our last words

 

our last words | the merry gourmet

There is a memory that sneaks up on me at unexpected times, usually in the quiet moments, while waiting alone for an elevator or on my walk in to work in the mornings. Or, just before I fall asleep at night, the memory jerking me to full awareness and heart-piercing pain. It shoves its way into my mind, and I’m helpless to stop it.

*    *    *

I am back in the hospital’s emergency room, standing at the foot of my father’s bed as the ER physician tells me he may need to shock my father’s heart to bring it out of the rapid and unstable rhythm it has adopted. The heart monitor alarms over my father’s head. The heart rhythm itself might not be worrisome, but his blood pressure is dropping as the heart races, and this has everyone nervous and hovering nearby. The nurses have wheeled the crash cart to just outside my father’s room. I notice it – a hulking, red box on wheels, filled with everything needed to revive and resuscitate a crashing patient – and I feel nauseous.

First, though, the doctor will try adenosine to break the rhythm. His heart may stop temporarily, he tells me. There could be a period of asystole, and he could have chest pain.”

I know this, as I have used this medication before, when I was an internal medicine resident treating a patient with supraventricular tachycardia (called SVT for ease). The hope is that the adenosine will break the rapid heart rhythm, setting it back into its normal beat. But the ER doctor isn’t sure if Dad’s heart rate is due to SVT or to atrial fibrillation. He thinks this will help him figure it out.

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14 Responses to “our last words”

  1. 1
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    Janis — February 24, 2015 @ 9:12 pm

    You know I love your writing. It is just something you keep telling yourself. Let that part go.

  2. 2
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    Maggie — February 24, 2015 @ 9:24 pm

    You know, your are always on my mind. Especially now.

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    Liz Larkin — February 24, 2015 @ 9:53 pm

    I know exactly what you mean, MJ. I love your writing. Even the sad stuff. Don’t stop.

  4. 4
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    Whitney — February 24, 2015 @ 10:06 pm

    That hit me in the gut. You are a beautiful writer, and I feel your pain,  literally and figuratively. I am so sorry for your loss, and I help writing this will heal some of your pain.

  5. 5
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    Flavia — February 25, 2015 @ 11:02 am

    I am keeping you in my thoughts and prayers, MJ.  Sending you love and strength, my friend.

  6. 6
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    Colleen — February 25, 2015 @ 12:20 pm

    Thank you for sharing how you are feeling in such clear and wonderful words. I lost my brother a few months ago and find myself constantly experiencing those moments of realization that he is no longer here. It’s nice to know that this is “normal.” It sounds like you had a wonderful father, and I’m sure you meant the world to him.

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    Gail — February 25, 2015 @ 2:41 pm

    A first anniversary I wish no one had to acknowledge.  

    xoxo

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    Cherie — February 25, 2015 @ 4:33 pm

    Oh my dear what a terrible burden you’re putting on yourself.  It must be so hard to experience all this as a doctor yourself, feeling that somehow you should have known, should have done, should have said.  Of course you know in your head that none of this is your fault and that even medicine is not an exact science.  But your poor heart.   I hope writing it down, sharing it, has helped it ease it’s grip on you some small amount.  

    Sending thoughts of peace

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    Frances in TX — February 25, 2015 @ 6:22 pm

    Remembered feelings around a parent’s death are always tough; I can’t say they go away. But we’re stronger than we think and can grow through the love and support others give us. You are fortunate to receive them from your family and your online dedicated family of readers. Thank you for your beautiful writing. 

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    Eileen — February 25, 2015 @ 6:46 pm

    It’s human nature to look for someone to blame when something goes wrong – even if it’s our own selves. Try to let it go. Your father would be sad to know you’re wrestling with this guilt. Signed, one of your biggest fans 🙂

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    Sorry you’re even in this position to be acknowledging this sad say MJ. What a beautifully written piece. Your dad knows you (and everyone) did the best they could. And now, he is at peace XO

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    Paula — February 26, 2015 @ 6:34 pm

    To you, your family and especially your Mom, I wish for you strength and peace.  xo

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    GeekKnitter — February 26, 2015 @ 7:54 pm

    Such a heavy burden you’ve picked up and carried for so long. Set it down MJ, try to set it down.

    If I tell you that it will get easier to live in a world without your father will you believe me? It’s all right if you don’t, I didn’t believe that a world without my mother was any place I wanted to be either. February 27 may never be just a normal day for you, any more than January 2 will ever be just another day for me, but I promise you, absolutely promise, that it will get better. Peace to you and your family.

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    Cheryl — February 27, 2015 @ 8:53 am

    Last night as we crawled into bed my husband and I remarked that it was the day, to the day, of his father’s death. 11 years ago. Some times it feels like yesterday and the emotions are raw, other times we can’t believe it was so long ago. We can both remember every single thing about that day – calling the ambulance and the family, the look in his eyes when we knew he was gone, throwing up in the trauma room, the face of the ER doc who happens to be a friend, the snow falling as we drove home.

    But I can tell you this. You will likely never forget those things, but one day they won’t be the things you think of. You’ll have to consciously pull those memories up. 

    These moments are like telling the despondent high school kid lamenting his life that it does indeed get better. We all know that but there is no way they can see that. Having lived through that with both our fathers, it certainly feels that way when you are in the role of the high school kid. But one day, indeed, it will get better. The questions and doubt will melt away and the memories that hit you when least expected are the laughs, the tickles, the conversations.

    Hugs.

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