtain--a drab pale yellow and stained smudges along the bottom perimeter. Four people ran into the room. Trepidation returned my focus. Something was wrong. The doctor emerged through the curtain.
“Um, Mrs. Bailey, we need to do a heart echo. There is a lot of fluid build up around his lungs and heart. We will then start dialysis. It’s critical. We will let you know.”
The doctor went back inside. Did I acknowledge him? Everything was a blank as if being aroused from a bad dream.
“Excuse me. I’m David Sloan, the hospital chaplain. The intern told me about your situation and thought I’d see if you needed anything.”
“Thank you. They’re in with my husband now and told me it’s not very good.”
What a nice man. David chose this profession somewhat late in life in order to help people. Actually a payback for when his wife had a debilitating illness.
People kept coming in and out of Carl’s room, not easing my mind that things were going to improve. Jonathan came back to see what was happening and knew things were bleak. David asked one of the nurses if there was a private place we could go to wait. She took us to a little room down the hall and would keep us posted. Time did not stand still. David tried to make conversation and led us in prayer. What was taking so long?
The doctor entered the room. “Mrs. Bailey, it was touch and go for a while. Your husband’s heart stopped five times. He’s stabilized but on a respirator. We’re taking him up to ICU and will start dialysis this afternoon.”
“Thank you, doctor,” I said as tears continued to well up in both eyes.
A slight grimace appeared on Chaplain Sloan’s face, sympathy exuding from his blue eyes. “Mrs. Bailey, if you need me, let someone know and they’ll page me. I’ll be on the pediatric floor most of the day.”
“Thank you. I appreciate you staying with us for such a long time.” As he walked down the hall, I was amazed how much he understood our sorrow.
It was hard to ignore the oxygen and feeding tubes that filled Carl’s mouth. Jonathan was uncomfortable staying so we went out to the waiting room. Carl’s nurse, Alice, told us to come in at any time. Now another waiting game would begin.
In and out, out and in. Hour after hour. Waiting. Wondering. Hoping. The neurologist would not be by until late afternoon.
Jonathan stared at the ground. “Mom, can we go yet? I’m hungry and nothing is going to happen. Can’t we just call later?”
“I need to be here when the neurologist comes. The nurse thought it would be around 5:30. Why don’t you go down to the cafeteria and get something to eat. It shouldn’t be too much longer.”
“That’s all right. I’ll wait,” Jonathan sighed. Jon got up from the padded chair and walked over to the drinking fountain.
A tall, muscular built man came through the double doors with Alice.
“Mrs. Bailey, I’m Dr. Levine. I just checked your husband and looked over the test results. Carl’s heart stopped five times in the ER. There was lack of sufficient oxygen to the brain that I doubt he will ever regain consciousness and if he does, he will be in a vegetative state. Dialysis might help, so tomorrow we’re going to give him another treatment. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you, doctor,” I said somewhat half-heartedly. All hope ended.
“Jonathan, let’s go.”
Salt laden drops streamed down both sides of my face while driving home. Jonathan was sullen yet comforting. “Please calm down. It’s going to be all right.” Nothing was right and guilt surfaced for leaving Carl 15 miles away.
“Honey, let me fix you something to eat.”
“Aren’t you going to eat?”
“Not now.” Food had no appealing quality. “I’m going to call my parents and Donna.” I always wondered what it would be like to get a late night call about a loved one’s possible demise.
“Mom,” with a trembling sound, “it’s Carl.”
“Just a minute, let me get your dad on the other phone. “Paul, pick up the other phone.”
“Dad,” as the tears dropped, Carl had a heart attack at the house and in the ER room his heart stopped five times. He’s in a coma. The neurologist said that so much time had lapsed without sufficient oxygen to the brain that if Carl ever came out of the coma, he would be in a vegetative state.”
“We’ll start up there in the morning. Did you call anyone from church?”
“No, I don’t know if I should and it’s too late now.”
“You should. They are there to help you. We’ll call your brother. Anyway, try to get some sleep. We love you.”
“Love you too. Bye.”
“Donna, it’s Debbie. Uh, uh...Sorry. It’s Carl...” Rambling this off in seconds seemed like a finely rehearsed script.
“I’ll schedule a flight and call you in the morning to let you know my arrival. Are you okay?”
“I’ll be all right,” I lied. “Talk to you in the morning.” Donna was Carl’s little sister by 13 months. Their other sister had died in 1980 from ovarian cancer, and their mom had passed on just two years ago.
Numbness. How else to describe it? Utter shock and disbelief. Sleep was difficult. Looking over to the right side of the bed. My hand touched the blue pillowcase. No one there.
Waking up to a new day hoping all was a dream, but no Carl. I told Linda, the church secretary, and a few friends about Carl. They would be there to give comfort and support. Mom was right--in these times people do care.
Friends filed in and out of the hospital. What a change from yesterday--Jonathan and I alone in a dimly lit waiting room. The wait was more bearable and helped get my mind off the inevitable.
Another dialysis treatment was completed but still no change. Who were we kidding? Prolonging a life that really was no life at all. It’s ironic that two months ago Carl and I signed living wills. No artificial life support would keep us alive. Now Carl was cast in the role of a lifetime.
“Mrs. Bailey, there’s a call for you. You can take it over there.” John was Carl’s angel today. There seemed to be a lot of males in this profession I thought.
“This is Debbie.”
“Hi, it’s Donna. I’m at the airport and will just take a cab.”
“We’re at the Presbyterian Hospital--Downtown. I’m glad you’re here.”
“See you soon.” Donna was like the older sister--the protective kind and always on the ball.
Hugs with eyes of welled up tears. Donna went in to see Carl. It seemed difficult for her. No joyous merriment or excited discourse. We went home--Donna drove. She loved to drive and being pitch black outside, it was fine by me. The strain was there--not really knowing what to say--but everyone knew. The veggie pizza helped to soften the tension.
Mom and Dad arrived at noon. They were always there for Don and me. We took separate cars to the hospital.
More friends came to visit. People my parents had not seen in years. The love immense; the concern overwhelming. Prayers were lifted up to God. A few sang hymns at Carl’s bedside. His favorite--My Hope is Built on Nothing Less. Some believe that a comatose patient can hear and a few of the staff encouraged us to express our feelings to Carl on an individual basis.
Jonathan was apprehensive as he entered the room. “Hey, Dad, it’s me,” carefully placing his right hand by Carl’s thigh in an effort to be near but not touching. “Stay in there. Keep fighting. Make it through.” After five minutes Jonathan came out with a surly upturned grin.
This had to be hard on him, but Jonathan did not wear emotions on his sleeve. No hysterics; no tears. At times I wondered if he really cared.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. When are we going home?”
Donna and two others took their turns, then everyone went home. Emotions were strained but still wanted to remain with Carl overnight. Trying to sleep in the white chamois lounge chair proved futile.
