| Biographical Non-Fiction posted July 31, 2021 |
  |
When the unexpected takes a life
A Letter - Our Last Goodbye
by Begin Again
Dear Wendy,
I bet this letter surprises you. After all, it's been almost seven years since I spoke to you. I don't think either of us thought it would be the last time.
Neither of us will deny our relationship endured a lot of rough seas, but we always seemed to come together when your ship was about to capsize. Even though I wanted us to be closer as mother and daughter, I was happy to be your lighthouse during a storm.
Today, someone posted a picture of Camryn. She's going to be seven years old in two weeks. You wouldn't recognize her, of course; she was only two weeks old the last time you cuddled your granddaughter. I have that picture, and your face was so sad. I often wondered if somehow you knew that your days were numbered and your time together was precious. She'll never remember you except through the stories the family will share with her and the pictures. Thank heavens for the thousands of photographs.
The day before I was supposed to join you and Carissa in Florida, you got the call from your doctor asking you to come home immediately so he could complete some tests before you returned to work on the following Monday. You played it off like nothing, but you were on a plane to Arizona as I landed in Florida. I should have known then that things weren't right.
Two days later, we got your call saying you were going to have surgery. Of course, you being you, you said we didn't need to come. But I think you knew the call would be your "alarm signal," and I would be out of Florida as fast as I arrived. Especially when you casually added that they were squeezing you into the surgical schedule. You called at 9 AM Sunday to tell us the surgery would be at 1 PM Monday (twenty-eight hours before you went under the knife). Carissa googled the fastest route. It would take twenty-five hours to drive straight through. You always did love the drama.
Carissa packed a suitcase (mine never got unpacked), gathered necessities for a two-week-old baby, and we hit the road. We pulled into the hospital parking lot with only one hour to spare. When we reached your floor, a nurse stopped us, almost as if she'd been watching for us. No almost about it! She was watching for us. She informed us that your doctor wanted to speak with us first. Not a good sign!
After twenty-six grueling hours in a compact car with a newborn baby, we were soon to learn you'd had a heart attack (which you neglected to mention in your phone call), and the planned surgery was deemed impossible. As a child, you'd had strep throat and rheumatic fever, which you recovered quickly from, and no one warned us of possible problems. You worked in the medical field for twenty-four years, and no one guessed you had a problem. Even now, until the heart attack, no one suggested you had heart problems. Your mitral valve was damaged beyond repair, and your heart was enlarged. A team of doctors would operate to replace your valve if you were strong enough. That was a big if?
To my amazement, they sent you home. Four doctors would do the surgery and replace the valve with a pig's valve. Their schedules had to be synchronized, so we waited. I purchased an airplane ticket for your sister to join us. The military flew Tyson home from El Salvador, and a friend brought Carissa's older girls, Keyanna and Tycari, to us.
I thank the Lord for the best week we could have ever expected. I fixed every meal you wanted and made sure it was extra special. We laughed and joked together. You snuggled with your grandchildren. We had a full house with airbeds everywhere, but no one complained.
On the day of your surgery, we were all tense except for you. You acted like it was going to be a breeze, and we were all silly ninnies. At the hospital, we assembled in the waiting room while you filled out papers. I knew by the look on your face when you came back something was seriously wrong.
Your ship was taking in water, and I needed to start bailing it out. The office informed you that without $1500, your surgery would not happen. It didn't matter that this was an emergency surgery.
You acted upset when I lost my cool, but secretly you knew I'd get things done. I told you to call your doctor and tell him what was happening. He wasn't involved in the operation, but he knew it was a life or death matter. I visited the administration office. There is no need to go into details; we both know everyone could hear the commotion when they told me they had rules that outweighed your life. Wrong! They were talking about my child's life.
Within thirty minutes, we had hospital security, four doctors who were about to prep for your surgery, hospital personnel, and our family crammed into a small conference room. When the hospital refused to wave their demands, and I couldn't get funds released fast enough, four doctors decided to pay the hospital so your operation could proceed. Within seconds, you were whipped away as we all screamed good luck, and we love you as you disappeared down the hall.
Three hours later, the doctors explained the surgery went well when their beepers all started to alarm and the PA system announced a Code Blue. All hell broke loose, and it was a long time before we found out you were back in surgery because the valve had malfunctioned. This time it was complete open-heart surgery. As I said, you always loved the drama.
We didn't get to see you until the following day. You'd survived, and your cocky self was front and center. To this day, I have never figured out how you convince four surgeons that you could go home the following day. All of us argued with the doctors and staff, but somehow only two days after open-heart surgery, you were going home. I knew Mike had been hospitalized for two weeks, not two days. You kept arguing with me, telling me you weren't Mike, and you knew what to do. I said goodbye and told you I'd see you when they brought you home. It was our last words. I left on an angry note.
