Dark days of the soul

Jane was in surgery five years ago today as I write this. Part of me wishes she had had a less competent surgeon that day–someone who would not know how to deal with the damage to the heart he found when he opened her chest. It would have spared her the 25 days that followed.

…the price of all that is beyond counting…

I remember everything about that day in too vivid detail. I remember taking off her wedding ring. I remember the hours in the waiting room. I remember the walk up the street to the church where two friends were married–where Ted Kennedy sat when his son was in surgery–where the “liberal lion” of the Senate had had his funeral. It is all long and silent.

A single day

I remember coming back to the waiting room. I remember them sending me off to eat with a pager in my pocket. I remember coming back and watching the other people leave, until I was the only person left. I remember them closing the room and sending me to a waiting area of the sixth floor, right outside the ICU where Jane would arrive after the surgery.

It is all long and silent.

I remember trying to distract myself with television shows. I paced. I looked out the window at the street below and at the buildings across the street. And I remember thinking, this is taking too long–something is wrong.

Living and dying

And something was. The valves in the right side of Jane’s heart were so damaged that the serotonin had begun damaging the area where the new valves were supposed to attach. The surgeon had to sculpt a new seating for them into the flesh of Jane’s heart. A lesser surgeon would not have seen in his mind how to do that. A lesser surgeon would have been forced to let her die.

…something is wrong.

Sometimes I think about the what-ifs of that night. I wonder what would have happened if the surgeon had come to me and told me she was gone. I wonder if her death would have been harder or easier to bear. I wonder if I would be doing what I am doing now. I wonder how my relationship with her doctors would have been different–my relationship with our friends.

The day the world changed

I do know that there are people alive today who would not be if that had happened. They had heart surgery after Jane battled through four carcinoid crises–the last of which killed her. Her doctors learned from those and what they did to stop them. There is consolation in that–but it has not stopped the tears, especially not today.

…I think about the what-ifs…

I went to the wake for the father of some friends this afternoon. Jane and I had his grandchildren in class. They were the kinds of kids you don’t forget. Jane would be proud of them and the people they have become–as am I. She should have been there in more than spirit to see them.

Too much memory

A memorial service was held right after the wake. I’d planned to stay for it. But I could feel the tide rising. I had to get out of there before I lost it. Seeing our friends was one thing–seeing our students in that setting–was too much. Maybe on a different day than this one, it would have been different. But today…

There is consolation in that…

Today, I realized Jane really didn’t come out of that surgery. Her body worked–sort of. The heart pumped and the lungs pushed air in and out. The mouth formed words. But the anesthesia clouded her mind so badly she didn’t know what day it was until December 3. And the endless diarrhea stripped off her dignity more rapidly than her weight.

Forging tomorrow

Yet she stayed with me as much as she could for 25 days–and we forged something out of those days. I don’t know who I’d be without those last fragmentary days–or what I would be doing. I don’t know how many lives we touched in those days–nor how many since and in the future. I think I am a better person than I would have been without them.

Her body worked…

But the price of all that is beyond counting–and today it hurts more than I can say.