Nearly four weeks ago, Death overtook His greatest rebel: my Papaw, Roby Jackson Shelley. It was a long, hard battle, and while Death was physically victorious, Heaven received the battle trophy when my grandfather passed through those pearly gates. Again, it wasn't quite four weeks ago, but when one loses such a distinct presence in one's life, time somehow drags; it feels more like four months ago that he parted from us.
There are things I need to say...things I need to write. They may seem morbid, but watching somebody die can be beautifully macabre. It is an experience that I know I would not have missed for the world, yet it is an experience that I would never wish upon my worst enemy. Such a lovely, twisted juxtaposition between the tenderness of a family's goodbye and the terrible way a machine forced his chest to move up and down as it pumped air into his lungs, though his heart was no longer beating. After that Friday night, I pointedly blocked that 90 minutes of my life out of my mind; however, I think it is necessary for me to go back there to have some sort of cathartic closure to this chapter in my life.
His week in the hospital wasn't great; he was so frustrated at having to be stationary, unable to get up and move around. He became almost belligerent at times, so doctors thought it necessary to sedate him. The medicines made him hallucinate a bit and talk out of his head, yet he always snapped out of it. He knew me, my family, Christopher, his pastor, and every other visitor that entered that room. His first full day in the hospital was Monday (Valentine's Day), and when I visited him, he was chipper and talkative. I only left the hospital to come home and do grad school work. (Why didn't I just stay an extra hour?) My next visit was Thursday night, after he had had many various complications and new issues had arisen. He was much weaker; we conversed, but he slept a lot. Christopher got to talk to him for a bit, but again, Papaw was very weak, so we let him sleep. When I left that night, he thought I was going to get some food from Arby's to bring back to him. I told him to sleep and I would have food for him when he woke up. (This, of course, was a lie, and it is the last thing I ever said to him while he was "awake"). Upon my arrival home, I could no longer contain my fears, anxieties, and emotions, and I cried for a long while as Christopher listened to my worries. Was I scared? Yes. Did I know things seemed dismal? Yes. Did I really think it was his time to go? No.
Though he has been talking about his "imminent" death since I was ten-years-old, nothing prepared me for his actual departure. I can remember as a child or adolescent, lying awake in bed, dreading the day that he or my Nana would leave us. I would worry and cry and then block out those thoughts.
But Friday afternoon, February 18th, my worse nightmares were about to come true.
My mom, Nana, and sister had spent so much time with him at the hospital. Friday morning, he had a good morning; he drank coffee, orange juice, and prune juice, which are his three normal breakfast beverages. Since things looked good, my mom and sister went home to rest, knowing that I would arrive Friday afternoon to be with Nana. When I arrived, nurses were shooing my Nana out of Papaw's room; the doctors needed to insert a catheter-type device in his neck (for the second time; the first time failed) and we needed to leave. She and I went to sit in the ICU waiting room. We were quiet; she was exhausted, and I could tell she had been upset. We chatted softly. Twice, the phone in the waiting room rang, and both times it was someone asking for Nana to inquire about Papaw's condition. Around 5:30, the phone rang for a third time, and I decided to answer it. The woman's voice on the other end asked who I was; when she found out I was Roby's granddaughter, she began to hurriedly ask for me and Nana to come outside in the hallway. We did just that, and stared at her when she said:
"We're sorry, but he's not doing well. In fact, he crashed, and his heart stopped. They gave him some medicine to make it beat again, but he doesn't have long."
Numb.
I don't think Nana comprehended, so I went into panic mode, fumbling with my phone, cursing the fact that the stupid thing had no numbers on speed dial. I called several numbers as they hurried us to Papaw's room and nobody answered. My heart began to palpitate, and I finally had just sent an urgent text to my sister. Then I was able to call my husband. Then we were suddenly in Papaw's room, with sheepish and apologetic-looking doctors, and they were saying something but I was watching his heart rate on the screen: 90 bpm, 85 bpm, 79 bpm, 70 bpm, 66 bpm, 58 bpm...from 90 to 45 in about 10 seconds. As my eyes flew from the doctor's face to the screen, all I could do was panic as I thought that my Nana and I would be the only ones there as his heart rate plummeted to...well, to nothing.
I then prayed the only prayer throughout the entire scenario: God, please let him stay until everybody gets here.
His heart rate evened out around 35, and the doctors left us alone for a moment. It became clear to me and to Nana what was happening, and she broke down. She sobbed; she wept. I've never heard such pitiful sounds, and I never want to hear them again. She bent down low over him, swept his silver hair out of his face, stroked his forehead. She kept trying to speak, but the words were choked in her tired throat. A nurse came in briefly, and Nana asked the nurse if Papaw could here her. The nurse, trying to be solemn and polite, said, "there is no proof, but I personally think they can". I could see through her sympathy like glass, but it worked for Nana.
