Jul 20, 2009, 4:19:06 PM
to ipray4anderson
Hi everyone,
I've been writing these emails for so long. I think I'm almost going to miss them.
Kelly and I just had a meeting with the doctors, the patient advocate, the social worker, the case manager, palliative care, and a PA. After the two doctors examined him today, they both agree that Anderson is very likely to be brain dead. There are a few more tests that they could do, but both the ICU doctor and the neurosurgeon were in agreement that he is gone and only his body is here in the room with us. The last test they're going to do is to take him off the ventilator. If he cannot breathe on his own, he will be pronounced brain dead officially and they will not put him back on the breathing machine.
A few days ago... I thought I saw two tears fall out of his right eye. Some time after that, I recall Kelly asking me why his face is so wet. I'm not sure, but I'd like to think that those were his goodbye tears to us. If they were, I just wished that I'd appreciated them a little more at the time.
It was Anderson's wish to be cremated. He didn't want a viewing. This is not his body and not the way he would have wanted to be remembered. We will likely have him cremated here in Texas and then go home and have a service for him at church.
Anderson told me a few months ago that when he got better, he wanted to become a missionary and tell his story all over the world. I used to think that was reason enough for God to allow him to live. If you know Anderson, he's REALLY not the type to go out and say anything in public. He doesn't like to put himself way out there and for him to say that he wanted to put himself out there for God to bring glory to His name for all the wonders He's done in our lives... it was a really really big thing for him. Even though he never got a chance to tell you from his own two lips, I got a chance to tell you all a little bit here and there through these updates... and I've heard that some of my emails have reached others around the world.
Anderson and I are extremely happy to hear all the testimonies of how God has used us and our story to touch your lives. We hope that you have stirred up your hunger to have a growing relationship with God and that you won't need me or Anderson anymore to help you evaluate your lives and appreciate all the blessings you have. Please don't stop sharing with me or with others all the great things God's been doing in your lives. One of these days I'll get around to finishing the Tifferson story. I will send it out when it's done. That's a promise.
So... how am I feeling? I actually feel a little bit of freedom and more peace than I thought. If Anderson is no longer in his body, I think maybe he's already in heaven and that makes me REALLY happy. To think that he was still inside, suffering and immobilized... was so painful for me. He suffered so much already. I'm glad to know that he's finally free. I feel a little bit like God answered my cries... that I couldn't take it anymore. I think there is much more pain in pleading than there is in knowing that the answer is no. I do almost feel like King David when his pals asked him why he had been so devastated while the his child was still alive and normal again when he found out that his child had passed. Here's a little bit from that passage in 2 Samuel again
21 His servants asked him, "Why are you acting this way? While the child was alive, you fasted and wept, but now that the child is dead, you get up
and eat!"
22 He answered, "While the child was still alive, I fasted and wept. I thought, 'Who knows? The LORD may be gracious to me and let the child live.'
23 But now that he is dead, why should I fast? Can I bring him back again? I will go to him, but he will not return to me."
I have full faith that Anderson is in heaven and that I will meet him in the clouds one day. I look forward to that. With all my heart.
There's also still a chance that maybe God will perform a miracle and when they take him off the machine... he'll come back and start breathing again and open his eyes again. That would be a modern day Lazarus experience. Maybe. Who knows. We'll just have to wait and see.
I don't really know what else to say. I miss my husband terribly. That is really the only reason I cry... because I miss him and not because I'm frustrated that life... and ultimately God, is unfair. I miss him. I've missed him for so long. I've missed hearing his voice. I've missed seeing his smile... hearing his jokes and laughing together. The two of us together was something super special and I'm going to miss that. I'm going to miss my best friend. I'll miss him for the rest of my life.
I think I'll end here for now.
<3,
Tiff
I've been writing these emails for so long. I think I'm almost going to miss them.