That night, when they carried you through the front door, my heart shattered into a million pieces. You'd slept through the 80-minute drive in Phoenix traffic. Your face was pasty white; all color was gone. They put you to bed and allowed the little kids to say goodnight to you. We all prayed for a better morning. It wasn't to be.
At five in the morning, all hell broke loose. Corrie was screaming for me to get up. The guys laid you on the floor. Carissa called 911. Someone took the girls to McDonald's. I knelt by your side and knew you were no longer with us. The Emergency Operator instructed us to try CPR.
Tyson yelled, "We can't. She's had open-heart surgery."
I knew it wasn't going to make a difference, so I told him to do it anyways. His training in Afghanistan hadn't prepared him to work on his mother-in-law. I put my mouth against yours, and your ice-cold lips sent chills through me that I will never forget. It was my last kiss to you. The EMTs arrived and pronounced your death.
While we awaited the coroner, everyone slipped away, looking for privacy to grieve. They made calls to your other children back home and your brother. Don't ask me why, because I don't remember even doing it, but I went to the kitchen and made batches of blueberry muffins. Just being Mom, I guess; feeding the family.
If you wonder why I am writing now, I guess it's because as my time gets closer to joining you and the family, I need to sort things out and maybe understand the differences between us. I hope that writing to you will help me accept what was and believe you loved me, even if it was only when you needed me. I am sure you knew I would always be there.
I can hear you now. "Oh, God, Mom, what are you crying for?" Except now you have to listen, and I can ramble on forever.
I love and miss you. I always have!
Mom
Dear Wendy,
I bet this letter surprises you. After all, it's been almost seven years since I spoke to you. I don't think either of us thought it would be the last time.
Neither of us will deny our relationship endured a lot of rough seas, but we always seemed to come together when your ship was about to capsize. Even though I wanted us to be closer as mother and daughter, I was happy to be your lighthouse during a storm.
Today, someone posted a picture of Camryn. She's going to be seven years old in two weeks. You wouldn't recognize her, of course; she was only two weeks old the last time you cuddled your granddaughter. I have that picture, and your face was so sad. I often wondered if somehow you knew that your days were numbered and your time together was precious. She'll never remember you except through the stories the family will share with her and the pictures. Thank heavens for the thousands of photographs.
The day before I was supposed to join you and Carissa in Florida, you got the call from your doctor asking you to come home immediately so he could complete some tests before you returned to work on the following Monday. You played it off like nothing, but you were on a plane to Arizona as I landed in Florida. I should have known then that things weren't right.
Two days later, we got your call saying you were going to have surgery. Of course, you being you, you said we didn't need to come. But I think you knew the call would be your "alarm signal," and I would be out of Florida as fast as I arrived. Especially when you casually added that they were squeezing you into the surgical schedule. You called at 9 AM Sunday to tell us the surgery would be at 1 PM Monday (twenty-eight hours before you went under the knife). Carissa googled the fastest route. It would take twenty-five hours to drive straight through. You always did love the drama.
Carissa packed a suitcase (mine never got unpacked), gathered necessities for a two-week-old baby, and we hit the road. We pulled into the hospital parking lot with only one hour to spare. When we reached your floor, a nurse stopped us, almost as if she'd been watching for us. No almost about it! She was watching for us. She informed us that your doctor wanted to speak with us first. Not a good sign!
After twenty-six grueling hours in a compact car with a newborn baby, we were soon to learn you'd had a heart attack (which you neglected to mention in your phone call), and the planned surgery was deemed impossible. As a child, you'd had strep throat and rheumatic fever, which you recovered quickly from, and no one warned us of possible problems. You worked in the medical field for twenty-four years, and no one guessed you had a problem. Even now, until the heart attack, no one suggested you had heart problems. Your mitral valve was damaged beyond repair, and your heart was enlarged. A team of doctors would operate to replace your valve if you were strong enough. That was a big if?
To my amazement, they sent you home. Four doctors would do the surgery and replace the valve with a pig's valve. Their schedules had to be synchronized, so we waited. I purchased an airplane ticket for your sister to join us. The military flew Tyson home from El Salvador, and a friend brought Carissa's older girls, Keyanna and Tycari, to us.
I thank the Lord for the best week we could have ever expected. I fixed every meal you wanted and made sure it was extra special. We laughed and joked together. You snuggled with your grandchildren. We had a full house with airbeds everywhere, but no one complained.
On the day of your surgery, we were all tense except for you. You acted like it was going to be a breeze, and we were all silly ninnies. At the hospital, we assembled in the waiting room while you filled out papers. I knew by the look on your face when you came back something was seriously wrong.
Your ship was taking in water, and I needed to start bailing it out. The office informed you that without $1500, your surgery would not happen. It didn't matter that this was an emergency surgery.
