One Month Today

I've been lucky in my life. I have had many more ups than downs and I've been fortunate enough to have very little experience with heartache and death. Unfortunately, 2011 started out with a little bit of heartbreak for my family. I didn't blog about it right when it happened because it was hard enough to make it through school without blubbering so I thought trying to write about it coherently just wasn't feasible.This post will be hard. But I also think it will be cathartic.

I've always been close to my mom's parents, whom we affectionately call MeMaw and Papa. I remember going to their house for a few weeks during the summer (both for a vacation and to give my mom some relief and allow her to regain sanity), a time that affectionately became "Camp Memaw". My granddad made all of his granddaughters (he was lucky enough to have 6 girls ;)) treasure trunks as a high school graduation present and I'll cherish it until the day I die. Every time I look at it, I smile and think of how happy he was when it made it to Lubbock (from Tyler) all in one piece. He always joked that he was glad there wasn't another one after mine to be made (I'm the youngest), as he wasn't sure he could have done it. I could go on and on about memories and amazing times I had with Papa. He was the greatest grandfather a girl could have. Ever.

Papa turned 91 in October of last year. I recorded this video on my iPhone at his birthday party. It epitomizes him perfectly; he was happiest surrounded by family. 

Papa had dealt with diabetes for as long as I can remember. He gave himself daily shots of insulin and took an arsenal of medicine to control everything from blood pressure to restless leg syndrome (as a result of the diabetes). He never complained. He often joked with my sister that it was her turn to give him the shots, but he was never serious. (Pretty sure she would have hit the floor hard since the thought of a needle creeps her out.) He was able to walk for short distances independently (long stretches required a cane), feed himself and take care of himself until his mid-late 80s.


In the last 3 years, Papa began having chest pains. He had been hospitalized a few times and doctor visits were becoming much more frequent than any of us would have preferred. When we were visiting them for Thanksgiving and Christmas late last year, it was clear that neither Memaw or Papa were feeling their best, but they were so excited we were all together again.

Shortly after the new year, Papa went to his cardiologist's office after experiencing nightly chest pains that couldn't be helped with nitroglycerin tablets. The doctor recommended an angioplasty that would hopefully allow the specialists to "clean out" a few of Papa's arteries and take some of the stress off of his heart and allow him to be more comfortable and feel better. As he was leaving for the hospital, he had hugged Memaw, said "I love you" and assured her that he would be back.

The angioplasty was scheduled for the following day. My mom left that morning and hoped to make it to Fort Worth by the time Papa was out of the recovery room. School was scheduled to start the next week (for both my sister and I) and I was getting ready for my clinicals so I did not go with her right away. Papa was wheeled into the pre-op area around 9 AM. He was alert and ready to get the whole ordeal over with; he was ready to feel better. My mom's family kept her updated while she was on her way and she in turn kept my sister and I informed. I'll never forget all the phone calls that I had with my Mom that day. We were hopeful. I don't think I set my phone down that entire day (some people would argue that I never set it down, but I digress). Having been in the OR during an angioplasty, I knew the complications and concerns that were involved. I also knew that Papa needed some relief and I knew that was the only way he could get some. Still, I was worried. We all were. 


The initial reports were that Papa was tolerating the procedure as well as could be expected. The doctors had told him prior to the procedure that they knew for sure that at least 2 arteries were completely blocked. After they were inside his heart, they found out that at least 4 were severely restricted. Because there was so much blockage, the doctors recommended open heart surgery; the damage was too extensive for just an angioplasty.The doctors cleaned out the arteries that they safely could but it was clear that his heart was just worn out. Suddenly, Memaw, my mom and her two sisters were faced with a tough decision. The doctor told them that he could perform the (open heart) surgery with no problem. (As a family, they were wary of the procedure from the get-go: it involves breaking the person's ribcage and putting the heart on a bypass machine for a couple hours. Open heart surgery is a big deal for anyone, but especially a 91 year old with an already compromised heart.) Had they opted for the open heart surgery, there was a very high probability that Papa would have to be on dialysis for the rest of his life due to subsequent kidney failure as a result of the operation. (As a family, we all knew that he would NOT want to be on dialysis and although it was tough, we ultimately chose to respect his wishes.)