Kelly and I just had a meeting with the doctors, the patient advocate, the social worker, the case manager, palliative care, and a PA. After the two doctors examined him today, they both agree that Anderson is very likely to be brain dead. There are a few more tests that they could do, but both the ICU doctor and the neurosurgeon were in agreement that he is gone and only his body is here in the room with us. The last test they're going to do is to take him off the ventilator. If he cannot breathe on his own, he will be pronounced brain dead officially and they will not put him back on the breathing machine.
A few days ago... I thought I saw two tears fall out of his right eye. Some time after that, I recall Kelly asking me why his face is so wet. I'm not sure, but I'd like to think that those were his goodbye tears to us. If they were, I just wished that I'd appreciated them a little more at the time.
It was Anderson's wish to be cremated. He didn't want a viewing. This is not his body and not the way he would have wanted to be remembered. We will likely have him cremated here in Texas and then go home and have a service for him at church.
Anderson told me a few months ago that when he got better, he wanted to become a missionary and tell his story all over the world. I used to think that was reason enough for God to allow him to live. If you know Anderson, he's REALLY not the type to go out and say anything in public. He doesn't like to put himself way out there and for him to say that he wanted to put himself out there for God to bring glory to His name for all the wonders He's done in our lives... it was a really really big thing for him. Even though he never got a chance to tell you from his own two lips, I got a chance to tell you all a little bit here and there through these updates... and I've heard that some of my emails have reached others around the world.
Anderson and I are extremely happy to hear all the testimonies of how God has used us and our story to touch your lives. We hope that you have stirred up your hunger to have a growing relationship with God and that you won't need me or Anderson anymore to help you evaluate your lives and appreciate all the blessings you have. Please don't stop sharing with me or with others all the great things God's been doing in your lives. One of these days I'll get around to finishing the Tifferson story. I will send it out when it's done. That's a promise.
So... how am I feeling? I actually feel a little bit of freedom and more peace than I thought. If Anderson is no longer in his body, I think maybe he's already in heaven and that makes me REALLY happy. To think that he was still inside, suffering and immobilized... was so painful for me. He suffered so much already. I'm glad to know that he's finally free. I feel a little bit like God answered my cries... that I couldn't take it anymore. I think there is much more pain in pleading than there is in knowing that the answer is no. I do almost feel like King David when his pals asked him why he had been so devastated while the his child was still alive and normal again when he found out that his child had passed. Here's a little bit from that passage in 2 Samuel again
21 His servants asked him, "Why are you acting this way? While the child was alive, you fasted and wept, but now that the child is dead, you get up
and eat!"
22 He answered, "While the child was still alive, I fasted and wept. I thought, 'Who knows? The LORD may be gracious to me and let the child live.'
23 But now that he is dead, why should I fast? Can I bring him back again? I will go to him, but he will not return to me."
I have full faith that Anderson is in heaven and that I will meet him in the clouds one day. I look forward to that. With all my heart.
There's also still a chance that maybe God will perform a miracle and when they take him off the machine... he'll come back and start breathing again and open his eyes again. That would be a modern day Lazarus experience. Maybe. Who knows. We'll just have to wait and see.
I don't really know what else to say. I miss my husband terribly. That is really the only reason I cry... because I miss him and not because I'm frustrated that life... and ultimately God, is unfair. I miss him. I've missed him for so long. I've missed hearing his voice. I've missed seeing his smile... hearing his jokes and laughing together. The two of us together was something super special and I'm going to miss that. I'm going to miss my best friend. I'll miss him for the rest of my life.
I think I'll end here for now.
<3,
Tiff
Jul 22, 2009, 12:05:43 AM
to ipray4anderson
Hey all,
Not much has changed. Well... his pupils have gone from mildly unequal to drastically unequal and much bigger than yesterday. Never a good sign. We did get the EEG done today but the results aren't in the computer yet. The neurosurgeon said that by the laws of the state of Texas, he is not alive any longer.
