Journal Entries
I told 'em so...
Posted Apr 15, 2005
At some point you begin to think of all the times you invited people to assist you nag your mutually loved one, but they missed the point.
One of the first was the only check-up I ever remember my husband having. We had talked about how important it was that we both have physicals before we were married, to start our life together healthy and informed. I had mine, as I did every year. He went in a mere three years after the wedding, only because of a mysterious abdominal strain. He invited me to go in with him, because he said that I understand "this medical stuff" better than he did. So I went, wondering if men have cold metal implements inserted in them, too.
The doctor, who my husband used for years (but probably only saw five times) came in, looked at me, and said "one of us must be in trouble, because she's here." The examination seemed competent (if brief), with the usual questions about what goes in, what comes out, what happens, what doesn't, and the like. The doctor recommended my husband loose a bit of weight, and they both professed knowing how this effort should happen without discussing exactly how to make it happen. I broached the topic of the snoring. I explained that he stopped breathing, had night terrors, and the combination were causing me health problems from lack of sleep. The doctor minimized it, saying that he'd heard that none of the surgical procedures were successful in stopping the snoring. My husband shot me an "I told you so" look, and I shot the doctor a look that clearly indicated that I questioned his identity, species, ability to transport himself to work, button his shirt properly without help, etc.
A few weeks later, the doctor left a message on our answering machine asking if my husband's abdominal strain had resolved itself. I know that doctors don't generally take the time to do this, but my husband didn't probably because he just didn't go to the doctor often. The message also contained an unconcerned caution that snoring can be serious and that he should get it checked out. His tone of voice, coupled with the rarity of follow-up phone calls led me to conclude that this "doctor" had become alarmed at my response, consulted his references or collegues, discovered that this was potentially serious, and wished to backpedal without loosing face. However, by then my husband had written the whole snoring issue off as my problem, not his.
My husband's father snored, too. I tried on many occasions to enlist his help. He regularly asked if his son was in good health. When I'd mention it, his father would give the same response: "Oh, I've had mine checked, and it's not apnea, don't worry." I think either his hearing was bad, or he jumped into an defensive mode from hearing complaints about his snoring.
Needless to say, I did not have much respect for my husband's doctor. Eventually, he decided to change doctors to one closer to our home. He chose mine. This filled me with hope, because my doctor had been very sympathetic while treating my problems that arose (at least partially) from lack of sleep. My doctor knew that I was feeling better since moving to another bedroom; and about my concern for my husband's health. Unfortunately, my husband only saw my doctor once before he died--for a shoulder problem, and the doctor referred him for physical therapy.
In about 2001, I convinced my husband to see a specialist. Based on the books my husband checked out from the library (I read them, he did not), the best I knew to do was suggest an ear, nose, throat specialist. She was very nice, discussed how insurance companies cover (or don't) these issues, and gave him a referral for a sleep study. When I've been referred to a specialist, my doctor has contacted the specialist, and their office has corresponded with the insurance company to determine who would pay what. Not this time. She left it to my husband to decide what to do and talk to his insurance company. I think he was under the impression that persuing this would help me, not him, and that it would cost him money because the insurance would not cover it. I kept nagging him to have the study done.
He never got around to calling the insurance company. He'd complain about my decision to sleep across the hall, and I'd chew him out about how stressful it was to hear someone you love stop breathing; I was literally afraid to go to sleep when I could hear him. He would feel bad about it, but never actually did what he needed to do. He ran out of time and died.
The autopsy was done the day after he died. The deputy medical examiner, a very nice man, called me afterwards to discuss the findings. It turns out that he uses a CPAP machine for his own apnea, and is both sympathetic and informed on the issue. My husband was a very healthy man. The only health issues he had were being a bit overwieght, having some arthritis in his upper back (which caused his shoulder pain), and an enlarged heart (left ventricular hypertrophy). The stress of stopping breathing puts additional stress on that part of the heart, and it enlarges to try to compensate. This condition as well as the apnea itself seem to cause cardiac arrythmia. Most likely, my husband fell asleep in front of the TV, and died in his sleep without ever knowing that anything was wrong. He did not suffer. He did not yell for help. I couldn't have saved him if I'd awakened a half hour earlier. He died at about 2:00 in the morning, the popcorn and soda he ate at the movie still in his stomach.
The deputy medical examiner said that my husband had large tonsils, a low palette, and a large tongue. He was certain that apnea was the cause of my husband's death; but there was no way to certainly say beyond any doubt that an arrythmia was what actually killed him. So it would still take time to have toxicology tests and tissue samples examined. It turns out that it took another couple of months before I could get a death certificate that said anything but "under investigation." Months of people asking what happened.