By the time she found out that open heart surgery was the best option, my Mom was close to Fort Worth. Papa was out of the OR and resting comfortably, so it was decided that all the kids would meet at MeMaw and Papa's and discuss what would happen next. When my mom called me a few minutes later, I knew it wasn't good. She was crying.

The decision was made not to go forward with the open heart surgery. The doctors said there was nothing else they could do. After the angioplasty, Papa was still hooked up to a machine through a vein in his groin that was pumping his heart so that he could rest. A machine was keeping him alive. 


The doctor said that he would likely not survive without the machine. No one knew if he would last an hour, a day, a year. His heart just couldn't do it on its own. My mom said Katie and I needed to come. I grabbed clothes and headed that way. I cried off and on the entire way there. I tried so hard to hold out hope that he would surprise everyone, but I also tried to be realistic. I had called my Dad to let him know what was going on. I just needed to talk to him. I needed to hear his voice and I needed him to just let me cry. I could hear the concern in his voice and he was sniffling too. He just kept saying "Em, I'm so sorry." I knew that had we been together, he would have wrapped his arms around me and just let me sob. On the phone was the next best thing. I talked to him off and on while on the road.


I got to Fort Worth around 11. My uncle gave us all the "run down" of the days events and prognosis. It still feels like a horrible dream. I felt like I wasn't living my own life. I already knew that the end was likely near but it didn't feel real until I heard it from him. I don't remember sleeping much that night. I prayed a lot. I begged God to intervene and allow a miracle to take place.


I went the next morning to see Papa at the hospital. At first, I didn't think I wanted to see him medically unconscious, hooked up to IVs and not looking like the "normal" Papa that I know and love so well. I wanted to remember him in "his" chair (which happened to be the most uncomfortable chair on the planet to everyone but him) with the TV on mute and completing a crossword puzzle. I knew there was no way I could hold myself together after I walked into his hospital room. I worried it would just be too hard.


I cried the whole way to the hospital and tried to mentally prepare myself for what he would look like. Looking back, I'll always be grateful that I made the decision to go see him that day. It was tough. He was hooked up to a machine through the femoral artery in his groin (yay for that biology and anatomy degree!!!!!) and he was very heavily sedated. He had all kinds of wires coming up from under his hospital gown and I remember seeing at least three IVs in his arms. He had a breathing tube in his mouth.


But he was still Papa. He was peaceful and the very embodiment of calm. He was finally resting, feeling no pain. While I was there, the nurse came in and said that Papa could hear us. (A slightly comical side story: I asked my uncle Tag if Papa had his hearing aid in. I wanted to say some things to Papa, but I wanted him to be able to hear me! Anyone who knew Papa knows how much trouble he had hearing. I knew that even with his hearing aid in, Papa still probably wouldn't be able to understand what I was saying, as yelling is not allowed in the Cardiac Intensive Care Unit at All Saints Hospital. But I had to ask, and Tag put his hearing aid in.) I stood by his bedside and just stared at him for a few minutes. I held his hand and rubbed it while sobbing. I prayed that somehow, he would know I was there. I told him how much I loved him and how lucky I was because he was my Papa. I told him that Katie loved him and I thanked him for being such an amazing dad to my Mom. I thanked him for loving Memaw and being such a good example. I told him I always tried to make him proud and hoped that I had done so. I rubbed his feet. They were so swollen and they were marked up from where the surgeons had planned to enter during any subsequent procedures. But mostly, I prayed with my entire being that Papa would open his eyes and give me that billion dollar smile. I was in his room for about half an hour. I couldn't ever bring myself to say "goodbye".


Papa died about 30 minutes after his cardiologist removed the stent in his leg. When that phone call came, I cried and cried and cried. It just hurt. I was in complete denial, but suddenly I had to face reality. Papa was gone. Forever. When I woke up the next morning, it really hit me.