From the change in the pupils... I don't think it's going to be much longer now. From what I remember from school.. dilated pupils means there's pressure in his head. Unequal pupils mean that the pressure on those sides are different. I think bigger pupils means more pressure. The fact that they're getting bigger by the day means that the pressure is increasing. When the pressure gets too high, the brain will have nowhere to go except out the bottom of the skull. That's so gruesome. I'm sorry if you guys didn't want to hear it. And I'm even more sorry if I'm mistaken. This kind of thing isn't really what the doctors tell us when they come by. They're more interested in making sure we're OK and meeting our needs. I'm so thankful for that and EXTREMELY thankful that we're where we're at. MD Anderson really is awesome. I would highly recommend it to anyone who's suffering from cancer. I think you'll notice a difference immediately if you've ever been treated at any other hospital. God really took care of us by bringing us here.
I try to pray for him now... but if he's already in heaven... I don't have much to pray for. I'm just thankful if he's already there. So... I still pray in case he's still here... inside his body. I don't feel right thinking that there's nothing to pray for because there's always something to pray for. I try to hug him and lay on him and hold him as much as possible. Sometimes I put my fingers on his face and turn his mouth up like he's smiling. It makes me happy very briefly to see him "smiling". It's really strange too. Like my heart kinda skips a little and smiles a bit even though I know it's not a real smile. I just miss him. Sigh.
I gave blood today. Just whole blood... I thought about giving platelets... since Anderson needed so many platelet transfusions... but it takes 1.5-2 hours and I didn't want to be stuck there for that long. And it was my first time giving blood. They said I did well though. The phlebotomist kept asking me if I felt OK. Maybe I'm smaller than the average Texan and she didn't want me to pass out or anything. Maybe they do it to everyone, but she asked me if I felt funny. I said... a little bit... but I meant that my arm felt kinda cold and not that I felt light-headed... she put an ice pack under my neck. I asked her what it was for and she said so i don't get hot. mmm. OK. When I was done, she told me to lay there for a while. When I thought that I was OK, I sat up and she didn't let me get off the chair for a while. She brought me some juice and told me to drink it right there. And after I was done, she still told me to sit there for a little while longer. I went with it. I wasn't in much of a rush. That needle was monster though. Totally felt like they stuck a coffee stirrer into my vein. After I took off the pressure bandage, I saw that it wasn't such a big hole but, man, it looked huge at the time. I felt like I gave back a little to the hospital. I hope my blood gets put to good use.
So my little experience with being poked... in a way, gave me a greater appreciation for what Anderson had to go through these past few months in the hospital. I had one fingerstick to check my iron. He had to have fingersticks done 3-4 times a day for weeks. And I found out that it hurts more than I thought. I thought it would just be a little tiny prick but my finger hurt for a long time after it was all bandaged up. I had a big needle put in my arm for like 15-20 minutes. And it hurt for hours after they took it out. He's had 2 central lines (one of them was 5-lumen... which is BIG. 5-lumen means it had 5 individual ports all bundled up and going in to a big vein... they said they don't usually put too many of those in...), 2 arterial lines, a PICC line, 2 peripheral IV's... and that's just the past few weeks. I will try to remember when I'm working... that even though to a nurse, we don't think too much about the little pricks and pain that come as part of the job... the things we do without thinking twice about it...really do hurt.. and every little bit adds up.
I feel like the past two paragraphs were a little bit useless and aimless.
Overall, I feel OK today. I did do my share of crying on and off. I just miss him so much.
I don't know what to say right now. I'm OK with that.
You don't have to know what to say either. But if you do have things to say, I do appreciate them via email. The majority of the time, I'm not in the mood to talk, or visit with people... so emails work for me because I can get to them on my own time. I've spoken to you from my heart and I very much appreciate it when you speak back to me from yours. I especially like hearing about your memories.
I'm so scared of forgetting. K. Not scared... terrified. Pictures just aren't enough. Videos help, but I only have a few videos where he's talking to me. He did record some audio messages for me when I went to Arizona for PowerPlant a few yrs ago. I'd lost the charger for that mp3 player so I bought another one on ebay. Hopefully, I'll be able to recover those. Or maybe (hopefully) I was genius and saved them on my external hard drive back when he recorded them for me. I'll have to check when I get home. One would think that I would have so many memories to draw from, but it's almost like the harder I try to grasp for some, the more they elude me. I've read that sometimes a face in the crowd, an object, a sound... random things will stir up memories, which will inevitably throw open the floodgates of tears. I don't look forward to the sadness, but I partially look forward to being reminded of him... as if I could ever forget him.