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Latest reply: Apr 15, 2005
Damned if you do, damned if you don't
Posted Apr 14, 2005
He said he wanted a no-frills direct cremation and a civil gathering where people could remember the good times. But I'm sure he did not anticipate that his parents would outlive him. Memorial services are for the living. His dad wanted visitation and a Methodist minister. His mother abhors the very idea of viewing and objects to the idea of God. Somehow I was caught in the middle.
I had visitation in a private room to the side, and took photographs for the room where the service was to be held. His father enjoyed the pictures, and wanted copies of all of them. I asked for copies of what they had--but he said he didn't know when he'd ever have time to find them all, and he's retired. I sent tiff and jpg versions of the photos at the service on CD ROM, but have received nothing.
The service was six days after he died. It was a busy, sleepless six days for me. The phone rang constantly; his dad called every few hours wanting more information. He wanted to know what movie my husband saw the night he died. I told him that we probably will never know a number of times--my husband paid cash, and never saved ticket stubs, but he kept asking anyway. By the time the service rolled around, I was relieved to see everyone who came. I think my in-laws mistook this for me enjoying the occasion. My husband wanted everyone to remember the good times, and hated the solemnity of funerals.
We had viewing starting at 9 AM, because his father seemed to want some time to say goodbye. They arrived about fifteen minutes before the service started, and his father spent about two minutes in the viewing room. I spent more time than that choosing the suit to dress him in for the viewing. I could have done direct cremation and a service for under $500.00 (with cookies), but the minister and the embalming, container, cosmetic work (there had been an autopsy), dressing and rental of a casket came to around $4,000.00. It rained, the wind blew, and it was a generally miserable day.
After the shock of his father tacitly refusing to reciprocate sharing family photos, the in-laws departed quickly. My husband's brothers needed to catch airplanes to return to their lives early the next day, and their parents lived a three hour drive from my town, so they did not have time to visit.
Then, the oldest brother came back in to the funeral home through the rain. It must be important, I thought. The expression on his face said "gosh, I hate to do this, but my life will be hell if I don't." I insisted on helping any way I could, anyway. They wanted directions to the resturaunt where my husband and I had our wedding reception because they remembered he liked it, and THEY wanted to have a FAMILY dinner. I briefly considered telling him where to go, but gave him directions instead. I had insisted, after all. We had invited them back to my home to relax a bit before their drive home, and they had refused.
I went home relieved that they hadn't accepted my invitation, and called some important people to explain that Jon's father chose the "music" for the service, and that I did not worship Satan. Fortunately, they found the humor in all of it and laughed with me rather than at me.
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Latest reply: Apr 14, 2005
Television Time Versus Real Time
Posted Apr 7, 2005
On TV, the investigation seems to take about a week, tops. The lab work is finished in a couple of hours. Try a couple of months in reality. In the meanwhile, the only death certificate you can get says that the cause of death is under investigation. The local newspaper did not print the obituary till the day of the memorial service, and then I only had two choices--"the family chose not to disclose the cause of death" and "the cause of death is under investigation." These are exactly the kind of comments that generate a plethora of questions, and suspicious looks; even from your in-laws. And the newspaper omitted the nation where my husband was born. This caused confusion because my mother grew up in a local town of the same name. Oddly, the editor responsible for the ommission had never heard of this town, even though it is less than a 45 minute drive from her office. All the news that's fit to print...
In the meanwhile, relatives will call you regularly asking for news. Especially when you lie down for a much-needed nap. When you do get information, you will explain it to each of them a number of times, but they will be incapable of understanding any of it. So you'll repeat the activity often. If you don't pick up the phone immediately, they will call four or five times in a row. You may decide to send e-mails so they can refer back to the information at their convenience, but they will be ignored. What they really want from you is to be their secretary; to handle the awful day-to-day details about his life without inconveniencing themselves.
You can relay the information verbatim, but that won't be good enough for them; they will call each official, each doctor, each person he worked with, to re-live it over again.
You may even find yourself listening to them complain about how this effects them more than you could possibly understand. There may be one-upmanship in a sort of contest where everyone wants the prize for suffering the most. And suddenly, he was a saint. He could not possibly have had any consumer debt, he never kept his things in a cluttered fashion, and he took impeccable care of himself, and they will TELL you this despite the fact that you have lived every day with him for over nine years.
You go through a fairly normal process of self-doubt, where you constantly wonder if there was something you could have done differently, would he have followed through on the sleep study if you'd nagged ONE more time, should you have stayed up with him that night (and every night), was there something important that you failed to notice... and you can be sure they will ask you all of these things, too. Repeatedly. Tactlessly. Don't worry about the questions the police will ask you, his family will interrogate you for at least six months.