You acted upset when I lost my cool, but secretly you knew I'd get things done. I told you to call your doctor and tell him what was happening. He wasn't involved in the operation, but he knew it was a life or death matter. I visited the administration office. There is no need to go into details; we both know everyone could hear the commotion when they told me they had rules that outweighed your life. Wrong! They were talking about my child's life.
Within thirty minutes, we had hospital security, four doctors who were about to prep for your surgery, hospital personnel, and our family crammed into a small conference room. When the hospital refused to wave their demands, and I couldn't get funds released fast enough, four doctors decided to pay the hospital so your operation could proceed. Within seconds, you were whipped away as we all screamed good luck, and we love you as you disappeared down the hall.
Three hours later, the doctors explained the surgery went well when their beepers all started to alarm and the PA system announced a Code Blue. All hell broke loose, and it was a long time before we found out you were back in surgery because the valve had malfunctioned. This time it was complete open-heart surgery. As I said, you always loved the drama.
We didn't get to see you until the following day. You'd survived, and your cocky self was front and center. To this day, I have never figured out how you convince four surgeons that you could go home the following day. All of us argued with the doctors and staff, but somehow only two days after open-heart surgery, you were going home. I knew Mike had been hospitalized for two weeks, not two days. You kept arguing with me, telling me you weren't Mike, and you knew what to do. I said goodbye and told you I'd see you when they brought you home. It was our last words. I left on an angry note.
That night, when they carried you through the front door, my heart shattered into a million pieces. You'd slept through the 80-minute drive in Phoenix traffic. Your face was pasty white; all color was gone. They put you to bed and allowed the little kids to say goodnight to you. We all prayed for a better morning. It wasn't to be.
At five in the morning, all hell broke loose. Corrie was screaming for me to get up. The guys laid you on the floor. Carissa called 911. Someone took the girls to McDonald's. I knelt by your side and knew you were no longer with us. The Emergency Operator instructed us to try CPR.
Tyson yelled, "We can't. She's had open-heart surgery."
I knew it wasn't going to make a difference, so I told him to do it anyways. His training in Afghanistan hadn't prepared him to work on his mother-in-law. I put my mouth against yours, and your ice-cold lips sent chills through me that I will never forget. It was my last kiss to you. The EMTs arrived and pronounced your death.
While we awaited the coroner, everyone slipped away, looking for privacy to grieve. They made calls to your other children back home and your brother. Don't ask me why, because I don't remember even doing it, but I went to the kitchen and made batches of blueberry muffins. Just being Mom, I guess; feeding the family.
If you wonder why I am writing now, I guess it's because as my time gets closer to joining you and the family, I need to sort things out and maybe understand the differences between us. I hope that writing to you will help me accept what was and believe you loved me, even if it was only when you needed me. I am sure you knew I would always be there.
I can hear you now. "Oh, God, Mom, what are you crying for?" Except now you have to listen, and I can ramble on forever.
I love and miss you. I always have!
Mom
I bet this letter surprises you. After all, it's been almost seven years since I spoke to you. I don't think either of us thought it would be the last time.
Neither of us will deny our relationship endured a lot of rough seas, but we always seemed to come together when your ship was about to capsize. Even though I wanted us to be closer as mother and daughter, I was happy to be your lighthouse during a storm.
Today, someone posted a picture of Camryn. She's going to be seven years old in two weeks. You wouldn't recognize her, of course; she was only two weeks old the last time you cuddled your granddaughter. I have that picture, and your face was so sad. I often wondered if somehow you knew that your days were numbered and your time together was precious. She'll never remember you except through the stories the family will share with her and the pictures. Thank heavens for the thousands of photographs.
The day before I was supposed to join you and Carissa in Florida, you got the call from your doctor asking you to come home immediately so he could complete some tests before you returned to work on the following Monday. You played it off like nothing, but you were on a plane to Arizona as I landed in Florida. I should have known then that things weren't right.
Two days later, we got your call saying you were going to have surgery. Of course, you being you, you said we didn't need to come. But I think you knew the call would be your "alarm signal," and I would be out of Florida as fast as I arrived. Especially when you casually added that they were squeezing you into the surgical schedule. You called at 9 AM Sunday to tell us the surgery would be at 1 PM Monday (twenty-eight hours before you went under the knife). Carissa googled the fastest route. It would take twenty-five hours to drive straight through. You always did love the drama.
Carissa packed a suitcase (mine never got unpacked), gathered necessities for a two-week-old baby, and we hit the road. We pulled into the hospital parking lot with only one hour to spare. When we reached your floor, a nurse stopped us, almost as if she'd been watching for us. No almost about it! She was watching for us. She informed us that your doctor wanted to speak with us first. Not a good sign!