Anderson is the love of my life. Our love is the life-changing kind. Might be once in my lifetime and I'm OK with that. I just... miss him.
I don't know how the rest of you feel about continuing to read my daily thoughts. I figure, I'll just throw it out there. Maybe it'll help you feel like you talked to me today. Or if it's gotten boring, you can just skim. Either way, it's out there.
Just random thoughts today.
<3,
Tiff
Not much has changed. Well... his pupils have gone from mildly unequal to drastically unequal and much bigger than yesterday. Never a good sign. We did get the EEG done today but the results aren't in the computer yet. The neurosurgeon said that by the laws of the state of Texas, he is not alive any longer.
From the change in the pupils... I don't think it's going to be much longer now. From what I remember from school.. dilated pupils means there's pressure in his head. Unequal pupils mean that the pressure on those sides are different. I think bigger pupils means more pressure. The fact that they're getting bigger by the day means that the pressure is increasing. When the pressure gets too high, the brain will have nowhere to go except out the bottom of the skull. That's so gruesome. I'm sorry if you guys didn't want to hear it. And I'm even more sorry if I'm mistaken. This kind of thing isn't really what the doctors tell us when they come by. They're more interested in making sure we're OK and meeting our needs. I'm so thankful for that and EXTREMELY thankful that we're where we're at. MD Anderson really is awesome. I would highly recommend it to anyone who's suffering from cancer. I think you'll notice a difference immediately if you've ever been treated at any other hospital. God really took care of us by bringing us here.
I try to pray for him now... but if he's already in heaven... I don't have much to pray for. I'm just thankful if he's already there. So... I still pray in case he's still here... inside his body. I don't feel right thinking that there's nothing to pray for because there's always something to pray for. I try to hug him and lay on him and hold him as much as possible. Sometimes I put my fingers on his face and turn his mouth up like he's smiling. It makes me happy very briefly to see him "smiling". It's really strange too. Like my heart kinda skips a little and smiles a bit even though I know it's not a real smile. I just miss him. Sigh.
I gave blood today. Just whole blood... I thought about giving platelets... since Anderson needed so many platelet transfusions... but it takes 1.5-2 hours and I didn't want to be stuck there for that long. And it was my first time giving blood. They said I did well though. The phlebotomist kept asking me if I felt OK. Maybe I'm smaller than the average Texan and she didn't want me to pass out or anything. Maybe they do it to everyone, but she asked me if I felt funny. I said... a little bit... but I meant that my arm felt kinda cold and not that I felt light-headed... she put an ice pack under my neck. I asked her what it was for and she said so i don't get hot. mmm. OK. When I was done, she told me to lay there for a while. When I thought that I was OK, I sat up and she didn't let me get off the chair for a while. She brought me some juice and told me to drink it right there. And after I was done, she still told me to sit there for a little while longer. I went with it. I wasn't in much of a rush. That needle was monster though. Totally felt like they stuck a coffee stirrer into my vein. After I took off the pressure bandage, I saw that it wasn't such a big hole but, man, it looked huge at the time. I felt like I gave back a little to the hospital. I hope my blood gets put to good use.
So my little experience with being poked... in a way, gave me a greater appreciation for what Anderson had to go through these past few months in the hospital. I had one fingerstick to check my iron. He had to have fingersticks done 3-4 times a day for weeks. And I found out that it hurts more than I thought. I thought it would just be a little tiny prick but my finger hurt for a long time after it was all bandaged up. I had a big needle put in my arm for like 15-20 minutes. And it hurt for hours after they took it out. He's had 2 central lines (one of them was 5-lumen... which is BIG. 5-lumen means it had 5 individual ports all bundled up and going in to a big vein... they said they don't usually put too many of those in...), 2 arterial lines, a PICC line, 2 peripheral IV's... and that's just the past few weeks. I will try to remember when I'm working... that even though to a nurse, we don't think too much about the little pricks and pain that come as part of the job... the things we do without thinking twice about it...really do hurt.. and every little bit adds up.