“Carl, can you hear me? I’m here. I love you,” a torrent of tears blurring my vision. The fountain would never run dry. Standing by the side of his bed, I held his limp hand. A slight jerk. A response to my touch? No, I remembered. John said movements are normal. “Carl, I’m going to make you so proud of me.” As I bent down to kiss his soft pale cheek, a stench similar to formaldehyde invaded my nostrils. Another common element found in comatose patients.
The mind wanders when waiting for time to pass. Replaying different scenarios since the outset. Grief, heartache, confusion. Why was there still a tube helping Carl breath? There was no hope, and Carl’s wishes were not being honored. John came in again to shift Carl’s body to the right.
“John, why is he still hooked up to a machine? Carl did not want his life prolonged and the paperwork is in his file. If there is no hope...”
“He is breathing slightly on his own with a little help. The tube can be removed, but he may linger on indefinitely.”
“I want it removed.” How could I say such a thing? Selfish pride wanted the opposite, but Carl would be furious with me if this continued.
“I’ll tell the doctors and let you know.”
Confirmation. All the doctors agreed there was no hope and to discontinue all life support.
It was necessary to be in the room when Carl died. He could not be left with strangers. Although Donna had said her goodbyes the night before, she came back down to comfort me. We watched as the technician removed the final apparatus. Carefully. Meticulously. Piece by piece. A suction sound filled the room once the tube was removed from Carl’s mouth. A spasmodic display from Carl’s body while appearing to be catching his breath.
“Carl looks younger,” Donna declared.
She was right. Tan virility reappeared on his face. Donna and I held each other watching. Carl was breathing on his own. It could be hours or even days. Within 15 minutes Carl breathed his last. Sobs; overwhelming grief. I held his hand and bent over for one last kiss.
“I’ll always love you.”
Walking to the car with legs wobbling like bowls of strawberry jello and teeth chattering as if stuck in the Alaskan snow. Sorrow and heartache as never experienced.
Mom and Dad knew the moment we walked in the door. “He’s gone,” I wept as my head nestled in their loving arms. Jonathan and I hugged. An aura of sadness but no tears.
The memorial service was simple--Carl’s wishes. No caskets or expensive paraphernalia. Simple. Clean. Cremation; no burial. Burial at sea--his passion, his pride. The ocean--his calling.
Nausea became an intrusion. The white capped waves permeated all senses. Donna also became seasick.
“This would be a good place” the captain said as he cut the motor. The Yacht Club of Newport Beach started Burial at Sea ten years ago and was the better choice over scattering ashes from the sky.
Jonathan opened the small cardboard container and untied the plastic bag filled with a tan substance resembling fine sand. Leaning over the side he let Carl’s ashes slowly glide into the never ending deep. It was quiet on the way back to shore.
Back to actuality. Family gone but friends still remain. Me and Jonathan. The two of us without our tower. The stages of death to surface. What do they say? Denial, bargaining, anger, depression, and acceptance. What stage was Jonathan in?
“Better get to school,” I said as the tears welled up.
“Mom, don’t cry. It’ll be all right.”
Such a trooper, but still no sentiment. “Jonathan, sometimes I don’t think you care. You haven’t cried or shown any emotion.”
“I just don’t dwell on it.” He gave me a hug. “Bye.”
It was quiet, and I was alone for the first time since this ordeal began. Jonathan was strong. He had a sixth sense and had been preparing himself for the inevitable--his father’s death call.
THE END
Teardrops fall as rushing seas of memories of eight months passing. The heartache has no end, no waning edge of reality. Sons without fathers. Wives without husbands. This is the reality of life as it has befallen us. What is to come? No one knows. The tragedy of loss that time can only heal. The male dominant factor evaporated in the midst of ocean waves. A boy who must become the grown up and watch after the remaining parent. The young man who must face life without his father. No male figure to imitate or speculate the whys and wherefores.
“I’ll get that Dad.”
“Thanks, Jonathan. I’m getting a little tired.”
Jonathan did not always make things easy for his dad, but lately it was different. Carl felt more tired the last four months. After struggling with diabetes for 17 years, Carl developed end stage renal disease and would soon need dialysis. The illness kept the father and son relationship distant although Carl tried to compensate by playing the role of scout leader and golf instructor. Baseball would have been the crowning glory, but the sport did not beckon Jonathan. Basketball had that honor.
“You gonna make it to the game or do I need to get a ride home?”
“I’ll be there, but not sure about your dad.” His face said it all--he would not hold his breath.
“He’ll try, but he has to get an iron injection this morning.”
Jonathan sighed. “I know, Mom, but he doesn’t seem to be able to do anything anymore.”
“And you know why--he has to get ready to begin dialysis. We already postponed it and should not have cancelled his heart echo last week.”
“I know.” His frown so sullen that the tips of his brown eyebrows met.
“Try not to worry about it. Uh, you better get. Have a good day, and I’ll see you at the gym this afternoon.”
It occurred to me how life conflicted with Henry David Thoreau’s sentence from Walden--”They were pleasant spring days, in which the winter of man’s discontent was thawing as well as the earth.” Our discontent was not dissolving.
Southwest Secondary Learning Center was regarded as New Mexico’s premier alternative educational institution. Four moves in four years was ludicrous for a nonmilitary family and it took its toll on Jonathan. Making and leaving friends and trying to excel in basketball was difficult and finding SSLC seemed to make it worthwhile. At least his grades did not suffer although satisfactory soon became the norm.
The bleachers were crowded and had to settle for a seat near the end with full view of the backboard. Carl was tired after spending more time than usual at the hospital. Besides the iron injection, Carl was given two pints of A+ blood. The game went into overtime. The Monarchs were never the favorite pick in tournaments, but were quite competitive. Travis and Robert were the spit fires like Karl Malone and Dave Stockton of the Utah Jazz, while Jonathan and Derrick were the Starsky and Hutch of the backfield.
Only ten seconds left. Monarchs behind by two. Their possession. Derrick dribbled down the court at a trot, his blue eyes focused on the net. He passed it to Travis. Travis to Robert. Back to Travis who was back at midcourt. To Jonathan. His six foot frame crouching down giving way to the muscular spring. Going for a three-point shot--swoosh. The buzzer. The crowd sprang to their feet cheering and screaming. The Monarchs won 85 to 82. Quite an upset. Jumping and shouting, high fives all around. They were going to the finals.
“Mom, did you see that? It was sweet!”
“I’m so proud of you.”
“Wish Dad could have been here, but...” His contemplation was obvious--no need to finish. Discontent one minute and jubilation the next. It was forgotten and Jonathan could relish in the victory.
“Hey, Dad. We won. I made the winning shot and we made it to the finals. His smile made the Golden Gate bridge seem minuscule.
“Great! Sorry I missed it. Just so...”
“Yeah, Mom told me,” sheer exasperation in his voice. Jonathan did not want to hear the same old excuse again.
Bedtime was a welcome change although living with a diabetic was difficult. Monitoring blood sugars, controlling diet, injecting insulin several times a day. Fear of insulin reactions consumed every thought especially at bedtime when the majority of the reactions occurred. Over the years it became apparent that Carl had lost a significant portion of his mental capacity.
