One Grey Night it Happened....

At about 4:00 in the afternoon on Friday, December 7th, I decided to take my kids on a bike ride to the park.  This is always a feat as I have to push Patrick's trike and help Camden with his bike since he is just learning to ride without training wheels, and for some reason Audrey's bike that has training wheels seems to tip over several times during any ride.  About halfway to the park I heard the tone from my phone indicating a text message.  I ignored it because I was constantly catching one of the children before they hit the ground, or kissing their knees if I didn't catch them in time.

Once we arrived at the park and I sat on the bench the incessant beeping of my phone forced me to pull it out of my pocket.  It was from my brother, Brad.  It read, "Mom in ER.  Dad couldn't wake her up this morning.  Paramedics came to house and hit her with Narcan."  The bottom part of the text contained a bunch of medical jargon I didn't understand (He's a nurse as are two other of my siblings).  I know it was her vitals information, but it didn't mean anything to me.  The one thing I did understand clearly was her Oxygen levels.  This I knew from the time I spent in the ER and Doctor office with Patrick when he had RSV.  Her O2 sats (Oxygen saturations) were in the 70s when the medics got to her.  Normal levels are between 95-100%.  Anything lower than 90% is an automatic hospital admission.  I knew this meant something very bad.

My mom had just had rotator cuff surgery 2 days prior.  I had just talked to her right after her surgery.  She was groggy, but fine.  She was released from the hospital the day after her surgery, ate dinner with my dad and went to bed.  It was the following morning that all of this took place.

I sat at the park staring at my phone with the worst case scenarios playing through my mind.  Dad couldn't wake Mom up. Not my mom.  No.  Not my mom. Then I remembered that when I had spoken with her the other night she said she had taken a combination of medications because the Percocet made her too jittery to sleep.  I couldn't remember the name of it but I thought perhaps this was just a bad reaction to pain medication.  I called my brother to tell him what she had told me she was taking.  No answer.  I began to panic. A little bit later he texted back that he had no reception in the ER and would give updates when he could and that Dad is just beside himself.

I called my sister, Lara, who isn't a nurse and we cried as we both expressed our fears and confusion.  In the meantime the kids are playing gleefully on the slide completely unaware that I am coming unglued.  I had my dark sunglasses on and they couldn't see me crying.  Finally I had the idea to call my nurse friend who is also one of my neighbors.  She didn't answer.  I forwarded the text message from my brother.  Within a minute she called me back to interpret the jargon.  We talked for a minute.  She knew I was very upset.  Within 5 minutes she was at my side in the park, helping me to get my kids home.  At some point the sprinklers in the park went off and the kids, their bikes, and their shoes were soaked.  I didn't even process it.  She said to me, "Are you going to go up to see your mom?"  I told her I was thinking about it but that I wanted more information first.  This may not be that serious, she has likely just had a reaction to pain meds and will be fine.  She told me, "I would go."

The fear in my stomach was solidified.  I called Aaron at work.  He didn't get home until almost 6 that night.  Driving at that time didn't really seem like a rational idea.  I had finally heard word from my brother that the ER was administering more Narcan and that they would be doing a CT scan.  The medical professionals were treating this as a pain medication reaction.  The worry was how long her oxygen levels had been so low and why she wasn't responding to the anti-narcotic.  She was placed on 10 liters of Oxygen to keep her levels in a normal range.  She was breathing on her own.

I decided to take a flight the following morning.  I packed my bag and received various updates via text from my brother throughout that evening.  The results of the CT scan showed blood clots in both lungs.  All other organs were clear.  They couldn't give her the strong blood clot busting medication because she had just had a surgery and this could cause her to bleed to death.  The most they could do was Heparin (baby Aspirin).  No clots in the brain.  

I felt encouraged by this.  It was serious, but the fact that her brain looked good seemed positive.  I put two shirts, some underwear, and a pair of pajamas in my suitcase and told Aaron I would be home on Monday.  This was definitely serious and I wanted to be there when she woke up, and I figured that was just a matter of time.  While I was just about to climb into bed another text message flashed on my phone.  "Mom in ICU, hit her with Narcan again. No response.  ICU docs suspecting stroke.  MRI and brain scan scheduled for the morning."  I broke down sobbing.  My grandma had a stroke and she was never the same again.  I knew that I had just lost a part of my mom.  But in the back of my mind I kept thinking about the results of the CT scan which said the brain was fine.  She's fine.  Even if it was a stroke it couldn't have been that bad, the scans showed her brain is fine.