I feel like the past two paragraphs were a little bit useless and aimless.
Overall, I feel OK today. I did do my share of crying on and off. I just miss him so much.
I don't know what to say right now. I'm OK with that.
You don't have to know what to say either. But if you do have things to say, I do appreciate them via email. The majority of the time, I'm not in the mood to talk, or visit with people... so emails work for me because I can get to them on my own time. I've spoken to you from my heart and I very much appreciate it when you speak back to me from yours. I especially like hearing about your memories.
I'm so scared of forgetting. K. Not scared... terrified. Pictures just aren't enough. Videos help, but I only have a few videos where he's talking to me. He did record some audio messages for me when I went to Arizona for PowerPlant a few yrs ago. I'd lost the charger for that mp3 player so I bought another one on ebay. Hopefully, I'll be able to recover those. Or maybe (hopefully) I was genius and saved them on my external hard drive back when he recorded them for me. I'll have to check when I get home. One would think that I would have so many memories to draw from, but it's almost like the harder I try to grasp for some, the more they elude me. I've read that sometimes a face in the crowd, an object, a sound... random things will stir up memories, which will inevitably throw open the floodgates of tears. I don't look forward to the sadness, but I partially look forward to being reminded of him... as if I could ever forget him.
Anderson is the love of my life. Our love is the life-changing kind. Might be once in my lifetime and I'm OK with that. I just... miss him.
I don't know how the rest of you feel about continuing to read my daily thoughts. I figure, I'll just throw it out there. Maybe it'll help you feel like you talked to me today. Or if it's gotten boring, you can just skim. Either way, it's out there.
Just random thoughts today.
<3,
Tiff
Jul 22, 2009, 4:22:47 PM
to ipray4anderson
Hi everyone,
This morning was like any other morning... I woke up a little damp from sleeping on the vinyl chair/bed. Hair was a mess. Eyes a little crusty... and morning breath. I always open my eyes, put on my glasses and check his vital signs on the monitor. If he's a little tachy (fast heart rate), I pray for that to go down... same with hypertensive or hypotensive. Oxygen's good. He looks just as peaceful as he did when I went to bed.
It's hard to think that today, of all days... my husband... my Anderson... will likely be pronounced dead by someone I just met. That information will be passed along and documented almost effortlessly... just data to be entered, paperwork to be processed. It's hard to imagine, that today, on paper, my husband's life will have a date and time to go on the right side of the dash. Anderson Chen, June 27, 1981-July 22, 2009.
It hasn't officially happened yet. Kelly had decided that she wanted to take him off the machine tonight.. maybe 7 or 8pm. I still feel like I'm being rushed a little... but there will never be a time where I'll be ready so now's as good a time as any.
No one knows the pain I feel. That's between me and God. I don't presume that I'm the only one who's gone through catastrophic loss or has even been confronted with death. Anderson was as much a part of me as I was to him. I think that from what I've read.. and it's not much... about grief and loss. I'd have to say that while some commonalities are present through nearly every person's struggle... each individual loss and each bout with grief is quite unique.
In heaven, there are no more tears, no more pain... no more sickness, no more grief. The pain I feel from being separated from Anderson... I only imagine that he feels an equal pain as I do. It's too cruel to think that he passes on to ultimate joy whereas I am left here to suffer the loss on my own. Maybe his pain hit him the moment before he passed. Maybe he suffered through this same pain while he was lying there intubated and unable to speak or write about it. I'd like to think that he'll be taken up into the clouds and since he's no longer bound by earthly time... that he'll see me right behind him. He'll reach out to me and I'll grab his hand and join him, just "moments" later. I think that would be joy to him. Flying up together. I could be totally wrong about what happens and what's going to happen. But I'll just have to find out later on.