What a day I thought lying under the plaid comforter with Carl peacefully by my side. Reaching over to softly caress his strong back, a cold wet mist filled the palm of my left hand. Bolting out of bed, I felt a twinge in my heart and a lump in my throat. Not unusual but still unexpected.
“Carl! Carl!” I shouted while shaking his body with urgency. “Wake up!”
“Uh...”the stuttering like a severely drunken sot who had tied on one too many the night before.
“Carl, come on.” Sheer reserve helped me lift Carl up to the side of the bed. There was no need to take his blood sugar--the proof slapped you in the face. “Stay there.”
I ran to the refrigerator and grabbed the can of Red Bull. This worked so much better than the claims of orange juice. With anxious haste I poured some into a crystal cut juice glass and hurried back to the bedroom.
“Here. Drink this,” as I steadied his hand as it reached to touch the tip of his lower lip. Half a cup of a sugared beverage every 15 minutes as needed. Not for Carl-- trial and error proved this fact a fallacy. When you had the chance to get something down, you needed to make it worthwhile.
“Carl, are you okay?” I queried while placing my left hand on his back. No more sweating.
Carl groaned. “Yeah, I’ll be all right.”
His blood sugar machine registered 60 but you could always tell without taking it--he became coherent. After changing to some dry pajamas, Carl fell asleep. Laying another blanket over the bed I was relieved that the paramedics were not needed this time.
Fog dissipated the morning light. A bright sunny dawn was the norm. Sunday morning. The day to remember the Lord. How odd since church played such a small part of the day. Grocery shopping, reading the paper, practicing golf and sports on television deluged the remainder of the day. The smell of bacon and freshly baked Grand biscuits filled the air. Eggs sizzling in the Pam-soaked skillet. Coffee slowly dripping down into the carafe of the Norelco Dial a Brew. Sundays were the exceptional breakfast--not the mundane of cereal.
“I’m starving. Dad not up yet?”
“No, he had a problem last night.”
Jonathan rolled his eyes. “Oh.”
Poor kid, he had heard this so many times. What else is new?
“Are we going to church then?” He knew the pattern.
“Yeah, he will be fine.”
Jonathan devoured his breakfast with his usual gusto. How could anybody enjoy eating so fast. Could he even taste it?
Church was inspirational--"Faith be not Proud"--a living testament to over zealous arrogance. Judge not that ye be judged.
Sunday was a good day to shop. Vegetables and fruits were fresher. Shelves were fully stocked. Less dodging carts amid the aisles or kids manipulative screams to remedy their sweet tooths.
“If you won’t be long, I’ll wait in the car.”
Carl was somewhat ashen and the usual gleam in his large brown eyes lacked enthusiasm for life. He nodded off a few times in church. Insulin reactions usually exhausted him, but today seemed strange.
“I’ll try to hurry,” as I stepped out of the car.
“Mom, I’m going to Blockbuster.”
“Fine, just make it quick. I don’t want to come looking for you.”
After a few minutes, Carl was in the store. “I got tired of waiting,” he sighed.
Through the checkout and on the way to our Nissan, Carl had an unusually slow saunter similar to the old man Arte Johnson played on Laugh-In. Although observing changes in Carl’s movement and demeanor over the last two months, an eerie sensation shot up my back.
“Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
“Geez, Dad, you’re walking so slow.
“Nothing. Just feeling tired.”
Our confusing glance said it all--the remainder of the day would be uneventful.
The rush of Monday morning rituals. Getting ready for work. Jonathan arriving at school on time even when we only lived across the street. What a feat! Carl sat on the couch in his blue plaid pajamas. His eyes sunken in with big black circles underneath. I noticed how much older he looked. Illness was depleting his spirit.
“You gonna eat, Dad?”
“Yeah,” Carl replied as he slowly went over to the table.
It was quiet at the breakfast table. I was at the counter pouring the orange juice when Jonathan called out, “Dad!”
I turned around. Carl was shaking. In two seconds I was there supporting his body for fear of him passing out. Carl’s head suddenly rolled back; eyes opened and lifeless; his face turning a light shade of blue.
“Jonathan, call 9-1-1.” It never occurred to me that something besides an insulin reaction would cause such dread.
“9-1-1. What is your location?”
I rambled off the facts. “My God. He’s dead. Jonathan, I think he’s dead,” I wailed. ”Get him to the floor and elevate his head,“ the dispatcher said as he continued bellowing out instructions.
The cordless phone was difficult to hold to my ear while helping Carl. Jonathan grabbed the phone and continued talking to the dispatcher. I was in a frozen state, consumed with panic. Prior CPR training did not erase the sense of helplessness. Fortunately, the paramedics were at the door within minutes. Several times in the past year two of the EMTs had been at our residence and knew Carl’s medical history. They shoved over the loveseat and immediately grabbed the defibrillator paddles to begin resuscitation. One of the EMTs was on the phone with the ER doctor. The others lifted Carl onto a stretcher and rushed him out the door.
“Where do you want him taken?” the small Hispanic man asked. He had dark brown shoulder length hair that was tied back with a red band, one silver loop in his left earlobe overshadowed by the four inch scar just underneath, and a red dragon tattooed on his right arm.. Not the typical picture of a lifesaving hero.
“Presbyterian--downtown,” I said in shock. This was surreal.
Jonathan and I arrived at the hospital within an hour. Family members would be notified after there was a diagnosis. A petite blond nurse took us to Carl’s room. We were greeted by an orderly, nurse, and the attending doctor.
“We had to cut off his clothes and they are not salvageable.” He pointed to the clear plastic bag underneath Carl’s bed. “We can trash them for you.”
“That’s fine.” Nausea surfaced. Jonathan was very uncomfortable and went to the waiting room.
Carl was stable though comatose. I stood by his side and stared into his face trying to ignore the steady beeping in the background. The nurse--a male no doubt--came in periodically to check the monitor.
“Mrs. Bailey, please step outside for a few minutes.”
Confusion while waiting on the other side of the curtain--a drab pale yellow and stained smudges along the bottom perimeter. Four people ran into the room. Trepidation returned my focus. Something was wrong. The doctor emerged through the curtain.
“Um, Mrs. Bailey, we need to do a heart echo. There is a lot of fluid build up around his lungs and heart. We will then start dialysis. It’s critical. We will let you know.”
The doctor went back inside. Did I acknowledge him? Everything was a blank as if being aroused from a bad dream.
“Excuse me. I’m David Sloan, the hospital chaplain. The intern told me about your situation and thought I’d see if you needed anything.”
“Thank you. They’re in with my husband now and told me it’s not very good.”
What a nice man. David chose this profession somewhat late in life in order to help people. Actually a payback for when his wife had a debilitating illness.
