The birthday that might have been

Jane would have turned 65 today. We would have done something special. I’d have written her a poem, given her presents and flowers and a couple of cards. We’d have gone to dinner someplace we both liked. Given the milestone 65 represents, perhaps we’d have spent the weekend on the lake or flown somewhere exotic.

…the moment Jane stopped breathing.

Instead, I took flowers to her grave. The weather is raw and blustery. I didn’t stay long. I could hear her in my mind telling me to get somewhere warm. I woke up in the dark this morning. I immediately missed her. That happens most mornings–but this morning was harder than usual. I lay there with tears in my eyes.

Jane’s last birthday

Her last living birthday we spent in the hospital together. She was two days out of surgery and improving rapidly. They wanted to move her to the step-down unit, but there was no bed available. Instead, they began the process where she was. They took her off oxygen and removed the remote monitors. They began weening her off the other drugs she was on.

Instead, I took flowers to her grave

We had talked about what I would do once she moved out of the ICU. I’d check out of my hotel room the next day and head home. I’d visit on the weekend and maybe once during the week. Jane didn’t want me driving back and forth to Boston every day after work. She needed to focus on healing–not worrying about me driving home. Her doctors agreed: I’d just be in the way. Jane joked she’d gotten a new heart for her birthday.

Harbingers of death

Everything shattered a bit after 7 p.m. The night nurse came on and started running vital signs. That’s standard procedure in the ICU–or anywhere else in a hospital. What she found, she didn’t like. And things went rapidly downhill from there.

She needed to focus on healing.

Jane’s pulse-oxygen level had dropped into the upper 80s. It’s supposed to be well into the 90s–anything below 90 marks a problem somewhere. We were up all night. They did scans and blood tests and could find nothing to explain what was going on.

Carcinoid birthday greetings

What was going on was the first of four carcinoid crises likely triggered by the physical therapy and the weening her off the octreotide drip that helped fight off carcinoid crises in operative post-operative NET cancer patients. No one realized it at the time. It was one of the things Jane taught her doctors. Unfortunately, they didn’t figure that out until she was in her final coma.

Everything shattered a bit after 4 p.m.

Jane never lost consciousness that night. I suspect that was another piece of the carcinoid crisis as insomnia is a symptom of high levels of serotonin. But I chalked up her wakefulness to what was going on around us.

When your best isn’t enough

I wonder now how much brain damage she sustained that night. She was still recovering from the anesthetics from the surgery and was a little loopy to begin with. I never saw her pulse-ox levels dip below 80. But she was never quite right after that night. Still, Jane was always hyper-sensitive to anesthesia, so I just don’t know.

Jane never lost consciousness that night.

I just don’t know too many things from that time period. I second-guess everything I did and said during that final month of her life. I console myself with the knowledge I did the best I could with what I knew and believed at the time. But there was too much suffering there for the final outcome.

The cost of knowledge

I was at a funeral this week. One of the readings was the story of Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead. I know that act made his family and friends happy. But we never hear from Lazarus. I wonder where he was and what that miracle took him away from.

I second-guess everything

And I wonder what additional suffering I inflicted on Jane by calling her back from the edge of death on two later occasions before we let her go home. Those things haunt me. I know the good that came of those decisions. I know what the doctors learned, know how the nurses felt about what they saw. I know how those extra days have shaped my life since–for both good and bad.

Happy birthday or sad birthday?

But I just don’t know if I did the right thing–don’t know how to balance any of it. I doubt I ever will. I’m struggling with a lot of things–trying to figure out what I’m doing, whether I’m making enough of a difference for the energy I’m putting into things, whether it’s time to do something else.

Those things haunt me.

Today is hard. It is always hard. I remember how happy we were for so much of the day–and how rapidly things fell apart as day turned to night. I feel enormous bitterness and enormous sadness. And then I tell myself how little of the good that has happened since exists without that day and the ones that followed.

That thought does not console me. People tell me it should. But they have no idea what I lost–and no idea what the world lost–the moment Jane stopped breathing.