His family will essentially come to the conclusion that it was YOUR job to "make" him go to the doctor. They couldn't have themselves. And besides that, why didn't they teach their son to take proper care of himself? Isn't that what parents are SUPPOSED to do?
Consider getting a new, unlisted phone number. Lock your doors, they may invite themselves over at any time it's convenient--for them. They may even expect you to maintain your home exactly the way it was until they can "stand" to come through, as though you are running a museum.
They will ask questions, and not be ready to hear the answers. They will ask things you've told them you don't want to talk about anymore. Since you're already thinking about it and feeling crummy, it is tempting just to answer them; the damage is done.
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Latest reply: Apr 7, 2005
Death is not simple
Posted Apr 3, 2005
The paperwork. The clothes. The investigation. Paying for the body bag and having your loved one transported to the morgue, and no choice in the matter. The estate. Maybe there was no will. Letters testimentary, death certificates, real property titles, the motor vehicles department, accumulated junk from elementary school. Old photos of who-knows-what. Medical records. Bank accounts. The memorial service.
Everyone gets though it all eventually, but it's like being "it" in blind man's bluff. Each instance is so individual that there is no good way to make a handbook about it, though. Some of the credit card companies were so rude that I vowed never to return--some places were really great; tough times are when you find out what people are REALLY made of.
What can go wrong will. My toilet overflowed the morning of the service. My husband wanted direct cremation and a civil service, his father wanted viewing (for about two minutes) and a religious ceremony, which ended up costing more than ten times the amount it would have been otherwise. Then I found out that his mother no longer believed in God; she cornered my father before the service and chewed him out about it. The "music" his father chose for the ceremony sounded exactly like sound effects you'd hear in a haunted house. Relatives too shocked to be of any help at all will ask for some of the deceased's belongings, as though they are talking to Santa. The floral arrangements that come to the house will be the ones that make you sneeze and give you a headache.
Now is the time you find out what you're really made of, and what they're really made of.
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Latest reply: Apr 3, 2005
I Woke Up One Day, And He Didn't
Posted Apr 2, 2005
I did not plan it that way. I really just wanted it to be a normal day; dull, even.
Imagine you're 35. Your youthful-looking husband is 49. He snores, so you've nagged him about having it looked into by a Doctor. After about five years nagging, you move to the room across the hall because you decide that ONE of you might as well have a good night's rest.
By the way, a good night's rest is better than good sex if you have trouble getting it (the rest, that is).
I got up and prepared for my morning shower. I noticed a few lights on in the house that normally wouldn't be left on. I called out to my husband. I went looking for him. He was sitting on the couch in the family room, his head leaning back against the top of that couch. He wasn't snoring. He was too pale. He did not shake awake, and he was cool to the touch under his sweatshirt.
I don't remember hearing the sirens as the emergency medical technicians arrived. The 911 operator remained cool enough for me, too. I tried CPR, but I could tell that the air wasn't getting to his lungs; the pressure would build up in his mouth like trying to inflate a balloon, but it wouldn't give. I have no faith in my ability to do CPR. The 911 operator told me that help was there, to let them in. I threw the door open to the garage, and hit the button to open the garage door.
The EMTs started in before the door was all the way up. They had their large cases of equipment. One asked my husband's age, if he'd been sick, if he took medication, and if he was allergic to anything. I don't know how I was able to answer him, heaven knows that's not the kind of thing you practice. They went to work quickly, rolling him to his side and putting some kind of sticky pad on his back. When I ran to get the phone, I knew that because he was cool to the touch, he was "probably" beyond help. I knew it when I tried CPR. None of this means you stop hoping; the paramedics were working hard. One of them told me I could go get dressed. He called me ma'm.
I quickly threw on the sweatpants and sweatshirt I'd worn to do homework the night before, got into my slippers, and grabbed my wallet. I thought that if we were headed to the hospital, I'd need my insurance card. For him. I ran back out to the family room, and stood between the dining room and it. I hopefully asked if I could do anything to help. I felt pins and needles everywhere, face, hands, everything. My ears were ringing.
The paramedic with his back to me had somehow been chosen to tell me. There was nothing they could do. He sounded as though he expected me to be mad at them. I wasn't. I was glad they came; I'd explained to the 911 operator that he was cool to the touch. I'd done that because I knew he was gone, that no amount of hurrying would help; but they had hurried anyway. All I could say was "No, I know; thanks for coming."
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Latest reply: Apr 2, 2005
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