The What Ifs
I will never get past the horror, the sadness, the loss, or the "what ifs." I have post-traumatic stress from the ordeal, yes absolutely diagnosed with PTSD. The first two years after Jeff died, my head became a VCR, and vivid pictures and scenes from events that happened would kick on for no reason and play. Sometimes, the same scene would play over and over. It still happens but is usually triggered by an external event.
The "what ifs" are the most disturbing effect of my grief. They are generated by guilt-driven thoughts that certain circumstances might have been prevented if something would have been done differently. Nothing anyone says to you will ever take those "what ifs" out of your head. You just learn to live with it.
Jeff's decline continued quickly. He fell and broke his ribs about a week before he died. Nothing could be done to help him; he was already on enormous doses of morphine for pain. He lost his ability to speak. He was terrified; he would follow me with his eyes every step that I took. If I walked out of the room, he would panic. He continued to ask for my mom to come to see him. She never did. He was afraid he wasn't going to see his dad again. I called him and told him Jeff was asking for him and that he was in his final days. He didn't come either. He said he had to meet some contractor about his house foundation. I lied to Jeff and told him that his grandmother and dad were coming. He told me very weakly, "It's okay, Mom. You and Glen and Kevin are the only ones that care about me." I couldn't answer him; I had a massive lump in my throat and tried not to boohoo. It was so damn hard to not lose control. But, that is one of the what-ifs that haunts me still. What if they could have shown up? Wouldn't it have eased a little of his anxiety and sadness? I hated them for their insensitivity and cruelness.
The last three nights Jeff was alive, a CNA stayed with me overnight. I had started to feel really bad, sick, I'm sure from lack of sleep and stress. I still remained on the sofa with the nurse, and we took care of him Tuesday night and Wednesday night, the night they told me he would probably die. He wasn't sleeping at all now; he hadn't slept for almost 3 days. His organs were failing, but he was still fighting. I remained awake with him, refusing to sleep.
He did not die on Wednesday night. That was my birthday. They told me that he had probably heard the nurse talking about my birthday, and he somehow forced himself to keep going. His vitals on Thursday were terrible. They gave him additional meds to get him to sleep for a while. His heart rate was as fast as if he were running a marathon. A new nurse came on duty that night. I didn't know her and wasn't happy with the change. I felt horrible; I was exhausted and weak and terrified. When Jeff finally dozed off, it was about 11:15 pm. I had been awake for over 72 hours. The nurse told me to go lay down, or I might die. I told her I would go to my room and watch TV but not sleep. I sternly told her any little change in him; she had to promise to knock on my door to get me. She swore she would. I sat on the bed next to Jeff; he was asleep; I kissed him and told him that I would lay down and that the nurse would come to get me if he needed me.
I was watching Jay Leno. The next thing I knew, somebody was screaming my name and beating on the door. I jumped up. Oh, God, I fell asleep. I opened the door and shoved her out of the way, and ran to Jeff. I threw myself on his bed and called his name. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling. He was gone. She was trying to tell me he was dead. I started yelling at her. " You promised me, you promised me. Why didn't you tell me?" She said his vitals began failing, and she called the RN. "Bitch, you were supposed to get me, you lied, you lied, and now he's gone. I promised him I would be with him. He was scared. Why didn't you at least close his eyes? I will never get that sight out of my head, never."
Kevin had run in while I was yelling, and I think he was trying to calm me down. I felt physically ill. I sat down in the recliner in a daze. "Somebody, please cover him up." The RN came in. I picked up a phone book and tried to find the number for the funeral home, but I remember that I was just flipping pages. The nurse came over and said she would call them. I told her to get that negligent bitch out of my house. She quickly left.
I quietly sat in the chair. A knock on the door meant that the funeral home was there. Two men came in and put my baby on a stretcher, and he left home for the last time. A massive piece of my life walked out the door with him. At least his pain was over.
Nobody in my family knows what happened that night. I have never been able to talk about it. My shrink and doctor tried to convince me that Jeff waited for me to leave to not have to see him die. I don't believe that. I will carry the guilt of not being there with him until I die.
Of all of the what-ifs, this is the one that haunts me every day. I have carried this guilt daily for over 10 years now, and it has not gone away. It could drive a person crazy if they were weak. I guess I am strong.
I hope that by writing about what happened that maybe I can heal somewhat. And if someone who shared this time with me reads it, they will understand why I have been unable to move on. I don't believe the guilt will ever leave me.
(If you want to go back to the night before Jeff died, read Saying Goodbye.)
For now, I will not write about the events that transpired after Jeff's death. I will go back chronologically and pick up writing about Ma Bell.
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