People kept coming in and out of Carl’s room, not easing my mind that things were going to improve. Jonathan came back to see what was happening and knew things were bleak. David asked one of the nurses if there was a private place we could go to wait. She took us to a little room down the hall and would keep us posted. Time did not stand still. David tried to make conversation and led us in prayer. What was taking so long?
The doctor entered the room. “Mrs. Bailey, it was touch and go for a while. Your husband’s heart stopped five times. He’s stabilized but on a respirator. We’re taking him up to ICU and will start dialysis this afternoon.”
“Thank you, doctor,” I said as tears continued to well up in both eyes.
A slight grimace appeared on Chaplain Sloan’s face, sympathy exuding from his blue eyes. “Mrs. Bailey, if you need me, let someone know and they’ll page me. I’ll be on the pediatric floor most of the day.”
“Thank you. I appreciate you staying with us for such a long time.” As he walked down the hall, I was amazed how much he understood our sorrow.
It was hard to ignore the oxygen and feeding tubes that filled Carl’s mouth. Jonathan was uncomfortable staying so we went out to the waiting room. Carl’s nurse, Alice, told us to come in at any time. Now another waiting game would begin.
In and out, out and in. Hour after hour. Waiting. Wondering. Hoping. The neurologist would not be by until late afternoon.
Jonathan stared at the ground. “Mom, can we go yet? I’m hungry and nothing is going to happen. Can’t we just call later?”
“I need to be here when the neurologist comes. The nurse thought it would be around 5:30. Why don’t you go down to the cafeteria and get something to eat. It shouldn’t be too much longer.”
“That’s all right. I’ll wait,” Jonathan sighed. Jon got up from the padded chair and walked over to the drinking fountain.
A tall, muscular built man came through the double doors with Alice.
“Mrs. Bailey, I’m Dr. Levine. I just checked your husband and looked over the test results. Carl’s heart stopped five times in the ER. There was lack of sufficient oxygen to the brain that I doubt he will ever regain consciousness and if he does, he will be in a vegetative state. Dialysis might help, so tomorrow we’re going to give him another treatment. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you, doctor,” I said somewhat half-heartedly. All hope ended.
“Jonathan, let’s go.”
Salt laden drops streamed down both sides of my face while driving home. Jonathan was sullen yet comforting. “Please calm down. It’s going to be all right.” Nothing was right and guilt surfaced for leaving Carl 15 miles away.
“Honey, let me fix you something to eat.”
“Aren’t you going to eat?”
“Not now.” Food had no appealing quality. “I’m going to call my parents and Donna.” I always wondered what it would be like to get a late night call about a loved one’s possible demise.
“Mom,” with a trembling sound, “it’s Carl.”
“Just a minute, let me get your dad on the other phone. “Paul, pick up the other phone.”
“Dad,” as the tears dropped, Carl had a heart attack at the house and in the ER room his heart stopped five times. He’s in a coma. The neurologist said that so much time had lapsed without sufficient oxygen to the brain that if Carl ever came out of the coma, he would be in a vegetative state.”
“We’ll start up there in the morning. Did you call anyone from church?”
“No, I don’t know if I should and it’s too late now.”
“You should. They are there to help you. We’ll call your brother. Anyway, try to get some sleep. We love you.”
“Love you too. Bye.”
“Donna, it’s Debbie. Uh, uh...Sorry. It’s Carl...” Rambling this off in seconds seemed like a finely rehearsed script.
“I’ll schedule a flight and call you in the morning to let you know my arrival. Are you okay?”
“I’ll be all right,” I lied. “Talk to you in the morning.” Donna was Carl’s little sister by 13 months. Their other sister had died in 1980 from ovarian cancer, and their mom had passed on just two years ago.
Numbness. How else to describe it? Utter shock and disbelief. Sleep was difficult. Looking over to the right side of the bed. My hand touched the blue pillowcase. No one there.
Waking up to a new day hoping all was a dream, but no Carl. I told Linda, the church secretary, and a few friends about Carl. They would be there to give comfort and support. Mom was right--in these times people do care.
Friends filed in and out of the hospital. What a change from yesterday--Jonathan and I alone in a dimly lit waiting room. The wait was more bearable and helped get my mind off the inevitable.
Another dialysis treatment was completed but still no change. Who were we kidding? Prolonging a life that really was no life at all. It’s ironic that two months ago Carl and I signed living wills. No artificial life support would keep us alive. Now Carl was cast in the role of a lifetime.
“Mrs. Bailey, there’s a call for you. You can take it over there.” John was Carl’s angel today. There seemed to be a lot of males in this profession I thought.
“This is Debbie.”
“Hi, it’s Donna. I’m at the airport and will just take a cab.”
“We’re at the Presbyterian Hospital--Downtown. I’m glad you’re here.”
“See you soon.” Donna was like the older sister--the protective kind and always on the ball.
Hugs with eyes of welled up tears. Donna went in to see Carl. It seemed difficult for her. No joyous merriment or excited discourse. We went home--Donna drove. She loved to drive and being pitch black outside, it was fine by me. The strain was there--not really knowing what to say--but everyone knew. The veggie pizza helped to soften the tension.
Mom and Dad arrived at noon. They were always there for Don and me. We took separate cars to the hospital.
More friends came to visit. People my parents had not seen in years. The love immense; the concern overwhelming. Prayers were lifted up to God. A few sang hymns at Carl’s bedside. His favorite--My Hope is Built on Nothing Less. Some believe that a comatose patient can hear and a few of the staff encouraged us to express our feelings to Carl on an individual basis.
Jonathan was apprehensive as he entered the room. “Hey, Dad, it’s me,” carefully placing his right hand by Carl’s thigh in an effort to be near but not touching. “Stay in there. Keep fighting. Make it through.” After five minutes Jonathan came out with a surly upturned grin.
This had to be hard on him, but Jonathan did not wear emotions on his sleeve. No hysterics; no tears. At times I wondered if he really cared.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. When are we going home?”
Donna and two others took their turns, then everyone went home. Emotions were strained but still wanted to remain with Carl overnight. Trying to sleep in the white chamois lounge chair proved futile.
“Carl, can you hear me? I’m here. I love you,” a torrent of tears blurring my vision. The fountain would never run dry. Standing by the side of his bed, I held his limp hand. A slight jerk. A response to my touch? No, I remembered. John said movements are normal. “Carl, I’m going to make you so proud of me.” As I bent down to kiss his soft pale cheek, a stench similar to formaldehyde invaded my nostrils. Another common element found in comatose patients.
The mind wanders when waiting for time to pass. Replaying different scenarios since the outset. Grief, heartache, confusion. Why was there still a tube helping Carl breath? There was no hope, and Carl’s wishes were not being honored. John came in again to shift Carl’s body to the right.
“John, why is he still hooked up to a machine? Carl did not want his life prolonged and the paperwork is in his file. If there is no hope...”
“He is breathing slightly on his own with a little help. The tube can be removed, but he may linger on indefinitely.”
“I want it removed.” How could I say such a thing? Selfish pride wanted the opposite, but Carl would be furious with me if this continued.
