Enough Rope

One particular day, and no day in particular: Alert and oriented x3. Just had a few bites to eat. Talking, smiling through sadness. Papers are signed. Reluctant acceptance. The admitting nurse gives no particular prognosis in report, because death, it seems, is busier approaching other people today, and this person shows no signs of going anywhere anytime soon. The "just in case" medications are ordered for delivery later that day, no rush. A team is assigned. The ducks are lined up. She's a little relieved. Sad, but relieved. It will be okay. Her family will be okay, and we are watching out for her, and for all of them. Death perks his ears up, makes a U-turn and comes running, and arrives before the ink had dried.

A different day: I'm no expert, but I'm pretty sure that sitting straight up, wide-eyed and gasping for air is probably not how most people want to spend their last hours in this world. I'm also very sure that this phone cannot dial the pharmacy quick enough, the oxygen cannot arrive soon enough, this medication isn't kicking in fast enough, and everyone in this room including me wishes for more arms, more air. Your right hand in my left, my right hand with the syringe in your mouth, your left hand in the chaplain's. You're breathing so fast that the rest of us have forgotten how. The room is claustrophobic and expanded all at once, I am so grounded in these movements, in this moment, my eyes locked on yours - the only way we can communicate - and at the same time, I'm floating somewhere above us, watching from somewhere else, only curiously and delicately aware that this is really happening.

How long have you been breathing like this. Yeah, I know. Moot point. Okay, let's try this other med. You nod.

Even with all the teaching I've done - this is what you should do, this is the medication you should give, this is what NOT to do, CALL US if you have ANY questions, CALL US if there are ANY changes in condition, CALL US if the wind shifts or you just want to tell me it's cold outside: CALL US. We show, we teach, we write it down - sometimes they just don't call. And so we call you, to ask, to check in, because those signs that are written down on that piece of paper we gave you? Those signs are Here and Now, and we're not so sure you're seeing it. In fact, we know you're not. We don't blame you. It's too close up to focus on, too close to home to bear. I get it, and I don't blame you, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't angry. It doesn't have to be like this. There are things we can do. We can't do those things if you don't tell us what's happening.

And in the same stream of thought, the Higher Me, the Coach, tells myself: You can't control this. You will torture yourself thinking you can. It's not up to you, and it's not your fault. You did what you could. You still are.

It takes forever, but you do relax. Your breathing is slower, easier. Your eyes have lost the panic, and I can see that cloud coming over them, that iridescent fog. We smile.
"The oxygen will be here within an hour or so."
You nod.
"The meds are kicking in now, you look better...?"
The slightest hint of a smile.
"Your next dose is in twenty-five minutes. You're already almost there."
You close your eyes. You're pooped.
The chaplain asks if you'd like a prayer. You scoff and turn your head. We laugh. "How about a little story, then?" You nod.
Something about mistakes, the making of them, forgiveness, eternal love, acceptance, relief. You used to do some really bad things. You know that we know, even though we haven't talked about it. You did some really bad things. I've done some really bad things, too. You can tell. Thieves and liars, penitents, bastard saints. Here we are.
"A little better, at least?"
You smile and nod.
"You want us to go?"
You shrug and tilt your head - it's up to us.
I'm hesitant to go, but there's nothing we can do that hasn't been taught, you are not ours to release, and none of us will follow where you are going, not right now, at least.
"Only fifteen minutes now. You cool?"
You reach out for my hand, and I'm not sure at first whether it's "stay with me" or "I'm okay." My face is a question mark. Your eyes soften with the answer.
"Fifteen minutes. Oxygen in an hour. And then we call the dancing girls."
You laugh. You really, honestly laugh. I can tell it kinda hurts, but you're laughing anyway.
"It's going to be okay. Do you trust me."
You close your eyes and nod.

A few hours later, the emails come in. Panic, 911, they did CPR...

It takes two beers and two hours on the phone with a colleague to convince me there really wasn't anything else I could do. It didn't have to end that way. I worked my ass off, I taught, there was hand holding and meds and a fan and blankets on and off and on again and dancing! fucking! girls! and more hand holding and God itself and HE TRUSTED ME. This whole week has been horrible. We know so much, and we don't know shit. This death is only the tip of the iceberg, and I need a mental vacation. The mystery I usually love about life, about science, about death - the little things WHICH ARE EVERYTHING that we will never truly understand and know for sure - I am so fucking pissed at it right now. At that beauty. It tricked me. Stupid fucking existential Zen bullshit and it's stupid and I hate it and I want to break up. I want my sweater back, I want my money back, I want to write a strongly worded letter. He trusted me, and they did CPR. I failed.
You didn't fail, she says. You made him comfortable enough to relax just enough to go. That IS the best you could have done. You gave 125%. You are awesome.

I don't entirely believe her, but I know I need to try to, and I am so deeply and humbly grateful for this friend, for the gesture in the words.

God's in my ear, muttering something about atheists in foxholes. I am so far past empty I can't even see the E. I email the chaplain. "If anyone's looking for me on Monday, I'll be in the attic with a rope and a bucket." I don't mean it - he knows I don't. The man is a master of metaphors, allegory, Proverbs.

His reply:

"I live by Dumbroski's law that says Murphy was an optimist. Don't use a rope. The way this day has been going, the rope will stretch long enough so you'll end up with a couple broken ankles."

I laugh so hard it hurts.

Dancing girls. Murphy, the optimist, and oh my god that would SO totally happen you have no idea and thank you I love you.

And finally, I really do believe he's laughing with me. And we let go.