The Phantom Step

Monday morning.  I have decided to take another day off from work, as I'm not quite able to switch my focus from what has been my world over the last several days.  Too much to remember, process, and understand.  I also need to rest, as I am bone weary.  I should have tried to sleep late this morning, but yesterday, not thinking clearly, I told the rep from Recover Care - the company that leased us the hospital bed - that it was okay to come and pick it up between 8 and 10 this morning.  I should have told them to wait and come in the afternoon, but I guess my thought was just to get the thing out of here as quickly as possible so I wouldn't have to look at it anymore.

So here I am, still in my pajamas, drinking coffee and trying to stay awake.  By the time the bed removal is complete, I'll probably be so hopped up on caffeine that I won't be able to go back to sleep. Not that I slept all that well in the first place - my mind is not yet used to the idea that I no longer have to reserve a level of consciousness in readiness for an emergency distress call from Grandma's room.  Perhaps if I recount what happened yesterday, it will force my subconscious to a higher level of acceptance.  So here goes:

Our hospice nurse Toni had recommended giving Peggy doses of medication at two hour intervals, taking a break during the night with a 4 hour interval dose.  Since Brian is a morning person and I am a night owl, he went to sleep about 10.  At 1 a.m., I did my last dose of the night.  Peggy was still unresponsive, and still moaning with every breath, although she seemed a little more quiet than she had earlier in the day.   When I finished dispensing the meds, I prepped the syringes with the next dose for Brian, who had set the alarm for 5.  As I was hoping to be able to sleep until 7, I went downstairs and crashed on the couch, where the sounds of Peggy's constant, whimpered breathing could not reach me.

Ever the light sleeper, I did wake up at 5, and listened to Brian's footsteps going up and down the hall, waiting for him to call out if something had changed.  He didn't, and when I heard him go back into our room and shut the door,  I settled down to try and sleep a little longer.  Chauncey woke me at about 6:45, ringing the little bell that hangs on the inside front door - his signal that he needs to go out.  As we do not have a fenced yard and live on a busy street, this means taking him out on a leash.  Sometimes I cheat a little by standing on our enclosed from porch and hooking him up to a 25-foot retractable lead, so I can stay in my pajamas.

After taking Chauncey out, I went upstairs to our room.  Brian was in bed, but awake, so I crawled in with him and we reviewed what was likely to be the "game plan" for the day - 2 hour meds, visit from hospice, mom coming over, laundry, trip to the grocery store, etc.  Brian said he had stayed with Grandma for a few minutes after he gave her the dose at 5, and said he thought nothing much had changed from the previous day. I got up and prepared the syringes, then went to Grandma's room.  Still groggy from all my broken sleep, I  had already squirted the Lorzepam into her mouth when I realized that the room was utterly silent.  That she was utterly silent.  Motionless.

I touched her forehead.  It was still warm, but her hands were already cold.  Still clutching the syringe with the blue morphine, I walked slowly to the top of the stairs and called to Brian, who was down making coffee.

"Honey?"  My voice sounded alien to my ears.   I know he heard the strangeness, because there was a long pause. His voice was different, too, when he answered, as though he knew what was coming.

"Yes?"

"I don't think she's breathing."

In a moment, he was up the stairs to accompany me back to the room.  He bent over her, looking, listening.  When he looked back at me, he didn't have to say a word to tell me what I already knew was true.  He just reached over and took me into his arms.  I couldn't cry yet.  I was numb.  "I'm not ready to fall apart yet, " I told him.  "I can't."

After a few moments, when he knew it was okay to let me go, Brian went back to Grandma and kissed her on the forehead.  "Bye, Peggy. We love you."  I kissed her, too, but I couldn't say anything.  Her skin against my lips was still warm.

I took a deep breath.  Time to get busy.

My first call was to Hospice.  When I was certain that Toni was on her way, I phoned my mother.

"She's gone, Mom."  My voice cracked on the words.  She said she would be right over, and I could hear that she had already started to cry.

I decided I was not quite ready to make more phone calls, so I sent a text to my brother in Denver and sister in California.  Since it was even earlier in the morning there and they were probably still asleep, I didn't want to bother them.  There was nothing they do could from where they were.  I sent another text to Suzie and Linda, two of Peggy's dearest friends in Florida.  They had been calling us daily to see how she was doing, and as it was an hour later there, I thought it was all right to disturb them.

Then Toni was there. I explained to her what had happened - more calmly than I thought possible - and we went upstairs.   Grandma's mouth was open slightly, and I could see that the inside of her lips and tongue were tinted blue - damn that blue food coloring!  Her skin, too, was beginning to take on a blue cast.  It took only a few moments for Toni to give her confirmation.   It was over.

Still numb, all I could do was stand there, nodding.   Chauncey came trotting in, squeezing past Toni to get his front paws on the bed and his nose near Grandma's face.  He sniffed, then pulled his nose back for a moment, then sniffed again, as if what he had smelled the first time was unusual.  He licked her on the cheek twice, then waited.