“I’ll tell the doctors and let you know.”
Confirmation. All the doctors agreed there was no hope and to discontinue all life support.
It was necessary to be in the room when Carl died. He could not be left with strangers. Although Donna had said her goodbyes the night before, she came back down to comfort me. We watched as the technician removed the final apparatus. Carefully. Meticulously. Piece by piece. A suction sound filled the room once the tube was removed from Carl’s mouth. A spasmodic display from Carl’s body while appearing to be catching his breath.
“Carl looks younger,” Donna declared.
She was right. Tan virility reappeared on his face. Donna and I held each other watching. Carl was breathing on his own. It could be hours or even days. Within 15 minutes Carl breathed his last. Sobs; overwhelming grief. I held his hand and bent over for one last kiss.
“I’ll always love you.”
Walking to the car with legs wobbling like bowls of strawberry jello and teeth chattering as if stuck in the Alaskan snow. Sorrow and heartache as never experienced.
Mom and Dad knew the moment we walked in the door. “He’s gone,” I wept as my head nestled in their loving arms. Jonathan and I hugged. An aura of sadness but no tears.
The memorial service was simple--Carl’s wishes. No caskets or expensive paraphernalia. Simple. Clean. Cremation; no burial. Burial at sea--his passion, his pride. The ocean--his calling.
Nausea became an intrusion. The white capped waves permeated all senses. Donna also became seasick.
“This would be a good place” the captain said as he cut the motor. The Yacht Club of Newport Beach started Burial at Sea ten years ago and was the better choice over scattering ashes from the sky.
Jonathan opened the small cardboard container and untied the plastic bag filled with a tan substance resembling fine sand. Leaning over the side he let Carl’s ashes slowly glide into the never ending deep. It was quiet on the way back to shore.
Back to actuality. Family gone but friends still remain. Me and Jonathan. The two of us without our tower. The stages of death to surface. What do they say? Denial, bargaining, anger, depression, and acceptance. What stage was Jonathan in?
“Better get to school,” I said as the tears welled up.
“Mom, don’t cry. It’ll be all right.”
Such a trooper, but still no sentiment. “Jonathan, sometimes I don’t think you care. You haven’t cried or shown any emotion.”
“I just don’t dwell on it.” He gave me a hug. “Bye.”
It was quiet, and I was alone for the first time since this ordeal began. Jonathan was strong. He had a sixth sense and had been preparing himself for the inevitable--his father’s death call.
THE END
Sunday, February 18, 2007
PRELUDE TO DEATH CALL
As I mentioned in my blog last week, it will be five years this week since Carl died. People celebrate wedding anniversaries and years of service at places of employment. It seemed only fitting to honor Carl’s memory this fifth year of his passing. PRELUDE TO DEATH CALL will let many of you know the man himself. DEATH CALL will be my rendition of the months prior to Carl’s death including death, memorial, and cremation. EPILOGUE will be a candid look into the lives of those left behind. As I am reminded, my blog site is titled, CSI - Candid Sharing Inc.
I would venture to guess that the majority of my blog audience (doubt it would take more than two hands to count them) never met Carl. He was born and raised in a well-to-do family in San Bernardino, California, and was the middle child between two sisters. His parents adopted two boys who were much younger than Carl, so he concentrated on playing baseball. Went up to the pony league and was considered quite the pitcher. Unfortunately his arm couldn’t keep up with the demand of the game so Carl turned to golf. Carl loved the sport and played on a regular basis with one of his best friends. Even won a Pepsi tournament while under their employment. Carl was also self-employed as a meat salesman for many years until the business was sold.
Before coming to visit his parents in Albuquerque, Carl had lost 100 pounds. He attributed his weight gain to some emotional situations from the past. We attended the same church and were part of the singles group. It was easy to talk to Carl and we got along quite well. Remember sitting at a singles' gathering and Carl made some crude remark, and I slugged him in the arm. Think that was the beginning of a beautiful relationship.
The phone rang one Saturday afternoon. It was Carl. “I’m in the hospital,” he said. Carl had gone to the doctor, and Lee told him to sit down. “You have diabetes.” Carl said he just wanted to tell me. Although flattered, still was puzzled why he would call and tell me--we barely knew each other. A few friends came to visit Carl in the hospital. We left Carl’s room and in the parking lot Donna said that she noticed Carl’s eyes fixated on me during the entire visit. We went on our first date the following week and were married 16 months later.
Carl really was a personable guy and the ultimate salesman who could literally sell you the shirt off his back. This man actually loved me and always wanted to see me happy, even if it meant having to tell a lie or two. I didn‘t like to spend much money especially on take-out or going out to eat and Carl found ways to win my heart and periodically would bring home “free” Chinese food and Sonic (best onion rings in the world). Never could understand it but remember, Carl was the ultimate salesman; however, Carl finally admitted that the food wasn’t always free. The managers were not always working when Carl decided to bring home my goodies. Carl knew what honesty meant to me and once the trust was broken, it would take a hard sell to win it back. But have to give the man kudos for trying. I was the tightwad and Carl was the spend thrift. It really didn’t take much to please me. Carl learned early on that a single flower worked better than a bouquet and a York peppermint patty did wonders over a box of See's.
We had our issues though, and I could have easily sent him packing but commitment meant something. Just doesn’t seem that way now with the attitude that when you marry and it doesn’t work out, you get a divorce. Remember watching an interview with Brad Pitt while he was married to Jennifer Aniston. He basically admitted not knowing if he would always love his wife. Excuse me? What wedding vows did you take? (Of course, now we know Mr. Pitt actually was telling the truth.)
Carl knew how to make me laugh, and he did it on a regular basis. He was more than just Carl. He was Inspector Clouseau (from the Pink Panther for those who are unaware). Carl did a great Clouseau. But Carl did a much better Donald Duck. Even when Jonathan was in the womb, Donald would talk to him. And I was Donald’s “Boo Boo Bear.”
Carl was diagnosed with Type I diabetes at the age of 35 and struggled with this disease for the next 18 years. Type I diabetes is usually only seen in children and young adults and can result in serious complications such as heart disease, blindness, nerve and kidney damage. Carl took insulin shots several times a day and literally had to change his lifestyle, but Carl never wanted to admit that anything was wrong and basically continued to do his own thing. Unfortunately, that disregard shortened his life span.
Living life as a diabetic took a toll on Carl, and living with a diabetic took a toll on his family. I rarely got a decent and peaceful night’s sleep and plans constantly had to be changed because of the aftermath from an insulin reaction. Physical exercise, overeating, and stress are just a few things that can affect the blood sugar. Carl had a rough time and EMS was at our doorstep more times than we could count until I was able to administer a glucagon emergency kit that would immediately raise his blood sugar. One day after a five-minute examination, a nephrologist warned Carl that he had a year before his kidneys would shut down. Carl turned a deaf ear once again. Two years later, Carl started preparation for undergoing dialysis treatment.