I began to fast about 5 p.m.  I had a hard time sleeping that night.  I didn't know what to do about my family.   Should I have Aaron bring the kids right away?  What if, heaven forbid, she took a turn for the worse, I would want them there to see her.  But her brain looked fine, she was fine, I would go and be back in 2 days after she woke up.

I left on a plane early Saturday morning.  I wound up with a 3 hour layover in Salt Lake City.  I received a few more texts during this time from my nurse sister, Stephanie, who had arrived there Friday night to relieve my brother, Brad.  Still waiting for results.  Still no change.  Still not responding.  I couldn't hold back the tears.  I sought out a quiet corner in the busy terminal where I could hide my face.  I'm sure I didn't fool anyone, but with my back turned to the mob I felt like no one was looking.  The strange stares from people told me otherwise.  All I could do was wait for information and wait for my flight.

Once I arrived in St. George I turned my phone on.  There was a voicemail.  I listened to it.  "Julie, I am just calling to tell you...."  She was awake!!  She was calling to tell me that she was awake and that I don't need to worry!  Her voice sounded a little off, but I am sure that if she had a stroke it would be a little off.  See, I knew it would be okay. The voicemail continued ".....that Uncle Ray will pick you up when you get off your flight."  It wasn't my mom.  It was my Aunt Marianne, my mom's sister, and their voices are very similar.  My heart sank as I realized it wasn't her.

My uncle was waiting.  I got in the car and tried to restrain the tears.  He gave me a very matter-of-fact update.  "She's had a stroke.  It doesn't look good.  She still isn't responding.  I believe she's waiting for all of you before she goes. I'm sorry to give you this news, but that's just the way it is."  I cried as I stared out the window.  I received a text from my sister asking me to meet her in the hospital lobby before going to mom's room.  She needed to talk to me first. 

I walked into the hospital and through sobs asked where the ICU was.  The sweet lady directed me.  When Stephanie met me all I could think is that I was too late, that is why she wanted to see me first.  Fortunately I was not too late.  She just wanted to give me a run-down of what to expect when I walked into the room.  The MRI results were in.  The entire right half of her brain was destroyed.  If she recovered she would be "total-care."  I embraced her and Brad and we just sobbed.

They took me to her room.  My dad was there as well as my Aunt Andrea and Uncle Steve, my mom's younger brother.  They just happened to be in town house hunting when this happened.  I took one look at my mom and I saw my grandmother, 9 years earlier laying in a hospice bed in her living room.  Her rhythmic breathing was labored as her mouth was open, slack jawed as she lay there comatose.  The sound her breathing of and the rising and falling of her chest were identical to my grandma's during her last days on earth.  However, my Grandma was 94 when she took her last breath.  Here my beautiful mom at only age 70, and in perfect health prior to this, seemed to have an identical fate.

Steve and Andrea stepped out to give me some time to be with my family.  I climbed into the bed with my mom.  The nurse came in and helped adjust the bed and placed my mom's arms around me.  I sang to her, "You are My Sunshine" as the tears rolled down my cheeks.  This was one of the songs she always sang to me as a child and she sang it to my children as well.

An hour and a half later my sister Lara, and my brother Jordan, as well as my Aunt Lorrie arrived.  All my siblings and my dad were now there.  Brad, Stephanie, and Jordan are all nurses.  As is my Aunt Lorrie.  They all began to talk about what had happened and what could happen.  As my aunt expressed frustration about why this and that weren't done and why wasn't she transferred to a Level 1 neurology hospital like in Las Vegas or Salt Lake City, suddenly I felt like maybe there was hope.  Was I hearing there was something that could be done?  Lorrie said they could go in and relieve the pressure and do a number of other things.  Why weren't they doing anything?

As siblings we all met together in a private room.  Dad had given in to what the doctors had said.  But with three more nurses on the scene here with varying experiences it seemed like maybe there was something?  We knew we needed to talk to the ICU doctors and get more information and chart a course of action.  It was clear to all of us that my mom would want a good quality of life.  She always made it known that she didn't want to lose her mind like her mother had.  

We knelt down and prayed in that room. We asked for a miracle.  We asked for understanding of the situation.  We asked to know how to proceed.  We walked out of there and into the ICU waiting room.  A shift change was happening so no one was allowed in at this time.  The benefit to this is we were all together when both ICU doctors came into the waiting room....one on his way out, the other on his way in.  We asked a lot of questions.  We were seeking for a glimmer of hope.  We wanted to hear they could do something for her. 