After twenty-six grueling hours in a compact car with a newborn baby, we were soon to learn you'd had a heart attack (which you neglected to mention in your phone call), and the planned surgery was deemed impossible. As a child, you'd had strep throat and rheumatic fever, which you recovered quickly from, and no one warned us of possible problems. You worked in the medical field for twenty-four years, and no one guessed you had a problem. Even now, until the heart attack, no one suggested you had heart problems. Your mitral valve was damaged beyond repair, and your heart was enlarged. A team of doctors would operate to replace your valve if you were strong enough. That was a big if?
To my amazement, they sent you home. Four doctors would do the surgery and replace the valve with a pig's valve. Their schedules had to be synchronized, so we waited. I purchased an airplane ticket for your sister to join us. The military flew Tyson home from El Salvador, and a friend brought Carissa's older girls, Keyanna and Tycari, to us.
I thank the Lord for the best week we could have ever expected. I fixed every meal you wanted and made sure it was extra special. We laughed and joked together. You snuggled with your grandchildren. We had a full house with airbeds everywhere, but no one complained.
On the day of your surgery, we were all tense except for you. You acted like it was going to be a breeze, and we were all silly ninnies. At the hospital, we assembled in the waiting room while you filled out papers. I knew by the look on your face when you came back something was seriously wrong.
Your ship was taking in water, and I needed to start bailing it out. The office informed you that without $1500, your surgery would not happen. It didn't matter that this was an emergency surgery.
You acted upset when I lost my cool, but secretly you knew I'd get things done. I told you to call your doctor and tell him what was happening. He wasn't involved in the operation, but he knew it was a life or death matter. I visited the administration office. There is no need to go into details; we both know everyone could hear the commotion when they told me they had rules that outweighed your life. Wrong! They were talking about my child's life.
Within thirty minutes, we had hospital security, four doctors who were about to prep for your surgery, hospital personnel, and our family crammed into a small conference room. When the hospital refused to wave their demands, and I couldn't get funds released fast enough, four doctors decided to pay the hospital so your operation could proceed. Within seconds, you were whipped away as we all screamed good luck, and we love you as you disappeared down the hall.
Three hours later, the doctors explained the surgery went well when their beepers all started to alarm and the PA system announced a Code Blue. All hell broke loose, and it was a long time before we found out you were back in surgery because the valve had malfunctioned. This time it was complete open-heart surgery. As I said, you always loved the drama.
We didn't get to see you until the following day. You'd survived, and your cocky self was front and center. To this day, I have never figured out how you convince four surgeons that you could go home the following day. All of us argued with the doctors and staff, but somehow only two days after open-heart surgery, you were going home. I knew Mike had been hospitalized for two weeks, not two days. You kept arguing with me, telling me you weren't Mike, and you knew what to do. I said goodbye and told you I'd see you when they brought you home. It was our last words. I left on an angry note.
That night, when they carried you through the front door, my heart shattered into a million pieces. You'd slept through the 80-minute drive in Phoenix traffic. Your face was pasty white; all color was gone. They put you to bed and allowed the little kids to say goodnight to you. We all prayed for a better morning. It wasn't to be.
At five in the morning, all hell broke loose. Corrie was screaming for me to get up. The guys laid you on the floor. Carissa called 911. Someone took the girls to McDonald's. I knelt by your side and knew you were no longer with us. The Emergency Operator instructed us to try CPR.
Tyson yelled, "We can't. She's had open-heart surgery."
I knew it wasn't going to make a difference, so I told him to do it anyways. His training in Afghanistan hadn't prepared him to work on his mother-in-law. I put my mouth against yours, and your ice-cold lips sent chills through me that I will never forget. It was my last kiss to you. The EMTs arrived and pronounced your death.
While we awaited the coroner, everyone slipped away, looking for privacy to grieve. They made calls to your other children back home and your brother. Don't ask me why, because I don't remember even doing it, but I went to the kitchen and made batches of blueberry muffins. Just being Mom, I guess; feeding the family.
If you wonder why I am writing now, I guess it's because as my time gets closer to joining you and the family, I need to sort things out and maybe understand the differences between us. I hope that writing to you will help me accept what was and believe you loved me, even if it was only when you needed me. I am sure you knew I would always be there.
I can hear you now. "Oh, God, Mom, what are you crying for?" Except now you have to listen, and I can ramble on forever.
I love and miss you. I always have!
Mom
 Recognized |
I discover myself in my writing, and lately, I have decided it's time I came to terms with my daughter, father, and many more. I hope I'll learn some things about myself and about others.
the picture above is of my daughter, Wendy, and her two-week-old granddaughter, Camryn. It was taken only days before she passed away.
May 19, 1970 - Oct. 14, 2014
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. the picture above is of my daughter, Wendy, and her two-week-old granddaughter, Camryn. It was taken only days before she passed away.
May 19, 1970 - Oct. 14, 2014
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