It's getting close to that time. People are waiting outside the room. I'll just end now and write more later.
<3,
Tiff
This morning was like any other morning... I woke up a little damp from sleeping on the vinyl chair/bed. Hair was a mess. Eyes a little crusty... and morning breath. I always open my eyes, put on my glasses and check his vital signs on the monitor. If he's a little tachy (fast heart rate), I pray for that to go down... same with hypertensive or hypotensive. Oxygen's good. He looks just as peaceful as he did when I went to bed.
It's hard to think that today, of all days... my husband... my Anderson... will likely be pronounced dead by someone I just met. That information will be passed along and documented almost effortlessly... just data to be entered, paperwork to be processed. It's hard to imagine, that today, on paper, my husband's life will have a date and time to go on the right side of the dash. Anderson Chen, June 27, 1981-July 22, 2009.
It hasn't officially happened yet. Kelly had decided that she wanted to take him off the machine tonight.. maybe 7 or 8pm. I still feel like I'm being rushed a little... but there will never be a time where I'll be ready so now's as good a time as any.
No one knows the pain I feel. That's between me and God. I don't presume that I'm the only one who's gone through catastrophic loss or has even been confronted with death. Anderson was as much a part of me as I was to him. I think that from what I've read.. and it's not much... about grief and loss. I'd have to say that while some commonalities are present through nearly every person's struggle... each individual loss and each bout with grief is quite unique.
In heaven, there are no more tears, no more pain... no more sickness, no more grief. The pain I feel from being separated from Anderson... I only imagine that he feels an equal pain as I do. It's too cruel to think that he passes on to ultimate joy whereas I am left here to suffer the loss on my own. Maybe his pain hit him the moment before he passed. Maybe he suffered through this same pain while he was lying there intubated and unable to speak or write about it. I'd like to think that he'll be taken up into the clouds and since he's no longer bound by earthly time... that he'll see me right behind him. He'll reach out to me and I'll grab his hand and join him, just "moments" later. I think that would be joy to him. Flying up together. I could be totally wrong about what happens and what's going to happen. But I'll just have to find out later on.
It's getting close to that time. People are waiting outside the room. I'll just end now and write more later.
<3,
Tiff
Jul 22, 2009, 10:37:23 PM
to ipray4anderson
Hi all,
After I ended this last email... I went to Anderson, laid on him and cried. People started pouring in. The chaplain, a few friends we made in Houston... there probably were a lot of people in the room, but I wasn't looking. It was me and Anderson and I didn't care who else came in to see me cry on him.
The chaplain said a prayer in Chinese. His family came by one by one to say their last words to him... in Portuguese, Mandarin... friends came by... everyone said something. Except me. I just laid there on his chest... crying.
The doctor came in and asked me if I was ready. I nodded. When is anyone ever ready?
She said she was going to get her team together and be back.
Kelly and her family left. It was just me, my brother, my dad, and my aunt... and Anderson.
This may have been the point where I started wailing. Or maybe it started earlier. I can't remember.
What was I thinking? All I wanted to do was remember what it felt like to hold his hand... to look up at his face... to remember the contour of his lips... the way it felt to have my head on his chest. I wanted to pause and record. But I couldn't.
Respiratory suctioned him and then just like that, he removed the breathing tube. It was so abrupt.
I was definitely wailing at this point. Almost hysterical.
I let myself go and I couldn't really control myself. I felt like he was slipping away... but then... he took a breath. And another, and another.
They gave him one push of morphine. And he kept breathing. His heart kept beating.
I wanted him to wake up. I wanted to hear his voice. The only thing I had left was a video recording he did for me right before his laminectomy on 5/25. I took out my phone and I played the video. He said... I love you. I love you so much. We're going to get through everything together, just you and me. We're going to be OK. So there's no fear... (and then the video cuts off). I said OK. And I stopped crying.
For a little while, we all just watched him breathe. His breaths were irregular. Some big, some small. They started a morphine drip.