She leaned over him again, wanting so badly to talk; I encouraged her. In between my sobs, I told her she had better say to him anything she wanted. She gripped his shirt and she got close to his face; his eyes were closed, and the tube in his throat now appeared so ugly and obstructive. "Pud?" she muttered. "Pud, I love you." Pud is their nickname for one another. When she said this, something within me snapped, and I felt pain as I'd never felt before. A true heartache, enough that I thought I may need to call a doctor to help me. With wet, red eyes, Nana looked at me: "I thought I would be so strong," she cried. "I always imagined I would be so brave!" I could barely muster the strength to assure her that she was stronger than she knew.
Within minutes, my parents and sister arrived (followed shortly by my husband). We gathered round, and the nurses, knowing we were all there, turned off the screen that showed us his heart rate (which was in the 20s at this point). This was a point of irritation for me, because the ventilator was pumping air into his lungs, causing his chest to rise and fall. We really had no way of knowing when his heart stopped. Perhaps it was better this way, but to me, it was a miserable tension of the "in-between" to the "final moment".
My mom broke my heart. She cried so hard, but I could hear her repeat the word "daddy" several times. Stacy stroked part of his arm that was free from IV's, and I held his left hand. Mom talked to him, telling him we were all there, and that we loved him. At one point in time, his head shifted a little, and his eyes opened half-way. Was he aware of what was happening, or were we imagining things? We didn't care, and mom took that opportunity to get within his view. She told him we loved him, and that he could go. But it was a long process. Sure, I can sum it up and make it sound like it only took minutes, but we stood around, talking to him, to each other, trying to handle the pain for over an hour.
I couldn't speak to him. It simply hurt too much. In fact, most of me wanted to crawl into the corner of the room, pull my hood up over my head, and pretend I wasn't there.
But I was there, and I'm thankful for that. My dad kept repeating that Papaw had done so much for all of us. We nodded. He was a great man. But that's what made this so painful; this man, so powerful, so bold...this man whose presence enveloped an entire room, lay on his deathbed, with tubes and attachments clumsily marring his tired body. He didn't want that; I know he didn't. He, like most people, wanted to be at home. "He's home now", you say. Yeah, well, everybody says that, don't they?
Pastor Lloyd arrived and was able to spend the "final" moments with us. When the nurse came to check for a pulse, he found nothing; it was over, yet Papaw's chest was eerily still rising and falling, which really disturbed my Nana. They unhooked the ventilator, and all was finally still. And, like most women, my Nana and mom went straight to work, worrying about arrangements and plans for the night. We all composed ourselves, and it took a while to pack up.
Leaving that hospital room is another story entirely; Nana, a faithful wife of 62-years, who had been by his side EVERY night that week, had to deal with the fact that she was leaving hiim for good as she exited that room. That memory is one I would rather forget.
An hour later, my mom, sister, and I walked into the Shelley household. We entered slowly, and Nana sort of just looked around, dazed. I set my purse down, and when I looked back up, she had run down the hall to Papaw's bedroom. She shut the door, and the sound of her sobs echoed through the empty house. It was unbearable.
Clay and Anita came by minutes later and sat with us all for a while. I immediately grabbed the journal I had given Papaw for Christmas three years ago, and slowly read his entries. Stacy retrieved his ledger (his real journal) and sifted through that. I think at this point we were cried out. Dad came later with some sandwiches (we were hungry and nauseaus at the same time) and we sat down at the dining room table. No, not just at the dining room table; at THE dining room table. Papaw's seat at the head of this table was glaringly empty, and we all avoided looking that way. We somehow managed to pick at our food, mulling over our plans for the days ahead. My sister was staying the night (and is still staying every night) and I somehow stayed composed for the 45-minute drive home back to Jonesborough.
Did I sleep that night? I don't remember.
I would like to recount the next days in a later post. I feel the need to recall our last goodbye with Papaw and have it in writing like this, because I never want to forget that night. I don't want to think about it, but I don't want to forget it. Many people have been with a loved one as he or she took the final steps out of this worldy realm. I cannot fathom what it was like for Nana to lose her husband; for mom to lose her father; I cannot imagine what it's like for a parent to stand over a child's body. Did God feel like this when Christ was hung on the cross? Are we meant to feel the sting of goodbye so as to remember the Ultimate Sacrifice? Perhaps.
What I know for certain is this: I am so thankful to have been there, with my family and my faithful husband, to help ease Papaw's transition to another World. We got through it as a family, a very loving and loyal and grateful family, and it is an experience that deserves to be remembered, cherished, and shared.
