A Ghostly Image

He stood leaning forward, both hands on the bathroom vanity trying to accomplish his morning routine. Clearly, something was wrong. I wonder if he knew his time had come. He may have cursed to himself. Or maybe he thought, “finally!” He called to her. “Rae?”

She entered through the bedroom door. Did she have a clue? They shared a brief glance as he collapsed into an empty pile of flesh and bones. Rae knew at that moment that he had died. She called 911, then a friend who lived down the street. Then she called me.

The paramedics came and began trying to resuscitate him. Mom knew it would be to no avail. She knew the moment he dropped to the floor. Their efforts continued as they took him away, and still at the hospital, until the pronouncement over an hour later. He would not be revived.

That scene played out over six years ago. Yet whenever we talk about Dad, tell stories, share memories, Mom’s first contribution is, “I can still see him collapsing to the floor.”

I was telling Mom’s story to a dear friend who lost her husband of 48 years to Parkinson’s, after his lengthy struggle with the disease. The last year or so was particularly painful as Linda watched Dave slip away into his dementia. They decided to place him in a temporary respite facility (which was within the Hospice facility), waiting for placement in long-term care, as Linda was not able to provide the level of care he needed.

Unfortunately, this was at the height of the COVID outbreak in December of 2020. They knew that when she left him there she would not be able to visit him. They could only hope that respite would take good care of him, that COVID would ebb, and that they would be together again.

But it was not to be. It was only days before Dave succumbed to the ravages of disease. After two days in respite, he went into “Terminal Restlessness.” (I had to look up the term and found it on hospice sites, but not the specific term on medical sites. Read on in the article for similar conditions, “Terminal Agitation” and “Exited Delirium.”) Quickly I realized that Pam suffered with this condition over the last several days (if not weeks) of her life.

Giving permission to change his treatment to calm him, Linda was able to talk with Dave at that time by phone. He fell unconscious two days later. She and their children were allowed to see him, but Dave died a day later while they were getting something to eat. Linda’s lasting memories of Dave are of a final conversation, and the love of her life unconscious in a respite bed.

Past blog posts reference how, when I look at Pam’s picture, I get a glimpse of Pam in our bed, just after her death. I could almost say it haunts me, but that’s not really it. It’s just a lasting image burned into my mind.

Different circumstances. Different stories. Similar haunting memories. As with everything related to losing a close loved one, these memories bear both positive and negative forces. The images confirm what we find so hard to accept; that our loves are missing from our lives. Images that induce self-questions and doubts. Did we do all we could? Did they know we love(d) them? Are we forgiven for our shortcomings?

So much takes place in that split second of remembrance, whenever and whatever triggers it. A dose of reality. A ponderance of self. Wonder about the future. Will there be a time when the memories in our mind’s eye reflect only the happiness and comfort of loving and being loved?

I’ll have to get back to you on that. So far, I am comforted in that, when I see that haunting glimpse, I begin to accept the reality and, most of the time can let it go. I take comfort in knowing that Pam’s suffering is over. In that way I can begin to appreciate again, the smiling woman in the photographs. The person who loved me and with whom I am still in love.

Post Script: Our losses seem to pale in comparison to the thousands upon thousands who are mourning the loss of thousands upon thousand of their loved ones who lost their lives in the devastating earth quakes in Turkey and Syria. Though our losses and grief are real and cannot be discounted, I am again aware of how small we are in the vastness of our world and our universe. May all who grieve and mourn somehow be comforted!