His funeral was a few days later. The day before, I went to the funeral home with my Mom and some family to see him. I wanted to see him without all the wires and IVs. He looked just like the Papa I grew up with. He looked like he was napping. I expected him to open his eyes and ask me how the Lady Raiders were doing this season or how many A's I would have this semester. 


Papa knew long before we did that his time to go was near. He had talked to his brother-in-law, a pastor, about the kind of service he wanted. There would be a short sermon and some singing as well. I'll never be able to hear "I'll Fly Away" again without crying. There were lots of former students from Itasca who came to Papa's service. It was a true testament to the kind of principal and superintendent that he was. As a family, we had told the preacher a few stories that he could share. As I believe Papa would want it, we actually laughed a few times throughout the message and eulogy. Hard though it was, the service was wonderful.


The following day was the burial at the Veterans Cemetery. Although the entire thing didn't last more than 15 minutes from start to finish, to call it "powerful" would be a gross understatement. As the flag was being folded, I thought about how fitting it was that Papa be honored in such a way.




Today, it's been a month since Papa met Jesus. For the last month, I've experienced every emotion in the world.


I've been sad. Sad for my Mom and her sisters. Sad for my cousins. Sad for Memaw; her best friend of 69 years is gone. Forever. Sad for all his friends. Sad that he will never be able to pat me on the back and say "hang in there" as we are driving away and I'm headed back to school. Sad that he won't get to see me graduate from Speech Pathology school. Sad that my kids will never know Papa before they go to heaven themselves. Sad that I'll never have to buy another crossword puzzle book for him. Sad that the Texas Rangers lost their number one fan. 


Papa never liked crying. When I was homesick for my parents during Camp Memaw, he didn't tolerate it well. I'd like to think that Papa often looks down on me crying because I miss him and says "Dry your eyes, girl... I'm with JESUS!!!".


I've been homesick for Heaven. There have been times when all I've wanted is to hear his voice again. On my worst days, I just replay his voice in my memory and try to smile through the tears.


I've been happy. Happy that Papa is no longer experiencing any kind of pain. Happy that he no longer needs insulin shots or his hearing aids. Happy that he has been reunited with his family that has gone to meet Jesus before him. Happy that he lived such a happy and fulfilling life and happy that I got to be a part of it. 


I've been reminiscent and sentimental. I learned out that Papa failed a grade in school (it's funny that he never told us this, especially since his expectations for all of us were so high). I've learned a lot about Papa, actually. I can't see a carton of buttermilk without thinking about him. 


I've been angry. Angry that death is a part of life. Angry that human hearts wear out after 91 wonderful years. Angry that I couldn't change places with him. Angry that the doctors couldn't fix him. Angry that eventually, I'll have to go visit him at a grave site rather than at their house in Fort Worth.


I've been proud. Proud that Papa served our country. Proud that Patton Field in Itasca Texas will always be a memorial of the kind of superintendent he was. Proud that he was my grandpa. Proud of the way my family came together. Proud of the way we handled ourselves throughout the entire ordeal.


I've been bitter. On my clinic rotation this semester, I have an elderly man who is receiving speech therapy after having an angioplasty. God really has a sense of humor sometimes. I'm bitter that it wasn't Papa who was discharged home after a week. (I know this seems horrible, but it sucked. I went to the bathroom and just sobbed because I was so angry that it wasn't Papa.)


I've been thankful. Thankful that Papa is pain free and walking tall and strong, bowing at the feet of Jesus any time he chooses. Thankful that I have someone up there looking down on me, cheering me on. Thankful that I have so many amazing memories with Papa. Most of all, I've been thankful that for 25 years, God chose me to be a part of his life. Of all the people in the world, so much more deserving, God chose me. What a blessing. 


C.S. Lewis wrote "We are not necessarily doubting God will do the best for us; we are wondering how painful the best will turn out to be." I'm not doubting today; not even a little bit. He has proved his faithfulness in a million big and small ways yet again, but oh how this "best" hurts.