About Saturday, 1/08/2011

Dennis woke me up about 12:30 with his gurgling in his throat. I got up and tried to suction it out and he bit down, and ended up nicking off the tip. I tried to reach it, but he bit me and it went further down the throat.

Despite his wishes, I had to call ER to see if they could get it out. There was no way that I could let something as silly as a blue piece of rubber be the death of him.

As we sat in ER, reading over his health care directive with the doctor, I was writing a blog entry in my mind. I was going to make it a light story, and end it with "he is resting well at home."

But that was not to be the case.

I was on the phone all evening with the on-call hospice nurse. We were trying to figure out a way to get him back home once the little blue devil had been removed. We worked together on getting oxygen for him at home by 4:30 AM, then moved it to 8:00 AM when it was apparent we were not going to get home before sunrise.

The ER staff recommended a few things that were not heroic. They were unable to reach the blue devil, but with a camera at the end of a tube they were able to spot it laying on top of his voice cord. Dennis was clenching his jaw. In the very tiny recesses of my mind, I suppose I knew that was his was of saying "No", but it wasn't making much sense to me at that moment. Someone said this is a natural reflex and  I said go ahead.

They sedated him because he was still holding his mouth shut at all costs. I opened one of his lids and he was still sparkling, looking at me with love. I asked him if he would cooperate and open his mouth and he squeezed my hand, saying yes. Looking back, I know he was just doing this for me.

Within minutes it had been removed and I cheered, but one nurse said - "not yet." They injected him with something to counter-act the sedative and with the aid of a mask and a hand held pump, they got him breathing again. Not entirely on his own, but he was breathing. The nurse and I rubbed his chest and encouraged him to breath. As we did this he would take deeper breaths on his own.

Then they told me he had pneumonia and would need to stay at the hospital. I said I wanted him treated at home. I was told it would be impossible to transport him at this time, and that he would need to stay for a while. They changed the hand-held pump to a machine to support his breathing. The antibiotics were then started.

Then they tried to suction him out. He spewed out green bile all over the place - both out his nose and mouth. I took this as a good sign; they were clearing his lungs and he would be home for our 8:30 appointment with the hospice pharmacy and visiting nurse.

He was stable, and I asked if I could leave to drive the 2 miles to my house, brush my teeth and feed the cat. "Yes! I am right here watching and he is doing great." I returned 20 minutes later and they were preparing to move him to a room. I followed along.

Dennis has had cases of pneumonia before, and I figured he was going to general population. But we stopped on the ICU floor. He was wheeled into a room, surrounded by nurses and doctors asking questions, changing his breathing mask, trying to suction him again, giving him more drugs......

After I was able to reorient myself, I asked the doctor how long they were going to keep up this drug routine.

Until he can breath on his own.

How long will that be?

I don't know.

Is this worth it, I asked him - will he improve?

Are you asking will he ever leave the hospital?

I suppose that is one way to put it.

I have very little doubt that he will ever leave here.

Then we need to pull off the oxygen, all the other supports and let him go now.

So they did. The nurse pulled him over to one side of the bed, and made room for me. She removed the mask and removed the wires and all the other jazz that was standing in my way of holding him close to me. And I held him. I held him until he took his last breath. I held him for a few more minutes and then left the room to tell the doctor. He was pronounced dead at 8:30 on January 8, 2011.

Until a bit later,
Ann, without Dennis