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