At the end, Carl and I were fortunate to work together. We managed a self-storage facility in Albuquerque, and our district manager made monthly visits. During one of those visits, Mike commented about one of Carl’s telephone conversations with a potential customer. Mike was amazed and said it sounded as if Carl was talking to his best friend. That was Carl. The ultimate salesman. A friend to all. A kind and gentle spirit. A man who just could not cope with the fact that he was diabetic.
Carl was quite the artist, and he seemed to find peace while drawing. Most people didn’t know about this talent until I displayed some of Carl’s work at the memorial service.
I would venture to guess that the majority of my blog audience (doubt it would take more than two hands to count them) never met Carl. He was born and raised in a well-to-do family in San Bernardino, California, and was the middle child between two sisters. His parents adopted two boys who were much younger than Carl, so he concentrated on playing baseball. Went up to the pony league and was considered quite the pitcher. Unfortunately his arm couldn’t keep up with the demand of the game so Carl turned to golf. Carl loved the sport and played on a regular basis with one of his best friends. Even won a Pepsi tournament while under their employment. Carl was also self-employed as a meat salesman for many years until the business was sold.
Before coming to visit his parents in Albuquerque, Carl had lost 100 pounds. He attributed his weight gain to some emotional situations from the past. We attended the same church and were part of the singles group. It was easy to talk to Carl and we got along quite well. Remember sitting at a singles' gathering and Carl made some crude remark, and I slugged him in the arm. Think that was the beginning of a beautiful relationship.
The phone rang one Saturday afternoon. It was Carl. “I’m in the hospital,” he said. Carl had gone to the doctor, and Lee told him to sit down. “You have diabetes.” Carl said he just wanted to tell me. Although flattered, still was puzzled why he would call and tell me--we barely knew each other. A few friends came to visit Carl in the hospital. We left Carl’s room and in the parking lot Donna said that she noticed Carl’s eyes fixated on me during the entire visit. We went on our first date the following week and were married 16 months later.
Carl really was a personable guy and the ultimate salesman who could literally sell you the shirt off his back. This man actually loved me and always wanted to see me happy, even if it meant having to tell a lie or two. I didn‘t like to spend much money especially on take-out or going out to eat and Carl found ways to win my heart and periodically would bring home “free” Chinese food and Sonic (best onion rings in the world). Never could understand it but remember, Carl was the ultimate salesman; however, Carl finally admitted that the food wasn’t always free. The managers were not always working when Carl decided to bring home my goodies. Carl knew what honesty meant to me and once the trust was broken, it would take a hard sell to win it back. But have to give the man kudos for trying. I was the tightwad and Carl was the spend thrift. It really didn’t take much to please me. Carl learned early on that a single flower worked better than a bouquet and a York peppermint patty did wonders over a box of See's.
We had our issues though, and I could have easily sent him packing but commitment meant something. Just doesn’t seem that way now with the attitude that when you marry and it doesn’t work out, you get a divorce. Remember watching an interview with Brad Pitt while he was married to Jennifer Aniston. He basically admitted not knowing if he would always love his wife. Excuse me? What wedding vows did you take? (Of course, now we know Mr. Pitt actually was telling the truth.)
Carl knew how to make me laugh, and he did it on a regular basis. He was more than just Carl. He was Inspector Clouseau (from the Pink Panther for those who are unaware). Carl did a great Clouseau. But Carl did a much better Donald Duck. Even when Jonathan was in the womb, Donald would talk to him. And I was Donald’s “Boo Boo Bear.”
Carl was diagnosed with Type I diabetes at the age of 35 and struggled with this disease for the next 18 years. Type I diabetes is usually only seen in children and young adults and can result in serious complications such as heart disease, blindness, nerve and kidney damage. Carl took insulin shots several times a day and literally had to change his lifestyle, but Carl never wanted to admit that anything was wrong and basically continued to do his own thing. Unfortunately, that disregard shortened his life span.
Living life as a diabetic took a toll on Carl, and living with a diabetic took a toll on his family. I rarely got a decent and peaceful night’s sleep and plans constantly had to be changed because of the aftermath from an insulin reaction. Physical exercise, overeating, and stress are just a few things that can affect the blood sugar. Carl had a rough time and EMS was at our doorstep more times than we could count until I was able to administer a glucagon emergency kit that would immediately raise his blood sugar. One day after a five-minute examination, a nephrologist warned Carl that he had a year before his kidneys would shut down. Carl turned a deaf ear once again. Two years later, Carl started preparation for undergoing dialysis treatment.
At the end, Carl and I were fortunate to work together. We managed a self-storage facility in Albuquerque, and our district manager made monthly visits. During one of those visits, Mike commented about one of Carl’s telephone conversations with a potential customer. Mike was amazed and said it sounded as if Carl was talking to his best friend. That was Carl. The ultimate salesman. A friend to all. A kind and gentle spirit. A man who just could not cope with the fact that he was diabetic.
Carl was quite the artist, and he seemed to find peace while drawing. Most people didn’t know about this talent until I displayed some of Carl’s work at the memorial service.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
YEAH, I’M BAD
February is not my most favorite month of the year. Entire aisles in department and grocery stores are dedicated to the annual display of those red hearts, candies, flowers, and greeting cards with the sweet, syrupy sayings to mark a very special day for husbands, wives, young and, if you take a good look at some of your retirement facilities, old lovers. Yes, Valentine’s Day. I’d much rather remember Al Capone and the St. Valentine's Day Massacre.
Sorry to be so cynical and don’t get me wrong. If I had a significant other, I’d be right in there with all the rest. Tonight at church is the annual "Bake Your Sweet Heart Out." Those men of the congregation who have slaved for hours in the kitchen bring their culinary delights for their gals to sample. Whether this gathering is open to all doesn’t matter. Why would I want to be reminded of the fact that there is no one special in my life? A friend of mine says there’s always hope. Don’t hold out much for that, but a much better phrase would be miracles do happen.
This February dread really has to do with events that happened from February 18-24, 2002. Next week will mark the fifth anniversary of Carl’s death. We seem to celebrate the “fifth year” in wedding anniversaries and years of service at work. It seems appropriate for me to commemorate Carl. Starting next week, I will dedicate my blog to Carl’s memory in several parts. First will be the man himself (PRELUDE TO DEATH CALL). Second will be the story I wrote about the last few months of Carl’s life including death, memorial and cremation (DEATH CALL). It was quite therapeutic (and as I recall rather long) so it will be broken into several parts. Have only shared this with a few family members, and I haven’t read it since it was written. Last will focus on what has transpired since that time, including how Jonathan and I have coped with the loss (EPILOGUE).
To end on a much brighter note--I hope a FANTASTIC time was had by all who attended the BYSHO. See, I’m not so heartless after all.