My phone was still next to me... and I had some music saved in there. So I played a worship song. One after another. I played songs for about an hour.
Ran out of songs on my phone so I took my laptop out and we played more songs there.
He stopped breathing. His heart was still beating.
Blessed be your name. I'm pretty sure it happened during that song. Kind of fitting. That song meant a lot to us. It was sung at our wedding. Some of the lyrics are from Job... which we read together before he was hospitalized this last time. The line "he gives and takes away, our hearts will choose to say, blessed be your name" was what encouraged us after his surgical scar popped open. And it was the song that was playing when he went to be with God. God gave me Anderson, God took him away... and still my heart says... blessed be the name of the Lord.
It hasn't really hit me yet.. that I will never again see his physical face, hold his hand... touch his skin. My heart will never again jump when I see his name pop up on the chat list... or receive another email from him. I'll never hear his ring tone again on my phone. I'll never climb into bed with him or rest my head on his chest again. I'll never again feel his arms around me or feel his soothing pat on my back. Tonight, I said my last "goodnight... I love you"
I miss him. but I'm OK. I'm so thankful. and so blessed.
night you all.
<3,
Tiff
After I ended this last email... I went to Anderson, laid on him and cried. People started pouring in. The chaplain, a few friends we made in Houston... there probably were a lot of people in the room, but I wasn't looking. It was me and Anderson and I didn't care who else came in to see me cry on him.
The chaplain said a prayer in Chinese. His family came by one by one to say their last words to him... in Portuguese, Mandarin... friends came by... everyone said something. Except me. I just laid there on his chest... crying.
The doctor came in and asked me if I was ready. I nodded. When is anyone ever ready?
She said she was going to get her team together and be back.
Kelly and her family left. It was just me, my brother, my dad, and my aunt... and Anderson.
This may have been the point where I started wailing. Or maybe it started earlier. I can't remember.
What was I thinking? All I wanted to do was remember what it felt like to hold his hand... to look up at his face... to remember the contour of his lips... the way it felt to have my head on his chest. I wanted to pause and record. But I couldn't.
Respiratory suctioned him and then just like that, he removed the breathing tube. It was so abrupt.
I was definitely wailing at this point. Almost hysterical.
I let myself go and I couldn't really control myself. I felt like he was slipping away... but then... he took a breath. And another, and another.
They gave him one push of morphine. And he kept breathing. His heart kept beating.
I wanted him to wake up. I wanted to hear his voice. The only thing I had left was a video recording he did for me right before his laminectomy on 5/25. I took out my phone and I played the video. He said... I love you. I love you so much. We're going to get through everything together, just you and me. We're going to be OK. So there's no fear... (and then the video cuts off). I said OK. And I stopped crying.
For a little while, we all just watched him breathe. His breaths were irregular. Some big, some small. They started a morphine drip.
My phone was still next to me... and I had some music saved in there. So I played a worship song. One after another. I played songs for about an hour.
Ran out of songs on my phone so I took my laptop out and we played more songs there.
He stopped breathing. His heart was still beating.
Blessed be your name. I'm pretty sure it happened during that song. Kind of fitting. That song meant a lot to us. It was sung at our wedding. Some of the lyrics are from Job... which we read together before he was hospitalized this last time. The line "he gives and takes away, our hearts will choose to say, blessed be your name" was what encouraged us after his surgical scar popped open. And it was the song that was playing when he went to be with God. God gave me Anderson, God took him away... and still my heart says... blessed be the name of the Lord.
It hasn't really hit me yet.. that I will never again see his physical face, hold his hand... touch his skin. My heart will never again jump when I see his name pop up on the chat list... or receive another email from him. I'll never hear his ring tone again on my phone. I'll never climb into bed with him or rest my head on his chest again. I'll never again feel his arms around me or feel his soothing pat on my back. Tonight, I said my last "goodnight... I love you"
I miss him. but I'm OK. I'm so thankful. and so blessed.
night you all.
<3,
Tiff
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