"Grandma's gone, Buddy.  Come down, now."  Reluctantly, he took his paws off the bed.  Heart-breaking. At that point, I lost it.  I ran out of the room, to the waiting arms of Brian and wept uncontrollably.

When I had pulled myself together a little, Toni was there to offer me a reassuring hug.  "It's okay, she said.  You did everything right.  I'll take care of her now."

I was still in my pajamas, so Toni suggested that I go take a hot shower, where I could relax and have a good cry.  It sounded like good advice, and I thought I might be able to be out and dressed by the time my mother got there.  I took some clothes to the downstairs bathroom, as I wanted to give Toni access to the upstairs one for whatever she needed to do for Grandma.  I turned the water up as hot as I could stand it, and stood there, willing myself to let go.  Cascades of water, but no more tears.

My mother had arrived while I was in the shower.  I found her weeping at the dining room table, and went over and hugged her.

"I couldn't go upstairs, alone," she said.  "Would you come with me?"  Of course I would.  I understood her reluctance.

I have always been a little squeamish about death.  I have never been able to pick up a dead bird, or a mouse, or any other animal.  In 8th grade science class, I abstained from dissecting the frog - I watched and filled out the worksheet while the boy who was my lab partner did the actual cutting.  I always try to look away when I see road kill on the highway.  One of my greatest dreads has always been going to funerals or visitations where the deceased is in an open coffin.  It is all I can stomach just to go and look at the person - which I always feel compelled to do, out of respect for the family - but I can never bring myself to touch that cold, painted shell.

In November of 2008, when my cat Petruchio died, at the ripe old age of 15, I decided to have him cremated.  Sadly, he passed away while Brian and I were on a business trip.  The emergency vet who attended him had wrapped his body in a sheet, which my mother (who been with him when he died) placed in a bag and kept in her garage until we returned.  I loved Petruchio dearly, but I was terrified of looking at him - I couldn't open the bag, or even pick it up.  Brian had to do that for me.

When we arrived at the office of our vet, who was handling the cremation, Brian coaxed me to take one last look at my sweet Petruchio.  The bag was sitting was in the trunk of the car, and I let Brian pull the sheet aside, just enough to uncover Petruchio's face.  His body was curled up as if he was sleeping. It was all I could do do bring myself to touch his fur one last time.  I was glad I did that, but it wasn't easy. Perhaps if I had actually been there when he died, had been able to feel the warmth of him before he grew stiff and cold, it would have been easier.

Even though I had not been present at the moment Peggy died, I had no fear of her now.  I had touched her so many times in the last few days, knowing each time she was that much closer to leaving us. Her body was just a container.  Now that was empty, and she was in a better place. There was nothing to be afraid of.  Still, it wasn't hard for me to comprehend my mother's fear.

Toni came downstairs, then.  She told us Grandma was all prepared, and that she would call the funeral home as soon as we were ready.  We asked her what we needed to do now.  "Not a thing," she said.  "I'll take care of everything.  That's why I'm here."  She pulled out her phone and began making calls.

Mom and I went upstairs.  Brian, who was in the spare bedroom that serves as a music room and his office, came out to give Mom a hug, and I went down the hall to Grandma.  Toni - bless her - had managed to get the blue dye off her lips.  She looked peaceful, but blank, almost weightless somehow - the essence of the person we knew as Peggy had floated away.  I touched her forehead again.   My mom stood in the doorway, crying.  "She's cold, now," I said.

"I can't touch her."

"You don't have to, Mommy.  She's not there, anymore.  She's with Grandpa, now."  I hoped that was true.  I know that's where Peggy believed she was going.

I don't know how long we stood there in the room.  Time was irrelevant.  Finally we went downstairs and told Toni it was all right to call the funeral home to come and get Peggy.  My phone chimed - a text message from Peggy's friend Suzie: "How appropriate that Jesus would come for her on his day, Sunday," she wrote.  For Peggy, a Sunday school teacher for more than 50 years, it was appropriate.  Someone (probably Brian) also remembered that it was the first day of spring.  That, too, seemed appropriate.  The season of her decline had come with the winter, and now it was over.

The next hour passed in a blur.  Toni helped us complete the final paperwork she needed to close Peggy's case.  We watched as she dumped the last of the Lorazepam tablets into a sandwich bag full of cat litter, then poured the remainder of the blue morphine over the top.  (This evidently is the correct way to dispose of medication, something I did not know.)  Our cat Stella jumped up, sniffing and pawing at the bag, wondering what this familiar substance was doing, of all places, on the dining room table.

Peggy's wish was to be cremated. We had pre-paid for her "death care" arrangements some time ago, as we had done with my step-father's mother, who passed away two years ago.  We found that having some of the details taken care of in advance made it much easier on the family - not so many decisions to have to make at a time when you're not thinking clearly.  The funeral home had provided us with a pamphlet to provide information for the obituary notice and the memorial arrangements, so we filled in the blanks until their crew arrived.