Sorry to be so cynical and don’t get me wrong. If I had a significant other, I’d be right in there with all the rest. Tonight at church is the annual "Bake Your Sweet Heart Out." Those men of the congregation who have slaved for hours in the kitchen bring their culinary delights for their gals to sample. Whether this gathering is open to all doesn’t matter. Why would I want to be reminded of the fact that there is no one special in my life? A friend of mine says there’s always hope. Don’t hold out much for that, but a much better phrase would be miracles do happen.
This February dread really has to do with events that happened from February 18-24, 2002. Next week will mark the fifth anniversary of Carl’s death. We seem to celebrate the “fifth year” in wedding anniversaries and years of service at work. It seems appropriate for me to commemorate Carl. Starting next week, I will dedicate my blog to Carl’s memory in several parts. First will be the man himself (PRELUDE TO DEATH CALL). Second will be the story I wrote about the last few months of Carl’s life including death, memorial and cremation (DEATH CALL). It was quite therapeutic (and as I recall rather long) so it will be broken into several parts. Have only shared this with a few family members, and I haven’t read it since it was written. Last will focus on what has transpired since that time, including how Jonathan and I have coped with the loss (EPILOGUE).
To end on a much brighter note--I hope a FANTASTIC time was had by all who attended the BYSHO. See, I’m not so heartless after all.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
IS IT MEANT TO BE?
Thursday I had an interview at Forest Lawn in Glendale. Greg agreed to be one of my references. Who better than a minister/funeral director? Greg thought I should leave the minister part off. I think Greg needs to give himself a little more credit. His sermons are not only inspiring and thought provoking, but well delivered with an added touch of humor. Many others undoubtedly would agree with this assessment of GE.
Sometimes you wonder if something is really meant to be. This thought crossed my mind while driving up to the interview. Don’t care for the Los Angeles freeway system. Knew my way, or so I thought. Had to go up to Burbank during the summer and the Yahoo directions notwithstanding, DB advised me of a better route. Worked great and thought I remembered--instead of taking the I-5 off the 710, it was better to take I-10. Unfortunately, forgot I should have taken the I-10 headed toward Pasadena (not LA/Santa Monica). Didn’t take me too long to figure out my mistake and turned around. Stopped at a Shell station and was correct in going back to catch the CA-2. Yahoo told me to turn left on San Fernando Road off the CA-2, but the receptionist at Forest Lawn told me to turn right on San Fernando. Figured the receptionist knew best. She was correct, if I was coming from the opposite direction. At least I have enough smarts to stop and ask for directions before getting too far off course. I left 1-½ hours before my scheduled interview. Even with all the complications, made it with time to spare. Still had to ask the keeper at the gate for directions to the Human Resources office. Close but not quite. I was just glad to be there. Have tried to get a job with Forest Lawn for over three years, even while living in Oceanside, and never got to first base.
Filled out an application and took a typing test. Not as fast as my two-year-old typing certificate but think an 87.3 was most acceptable. The interview with Priscilla went quite well, and we seemed to develop a good rapport. Of course, I‘ve thought that about interviews in the past and know how those turned out. Priscilla explained the application process: HR interviews the mass of applicants; a candidate list is submitted to the facilities with the openings, who in turn will do their own interview; selection; background check; and drug test. It could take a week or two before hearing anything.
It was around 3:20 and I-5 was already congested. Kept in the middle lane where the I-5 South sign hung, so knew I would be safe. The curve turned with 60-Pomona on the left, I-5 S in the middle, and some other place to the right. Was behind a truck and didn’t realize that the 60 & I-5 both veered to the left until it was too late. Yes, I did it again. Took the next exit and went around the side streets and luckily found my way back to I-5 South. Although it took a little longer than anticipated, I made it home safe and sound. Hadn’t been home an hour when the phone rang. It was Maria from the Long Beach Forest Lawn facility. She wanted to interview me. Don’t like to toot my own horn, but must have made some kind of impression on Priscilla. My interview is Monday at 8:30.
The higher ups at work somewhat frown upon those who ask for time off. For Thursday’s absence, a few told me to play the food poisoning card, but I did not want to lie so my excuse--have to go out of town on personal business. Maybe considered in the gray area, but technically it was not a lie. Monday, I’m faced with the same scenario, but don’t have to take the entire day off. So my excuse this time--have an appointment first thing in the morning and will be there as soon as I can. What can they do? Fire me?
Most people cringe at the thought of working in a mortuary. I remember right out of high school applying for a clerical position that was posted in a newspaper advertisement. You had to send your letter of interest and resume to a PO Box. The job seemed interesting, but I had no clue where it was located and what type of business. Received a call and this position happened to be at French’s Mortuary. ……..Uh, no, this 17 year old did not relish the idea of working around dead people.
Funny how things change. Always wanted to have a job that was meaningful and especially after Carl’s death felt the funeral service industry would be a most appropriate place to find this fulfillment. Who better to work in this type of environment than a person who has experienced the loss of a significant other and can demonstrate sympathy, empathy, kindness, and compassion toward those who have suffered a bereavement?
Hopefully, my tooting is not all in vain.
Sometimes you wonder if something is really meant to be. This thought crossed my mind while driving up to the interview. Don’t care for the Los Angeles freeway system. Knew my way, or so I thought. Had to go up to Burbank during the summer and the Yahoo directions notwithstanding, DB advised me of a better route. Worked great and thought I remembered--instead of taking the I-5 off the 710, it was better to take I-10. Unfortunately, forgot I should have taken the I-10 headed toward Pasadena (not LA/Santa Monica). Didn’t take me too long to figure out my mistake and turned around. Stopped at a Shell station and was correct in going back to catch the CA-2. Yahoo told me to turn left on San Fernando Road off the CA-2, but the receptionist at Forest Lawn told me to turn right on San Fernando. Figured the receptionist knew best. She was correct, if I was coming from the opposite direction. At least I have enough smarts to stop and ask for directions before getting too far off course. I left 1-½ hours before my scheduled interview. Even with all the complications, made it with time to spare. Still had to ask the keeper at the gate for directions to the Human Resources office. Close but not quite. I was just glad to be there. Have tried to get a job with Forest Lawn for over three years, even while living in Oceanside, and never got to first base.
Filled out an application and took a typing test. Not as fast as my two-year-old typing certificate but think an 87.3 was most acceptable. The interview with Priscilla went quite well, and we seemed to develop a good rapport. Of course, I‘ve thought that about interviews in the past and know how those turned out. Priscilla explained the application process: HR interviews the mass of applicants; a candidate list is submitted to the facilities with the openings, who in turn will do their own interview; selection; background check; and drug test. It could take a week or two before hearing anything.
It was around 3:20 and I-5 was already congested. Kept in the middle lane where the I-5 South sign hung, so knew I would be safe. The curve turned with 60-Pomona on the left, I-5 S in the middle, and some other place to the right. Was behind a truck and didn’t realize that the 60 & I-5 both veered to the left until it was too late. Yes, I did it again. Took the next exit and went around the side streets and luckily found my way back to I-5 South. Although it took a little longer than anticipated, I made it home safe and sound. Hadn’t been home an hour when the phone rang. It was Maria from the Long Beach Forest Lawn facility. She wanted to interview me. Don’t like to toot my own horn, but must have made some kind of impression on Priscilla. My interview is Monday at 8:30.
