Early Morning4:45 am Can someone come take his vitals please? I ask.I ask again, 15 minutes later after no one shows up.
When vitals are taken, his o2 level was 84.
Art lies in his bed, oblivious to the stress he’s causing, eyes open, lids red, the whites of his eyes, looking like a weird colored map of water, rivers painted red instead of blue. Not seeing or hearing a thing. Fingers swollen. Hands swollen, wrists too. Left arm in a constant tremor.
There was a flurry of activity. The nurse, the charge nurse then the doctor show up.
Dr. Taj, his name tag said was young, gave little eye contact, and was straight forward.
“Does he have code order?” he asked. He turns to me, to make eye contact for the first time. “Can we intubate him and give him chest compressions if we need to?”
A code order? I stammer.
“Intubate him (pause) if he codes (shutter). The kids need to say good-bye. We need to keep him here for the kids.” (long sigh)
Holy shit…it’s like I’d practiced these words before.
What’s happening?
Art's leaving.
He's done.
An Xray and an EKG are order.
Art has been sequestered to a negative pressure room. A series of two rooms an outer/hallway room and then his inner hospital room. Viral meningitis (which they think he has) is contagious especially to other immune suppressed patients (people who have low white blood cell counts) A negative pressure room, keeps the germs inside and filters them out.
I leave the room as the portable Xray tech does his job and wait in the outer hallway, I stand next to the EKG guy, waiting for his turn to hook my husband up. I cry.
I follow the EKG guy in, take pictures, and read the printout over his shoulder. He hands me the print out to sign when he’s done. He thinks I knew what I was reading.
I think “Ha…see, I could be a doctor.” I consider signing it but then decided against it. It would be more fun if Art were aware to witness this little ruse.
I think about the kids.
"Honey," I whisper in his ear, after the EKGguy is gone, before the doctor returns “You can go if you need to but… please wait, please wait to say good-bye to the kids.”
The guilt floods in.
I should have had the friend over to video Art leaving life messages to the kids. I should have visited on Saturday with the kids, even if they were sick or no matter how much of a break I needed. I should have, I should have, I should have….
And I realize like I've been hit, NOTHING is perfect. Death doesn’t happen like it does on tv.
Illness doesn’t happen like it does on tv. I knew that.
Sitting here typing with one hand, as my other holds is swollen, clenched sweaty fist, I feel it.
This is not perfect. My life with Art is not perfect. It is ending, undone, incomplete, not part of th plan.
Well, fuck.
