No Saints around Here: A Caregiver’s Days

Firestorm

203 FIRESTORM July 24 Earlier in my introduction, I wrote about this last night. Some of these details will be familiar. I cannot bring myself to edit them out. James died on Wednesday, July 7. After finishing “French Toast,” I think I knew. When I pictured James laughing at my story—he had not been able to laugh out loud for a long time—I had a feeling that I would not be writing as a caregiver again. For the previous week, James had been almost entirely bedbound . He slept throughout the night and off and on throughout the day. He spoke very little. He also seemed to have even more trouble swallowing, though Martha did not think he was much worse. Nor did the gentle, loving, and quietly ecumenical priest, Father Pat, who, though retired, came to see his old parishioner when needed. On the Saturday before James died, I asked Pat to stop in for a little while. I left them alone together. When Pat departed, he said, “I think he was more alert and focused than when I was here a fewweeks ago.” Pat did not believe an end was near. Then he urged me to think about taking a short break at our Wisconsin retreat. I must have looked glassy-eyed. firestorm 204 “Maybe,” I said doubtfully. Our blufftop cottage is an almost two hours’ drive away. Two days later, on Monday afternoon, Mary came to check on James. She was now doing this twice a week. Like Martha, she did not see or hear any dramatic change. She listened carefully to his lungs. She watched him swallow a little water. Shaking her head, she said, “It is all getting harder for him.” But she too suggested I should leave for Wisconsin. Long ago, she had said to me, “It is my job to take care of both of you.” I tried to picture myself turning onto the highway leading out of the city, feeling a gradual disburdening. Not now. I couldn’t imagine being that far from home. I must have known, and yet I didn’t. On Tuesday morning, James slept long enough for me to finish breakfast, and then I fed him a little tapioca pudding. When Martha arrived, I told her I was going for a half-hour swim at an outdoor pool and then a brief stop at a grocery store. I would be back in two hours. Except in the pool, I would have my cell phone in my pocket. As I left, Martha had James propped up in the bed. When I returned, I came downstairs to James’s room, as I always did when I’d been out of the house. He had just fallen asleep. He looked flushed. I touched his face softly. “I think he has a fever,” I said uneasily to Martha. The thermometer told me that, yes, James’s temperature had risen slightly. In an hour, it zoomed to 100.5°F. I could hear gurgling as he breathed, not a new sound, but not one that usually lasted very long. This was different. “I want to call Mary right now,” I said. The rest of the afternoon is a blur. Marywas delayed—another patient had unexpectedly died—and Martha and I took turns sitting by James’s bed. Most of the time his eyes were closed. He was panting, as if he were running a marathon. When I sat next to him, holding his hand and stroking his face, I talked a little. I didn’t need to say much. I had said everything that needed saying many, many times. Sometimes he opened his eyes, and although firestorm 205 he looked at me, I do not think he saw me. He was working very hard at breathing. Around 5:00 p.m., Mary hurried into the room. I had also phoned one of James’s daughters, who had been involved in his care, and now Anne sat quietly in the room. With just a brief examination , Mary knew what was happening. She ordered morphine , atropine, and Ativan, and she carefully wrote out for me what to give, when, and how. I called another aide to stay with me during the evening after Martha left. Anne called her five siblings. One got the call at her office in New York City, left immediately with only her purse, took a taxi to the...