We met in a conference room to have some more privacy.  My dad, the 5 of us siblings and the two doctors.   They explained that test results showed that blood clots entered her brain and caused a stroke.  At some point the stroke converted from a blood clot stroke to a hemorrhagic stroke.  Her brain was bleeding, and badly.  On top of this we received new information that no one knew, not even my mom.  She had a hole in her heart, an ASD.  Usually when blood clots reach the heart it naturally filters them into the lungs.  Obviously this happened with some of the clots because those were present on the CT scan.  However with a hole in the Atrial Septum the blood flow through the heart doesn't occur correctly.  The doctors believed a shower of clots went through the hole in her heart and directly to her brain.  They confirmed this by doing an echo-cardiogram where they also injected bubbles into her veins to see what course the bubbles would take.  They went to her brain.

On top of this, her heart was only functioning at 35%.  The doctors suspected that she had likely had a few silent heart attacks in her lifetime that had weakened her heart.  If they tried any intervention measures her heart would likely not be strong enough to withstand it.  Bottom line was there were things they could do for her.  They could surgically go in and remove the damaged tissue and relieve the pressure.  They could try to bring her back.  However, with half of her brain destroyed she would never see or process half of anything again.  If she were to see a clock she would only see half.  She would likely never eat on her own or speak again.  She would be paralyzed.  She would have no quality of life.

I had just recently read about Pedro Bach-y-Rita, a stroke victim that was given no chance and yet recovered.  I told the doctors about this.  If we try, wouldn't it be possible that we could get a miracle?  They were kind and sympathetic.  They said that miracles happen sometimes and there's no way of saying that it couldn't happen, but the chances were poor.  I tearfully asked if they could just give us a miracle.  No response.

We weren't ready to give up just yet.  We all agreed that we would give it one more day.  We believed in miracles and maybe if we gave it one more day it could happen for us.  The doctors asked us if it would help if we all saw the MRI.  A few family members had seen it, but those of us who arrived that day had not.  We followed him to his computer and there it was.  The entire right side was destroyed as well as a portion of the left side and the brain stem.  The right side was swelling so badly that it was pushing into the left side of the brain.  Seeing the brain scan and learning about her heart condition made things very clear.  It would take God's intervention.

We all returned to mom's room.  We sniffled and stared at her.  It felt weird, but there didn't seem to be any right thing to say.  So we sang to her.  We sang Puff the Magic Dragon, which was her favorite song.  She sang it to us children when we were little.  She sang it to our babies.  It was her ring tone on her cellphone.  We all sobbed while we sang, particularly during the line that says, "Without his life-long friend, Puff could not be brave."

Everyone started making their sleeping arrangements for that night.  When I realized that no one planned to stay with mom, I said that I wanted to.  This was quite a role reversal as she had stayed the night with me in the hospital when Patrick was born.

It wasn't until midnight that I was finally alone with her.  I climbed into bed with her.  It dawned on me that no one had told her what was happening.  So' I did.  "Mom,  you've had a stroke, and it's bad.  The doctors say half of your brain is destroyed.  If you wake up, you will practically be a vegetable.  I know you don't want that.  We don't want that for you.  But I believe in miracles mom.  If you want to come back and God will allow it and will heal your brain to complete wholeness, then please do it.  But you have to fight for it and you have to strike a deal with God that he will heal you.  If not, it's better for you to go."

A million feelings ran through my soul and mind.  Memories, love, sorrow.  I couldn't transpose the feelings into words.  But I the prose of song encompassed the feelings.  Not necessarily because of the words of the songs, but because of the bond those songs had created between us in our lifetime together.  I sang to her all the lullabies she had ever sang to me.  These are, of course, the ones I sing to my babies.  It wasn't so much words as much as it was my soul communicating my love.  And when I ran out of lullabies I sang Christmas songs and hymns about Christ.  I sang my favorite hymn, "Come thou Fount of Every Blessing."  I would later find out that was her favorite as well.