The higher ups at work somewhat frown upon those who ask for time off. For Thursday’s absence, a few told me to play the food poisoning card, but I did not want to lie so my excuse--have to go out of town on personal business. Maybe considered in the gray area, but technically it was not a lie. Monday, I’m faced with the same scenario, but don’t have to take the entire day off. So my excuse this time--have an appointment first thing in the morning and will be there as soon as I can. What can they do? Fire me?
Most people cringe at the thought of working in a mortuary. I remember right out of high school applying for a clerical position that was posted in a newspaper advertisement. You had to send your letter of interest and resume to a PO Box. The job seemed interesting, but I had no clue where it was located and what type of business. Received a call and this position happened to be at French’s Mortuary. ……..Uh, no, this 17 year old did not relish the idea of working around dead people.
Funny how things change. Always wanted to have a job that was meaningful and especially after Carl’s death felt the funeral service industry would be a most appropriate place to find this fulfillment. Who better to work in this type of environment than a person who has experienced the loss of a significant other and can demonstrate sympathy, empathy, kindness, and compassion toward those who have suffered a bereavement?
Hopefully, my tooting is not all in vain.
Sunday, February 4, 2007
HOUSTON, WE HAVE A PROBLEM
These were the five famous words uttered by astronaut Jim Lovell during the 1970 Apollo 13 lunar-landing mission, but we probably know Tom Hanks’ rendition best from the 1995 movie. While shopping at Ralph’s this morning, these words crossed my mind. It had nothing to do with space shuttles or astronauts.
People have fetishes, obsessions, and compulsive impulses with material possessions such as fancy cars, expensive jewelry, and even guitars. Mine happens to be bagels in the discount rack and low carb protein bars on sale. Doesn’t matter if my freezer, refrigerator and part of my parents' is already full of these items. Just can’t seem to pass up the opportunity to purchase more. Guess I’m afraid my stash will be depleted and won’t be able to find any more on sale.
Yes, Debbie, you have a problem.
People have fetishes, obsessions, and compulsive impulses with material possessions such as fancy cars, expensive jewelry, and even guitars. Mine happens to be bagels in the discount rack and low carb protein bars on sale. Doesn’t matter if my freezer, refrigerator and part of my parents' is already full of these items. Just can’t seem to pass up the opportunity to purchase more. Guess I’m afraid my stash will be depleted and won’t be able to find any more on sale.
Yes, Debbie, you have a problem.
Saturday, February 3, 2007
THE BLACK SHEEP RETURNS
It’s been ten weeks since starting my job as a customer service associate at a mail order pharmacy. Spent six weeks in training with a great bunch of guys. We literally became a family which can be said for many places of employment where you spend most of your life. Our group was ready to be placed in permanent headquarters. The map was made with each name designated to a cubicle. We would be scattered among several aisles but still in close proximity. Everyone had a space, oh, except me. My name was left off the chart and the seating could not be rearranged because a pharmacist had to be placed between a pharmacy tech or a customer service associate. The next morning a cubicle was found for me--on the opposite side of the room far away from my family. Yes, I felt like the forgotten child. The black sheep. Banished from the kingdom.
It’s been this way for a couple of weeks. Get to see a few of the gang on a daily basis, walk with one during breaks, but it’s not the same. I miss them all and they actually miss me (go figure). Already felt disgruntled about the job. Struggled in the job search before landing this gig but came to the realization that it’s just not my cup of tea. It’s a call center environment and much too sedentary. No variety. Just sitting at a desk working on a computer with a headset plugged into the telephone. Now we have mandatory overtime. Worked 51 hours last week and 51.5 this week and the overtime will continue until further notice. (Huh. Wonder what that means?) Doesn’t give you much time for a life, not that I have one, but would like to some day.
It all comes down to the fact that we were basically lied to during the interview process. The interviewers were contracted by a temporary employment agency and claimed that overtime would be a rare occurrence. The admissions (or omissions) led many to believe the opposite of what the jobs actually did entail. Many of the pharmacists are fresh out of college and believed the other employees were all pharmacy techs. If you asked the same question to three people, you might get three different answers. The company keeps hiring and the training leaves a lot to be desired. Not good enough for what is expected in this job. Not good enough for what should be required for this job. You may save money with a mail order pharmacy; however, if customers knew what happened behind the scenes, many would undoubtedly return to their local pharmacy.
Many of my friends wanted me to ask our supervisor if I could be placed in an empty cubicle over on their side. After much prodding, I did ask and JayAnn would have to ask the boss. Days went by and my name was already typed on the overtime list for my aisle, so knew I wasn’t going to be moved.
Well, this week, I was let back in to the fold. Came in to work and had a question for JayAnn. She looked at me and told me to come with her. Someone else was wanting to move. Natalie liked my spot so we switched. Now I’m in the same aisle as my training partner and my secret Santa. Still don’t like the sitting, but it has made all the difference in the world to be nearer to my family. Don’t know how long I’ll stay. Will just have to see what happens.
It’s been this way for a couple of weeks. Get to see a few of the gang on a daily basis, walk with one during breaks, but it’s not the same. I miss them all and they actually miss me (go figure). Already felt disgruntled about the job. Struggled in the job search before landing this gig but came to the realization that it’s just not my cup of tea. It’s a call center environment and much too sedentary. No variety. Just sitting at a desk working on a computer with a headset plugged into the telephone. Now we have mandatory overtime. Worked 51 hours last week and 51.5 this week and the overtime will continue until further notice. (Huh. Wonder what that means?) Doesn’t give you much time for a life, not that I have one, but would like to some day.
It all comes down to the fact that we were basically lied to during the interview process. The interviewers were contracted by a temporary employment agency and claimed that overtime would be a rare occurrence. The admissions (or omissions) led many to believe the opposite of what the jobs actually did entail. Many of the pharmacists are fresh out of college and believed the other employees were all pharmacy techs. If you asked the same question to three people, you might get three different answers. The company keeps hiring and the training leaves a lot to be desired. Not good enough for what is expected in this job. Not good enough for what should be required for this job. You may save money with a mail order pharmacy; however, if customers knew what happened behind the scenes, many would undoubtedly return to their local pharmacy.
Many of my friends wanted me to ask our supervisor if I could be placed in an empty cubicle over on their side. After much prodding, I did ask and JayAnn would have to ask the boss. Days went by and my name was already typed on the overtime list for my aisle, so knew I wasn’t going to be moved.
Well, this week, I was let back in to the fold. Came in to work and had a question for JayAnn. She looked at me and told me to come with her. Someone else was wanting to move. Natalie liked my spot so we switched. Now I’m in the same aisle as my training partner and my secret Santa. Still don’t like the sitting, but it has made all the difference in the world to be nearer to my family. Don’t know how long I’ll stay. Will just have to see what happens.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)