As we were going over details of her life, I suddenly remembered.  About 5 years ago, when my niece Sophia was born, Mom had given Peggy a book that was a "Grandma Journal" - a book with mostly blank pages containing little prompts, like "Where were you born?  What games did you like to play as a child?  How did you meet Grandpa?  Tell me about your wedding," and so on.  Peggy had filled the book with her memories, and we put it on the bookshelf in our living room.  I had forgotten all about it, but I knew right where it was.

We flipped through the pages, trying to decipher Peggy's handwriting (which had never been neat).  It was almost as if she was there talking to us.  There were stories in there that neither my mom and I had ever heard before.  What a wonderful gift, to find new remembrances of her life, after she was gone.  One that I didn't know was that she had been born at home, in her mother's parlor.  So she left the world as she came into - at home with her family - a nice symmetry, that.

The people from the funeral home arrived then.  We filled out some paperwork with the director while Brian escorted her associates up to Peggy's room.  (Later he tells me that he found our cat Sweetie sleeping on the bed at Grandma's feet, keeping her body company before its final journey.)  We closed the pocket doors that separate the living room from the front foyer so Chauncey would not be underfoot when they brought her downstairs.  A few minutes later they asked us if we wanted to see her one last time.

She was lying on a gurney at the bottom of the stairs, covered with a thick, brightly colored quilt I know she would have loved if she had seen it.  Only her face was  exposed, and I bent to kiss her forehead one last time.  "Bye, Grammy."  Her skin was like ice.  So cold.  I don't know if I said that aloud.

"And all was as cold as any stone, " quoted Brian, and I couldn't help but smile.  I, too, had been thinking of that very same speech from Shakespeare's Henry V that describes the death of Falstaff.  Neither Mom nor I could bear to watch them cover up her face and take her away, so Brian stood sentinel for that final departure.  I busied myself with holding onto Chauncey's collar, although it wasn't really necessary.

Toni's responsibilities were ending, too, but she lingered for a few more minutes, making sure that we were all right and could cope without her help, giving us all one last reassuring hug before taking her leave.  Again, I am so grateful to Hospice - Toni made what might have been a very difficult and traumatic process a gentle, easy transition.  She took care of the details, so we could focus on letting Grandma go.

The rest of the day is a bit hazy.  My mother and I made phone calls to friends and family, or answered calls from those who were checking in to see how Peggy was fairing.  By now, I was able to say, "She's gone," in a clear even, tone.  The only time my voice broke was in response to an expression of grief coming from the person on the other end of the line, as if their emotion served as an ignition for my own.  After about an hour of listening to the same conversations over and over, Brian escaped to run some errands.  I couldn't blame him for wanting to get away.

I worked a little on the blog, and posted a notice and Peggy's photo on Facebook, but I wasn't able to write more than a few short lines.  Too soon for that.  We talked about plans for the memorial service.  Grandma's friend Grace came over with her son and brought us some brownies.  Grace was Peggy's oldest friend - they were the same age and had known each other since they were 5 years old.  When Peggy moved back, they had a standing date every Thursday to play cards.  As Peggy's health began to fail, these senior play dates grew more an more infrequent; Grace, too, had been having some health problems, and it was hard for either of them to leave their houses.  Grace was devastated at not being able to say goodbye to Peggy, but we all tried to focus on sharing good memories, and by the time she left, I think we all felt a little better.

When Brian returned, my mother went home.  After that, I tried to sleep a little, but I'd had too much coffee and I couldn't relax. I tried to watch television, but I couldn't tell you what was on.  A neighbor came and brought a begonia.  Our puppy au pair Chris took Chauncey out for a while. We threw some leftover pasta into the microwave for dinner, as I still didn't feeling like cooking.  I fixed a very small portion for myself, but couldn't even finish that.

"I don't know what to do," I said to Brian.  All day long I'd been wandering around, going into a room  and wondering what I went in there for, not being able to sit still or keep a clear thought in my head.  "I can't seem to wrap my head around making the transition from the life we have had here with her, to the life we'll have without her."

"Did you ever walk up a flight of stairs, and when you get to the top, you think there's one more step than there is? So you step up, but there's nothing there?"

He's right.  That's exactly where I am.  All day, despite everything that has happened, my mind flickers with thoughts that have become such an ingrained part of my daily existence that they come unbidden:  I should go up and check on her.  Is it time for the medication?  Will she want me to fix her something for dinner?  What does she need?  Almost the same instant, I realize those things aren't necessary, anymore.  I hit that phantom step at the top of the stairs.  It jolts me, and I stumble.

The hospital bed is gone now, leaving an empty space that seems larger than its geometry.  The door to the room is closed, as I'm not ready quite ready to face what comes next: the packing and distribution of the last vestiges of her worldly possessions.  Not not, not yet.  And certainly, not alone.

Brian would have called in at work and stayed home with me today, but I told him he didn't have to.  There's really not much that he can do.  I'm still not ready to fall apart.  Nevertheless, after he left this morning, I had a momentary surge of panic.  I wasn't sure I could stand to be here all alone.  Then Chauncey was there to give me a reassuring nudge and a lick, reminding me that I was not, in fact, alone.  For today, I'll be all right.