Though it was hard I felt I needed to tell her everything that I could.  How do you summarize a lifetime of feelings and love into one night?  I said thank you for little red picnic baskets with a peanut butter sandwich in them for summertime picnics in the backyard.  I said thank you for dance lessons and trips to Hawaii.  I said thank you for taping my milk money to the bottom of my brown paper lunch bags.  Thank you for Johnny Mathis Christmas songs and crackling fires, camping trips, lullabies, and endless service.  How do you summarize your love for someone when faced with their impending death.  It was the most sacred night of my life.  I ran my fingers through her hair and sang to her and told her how sad I was that my kids were so little and didn't get a chance to have her in their lives enough.  Audrey and Patrick will likely not remember her.  I asked her to go to Robin and find my four little babies that I had miscarried and take care of them.

I slept for maybe 3 hours that night...maybe.  And maybe 4 hours the night before.  Coming off a 24 hour fast and unable to eat or sleep because of the emotions had made my hypoglycemic body pretty weak.  There were times throughout the ordeal that I would grip a counter or bedside or whatever and will myself to stay conscious.  

I will never forget the encounter between my dad and I the following morning.  At about 8 a.m. he walked in the door alone with his eyebrows raised.  He hopefully asked, "Any change?"  It broke me heart to shake my head and quietly murmur, "No change."  His hopeful face became crestfallen as a few sobs escaped him.  We stayed with her a little while and then he invited me to go to the cafeteria with him to get breakfast.  We knew this would be the day we would turn off the oxygen.

I called Aaron and asked him to come and bring the kids.  I asked him to please bring me a nice dress and my nice coat for the cemetery.  I asked for more clothes and to bring dress clothes for the kids.  He got the kids all dressed up and sent me a picture text message of them asking for my approval of their attire for my mom's impending funeral.  They looked perfect.  They would not be able to arrive until the next morning.  I was torn.  Should I ask them to come more quickly so they could say good-bye?  My kids are so little though, would it frighten them to see her like this?  Plus if they were there, I would have my attention split.  Part of me hoped when we took the oxygen off she would hang on for another day or two so they could say good-bye to her.  After all, my grandma remained in a coma for about a week before she died.  We had her entire funeral planned and one day prior to the funeral she still hadn't died!  She did end up doing so that night though, so it all worked out, but it gave me hope that my mom might hang on like that too.

We decided to wait a few more hours before removing the oxygen as she was still stable and seemingly in no pain.  There were a few more in-laws and grand kids on the way and this would give everyone a chance to say good-bye.  Everyone but my family.  I was very torn about my family not making it there in time.

Once they all arrived we each took our turn to say our last good-byes privately.  I called my kids on the phone.  They were in the car on the way to St. George.  Aaron held up the phone for them so they could say good-bye to their Grandma over the phone.  They sang "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" and yelled, "GOOD-BYE GRANDMA!!"  It was so childlike and perfect.  I sobbed.  I had already spent the entire night with her saying my good-byes, so I didn't spend much more time.

My dad asked Stephanie and I to stay with him during his final good-bye because he wanted us to help prop up my mom so he could hold her.  He said some very tender things to her.  And when he was done, a tear rolled down her cheek.  It confirmed to me that she was present and heard everything we had all said.

When everyone was done, we rallied together in her room as the nurse removed the oxygen.  All we could do was sing to her.  We sang hymns and Christmas songs.  At 8:36 p.m. she took her last breath while we sang "I Believe in Christ."  How fitting that she would return to the arms of our Savior while we sang of Him.  It was an hour after the oxygen was removed.  The miracle didn't happen the way we wanted it to.  We all sobbed.  Slowly the room emptied.  I didn't want to leave.  I felt  like as long as I was in that room with her then there was still time.  My sisters and my dad helped me out the door.

I walked out of the hospital into the cold night air.  The beautifully strung Christmas lights hung on the hospital trees were upsetting to me. After arriving back at my parent's house I slammed the car door in anger.  She should have had 20 more years at least!!


I wanted to wallow and mourn, but no chance of that.  The next morning we had to wake up and meet with a funeral director and be faced with all sorts of decisions like what casket, what vault, what cemetary, what florist, would we like to do the obituary ourselves?, burial plot, funeral program, spreading the word of her passing, etc., etc., etc.

I pulled out the sofa bed and waited for the sleep that I knew would not come.  My  mommy  died.  It was surreal. And though I know that she is in her heavenly home with many friends and relatives who preceded her in death I will never be the same again.

***Feel free to click the play button the music player to the right to hear my mom's favorite songs.  They were sung at her funeral.  "Puff" was sung by all the grandkids and a family friend sang "Come Thou Fount" at the funeral.  Justin and I sang it at the graveside.