A Widow's Awakening

by Maryanne Pope

  Thankfully, the medical staff need to work on Sam. We’re taken back to the family room, but I choose to stay in the larger area that’s now packed with people.

  “There’s still hope for a miracle,” a well-meaning visitor whispers in my ear.

  At hearing these words, I do feel a surge of hope—even though I understand the physical reality and have seen Sam with my own eyes. But you know an old-fashioned Jesus-raising-the-dead style miracle would be lovely right about now. Maybe Sam’s brain injury can somehow be reversed. Where’s my faith?

  In the same place I need to be. My stomach is so upset I’ve got to find a bathroom. I leave the waiting area but only make it as far as the hallway because I see one of Sam’s older teammates leaning against the wall. We look at each other.

  “There’s still hope,” I tell him.

  He takes my hand but doesn’t say anything. The pain in my stomach subsides a little so I stay here with him, which is where the social worker finds me a couple of minutes later.

  “Would you like to come with me, Adri?”

  No thanks. I’ll just stay right here because even though I know damn well the shittiest news of my life is coming, since I haven’t yet technically heard it, the chance still exists that all this could somehow get turned around.

  But the older officer releases my hand and I know I must go.

  The social worker and I walk down another corridor together, this time toward Sam’s intensive care room. He asks me how I’m holding up.

  “Not very good.”

  We stop outside an office and he turns to face me. He looks so sad.

  “Sam’s doctor would like to speak to you,” he says.

  “Oh?” I thought I’d be seeing the doctor with Sam’s family.

  Inside the office, he pulls out a chair for me. “I’m going to have you wait here, OK?”

  I sit down and watch him walk out the door. Now that I’m finally alone, it occurs to me that this might be a good time to have a quick chat with God, just in case He does exist. But I don’t pray for Sam’s brain to be healed. I don’t put in a request for a miracle. I simply ask for the strength to handle whatever news is coming my way—be it a seriously brain-injured husband or a rapidly dying one.

  The doctor comes in with two nurses in tow. He sits in front of me, takes both my hands in his, looks into my eyes and says: “Adri, I am very sorry to tell you this, but your husband is brain-dead.”

  When my fear of losing Sam officially becomes my reality, the impact is akin to a sledgehammer being taken to my soul. And yet I say and do absolutely nothing. For possibly the first time ever, I am speechless. Thus, it is the doctor who speaks again and the news isn’t getting any better, at least not for Sam and me.

  “I know this is an extremely difficult time for you, but the reality is that Sam is a healthy thirty-two year old.”

  I give him a look of suspicion, feeling rather vulnerable—like a gazelle separated from the herd.

  “And although he’s brain-dead,” the doctor continues, “the rest of Sam’s organs are in excellent condition and as such, he’s a suitable candidate for organ donation.”

  It begins to sink in that although this possibility is new to me, the medical personnel have obviously been perceiving Sam’s injury a little differently.

  “Would you consider authorizing the removal of Sam’s organs?”

  You’re fucking kidding me, right? I want to punch him in the face. I want to kill whoever is responsible for Sam’s death. But the sensation that two of me exist clicks into place again. There’s the person whom others can see, and then there is my terrorized inner self—the real me—whom I cannot allow others to observe.

  I lean back, trying to remember what Sam and I had discussed about organ donation. I think he was OK with being an organ donor, should such a circumstance arise. But now that it’s actually happening, I’m wary. How can I know with absolute certainty that I’m being told the truth about the seriousness of Sam’s injury?

  “Are you sure Sam can’t be saved?” I ask.

  “Adri,” he says softly, “he’s already gone.”

  I hang my head and cry. One of the nurses places her hand on my shoulder.

  I look up. “Why are you telling me all this without anyone else here?”

  “We’ll be informing the others at the next family meeting,” he says. “But because you’re Sam’s wife, you’re legally responsible for making decisions on his behalf now.”

  I feel a lot older than thirty-two. “You can remove Sam’s organs,” I say, as a little piece of myself disintegrates alongside the authorized dismemberment of Sam.

  The doctor explains the organ donation process and I try to listen carefully. I gather I’ll have about six hours to spend with Sam as they get everything in place, preparing his body for surgery and finding appropriate recipients.

  By the time I’m released from the room where my heart and soul have been ever so politely smashed to pieces, I really have to use the bathroom. I ask a nurse where it is.

  “It’s just down the hall. Let me show you.”

  “I can find it.”

  “No really,” she says, “I’m coming with you.”

  Not only does she take me to the staff bathroom instead of a public one, she waits outside the door. Two minutes later, she asks me how I’m doing.

  “Fine,” I say, baffled as to why she’s so interested in my bathroom activities.

  It’s not until I’m washing my hands that it dawns on me she’s probably concerned I might harm myself. But the truth is I’m not having suicidal thoughts—just really weird ones. I get the sense that Sam is with me—I mean, right here in the bathroom.

  ALTHOUGH SAM hasn’t changed since I first saw him in his ICU room, everything else has. The only sounds are the beeping of the computer monitor and the drip, drip, drip of his IVs. I walk over and gently take his hand. “What am I gonna do without you?”

  I feel a tiny amount of tension, as if he’s trying to hold my hand. Is this possible if a person is brain-dead?

  Then I see a bit of blood has trickled from his left ear onto the pillow. No.

  Not wanting anyone else to see the blood because Sam is such a private guy, I cover it up with a piece of gauze. I place my hand on his forehead. It’s too hot.

  “I noticed his shoulders are peeling.”

  I look up to see the nurse watching me. “Was he somewhere warm?” she asks.

  “Yeah. We were in Vegas and he wouldn’t wear any sunscreen.”

  She tilts her head. “So, you guys were just on holidays?”

  I swallow. “Uh huh. We had an awesome trip.”

  “You’re very lucky.”

  I stare at her. Lucky is not on the list of how I’m feeling at the moment.

  She walks over and takes my hand. “Those memories will carry you far, Adri. This will undoubtedly be the most difficult day of your life but it’s also a very special time for you and Sam. Many people don’t get the opportunity to say goodbye while the person is still alive to hear.”

  “But can he hear me?”

  She nods. “It’s possible. They say hearing is the last sense to go.”

  I ask her if they’ve found Sam’s cross and St. Jude medal yet. They haven’t.

  Another nurse comes in to ask me if it’s all right if Sam’s sister comes in. Visitors are being kept away until an official announcement is made. But I give her the OK. When Angela comes into the room, I avoid eye contact, and she goes to Sam’s other side. But when I lean in and kiss him on the lips, his chest goes into spasm.

  We look at each other and her face lights up. “That’s a good sign!”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know what it means but Sam isn’t gonna make it.”

  “What?”

  “He’s already brain-dead,” I say. “The doctor just told me. I’m sorry. I hope it’s OK I told you, but I can’t do this alone.”

  She walks around and hugs me and we both start bawling. But then Sam�
��s parents, having managed to sneak past the nurse’s station, appear in the hallway. Arms locked together, they seem so small to me, like little dolls standing side by side. I look at Angela and she shakes her head ever so slightly. It’s not our place to tell Sam’s parents.

  I take a step back to let them pass and Angela does the same. His mom cries out Sam’s name and kisses his forehead, as his dad rests his head on Sam’s chest. I want to tell them to be careful and not knock anything out of place. Sam has another spasm.

  His parents look at me. I look at Angela. Then she gently leads them, sobbing, from the room. When she returns a few minutes later, the organ transplant coordinator is with her so all three of us go to the office.

  “First of all,” the coordinator begins, “I’d like to thank you for making this decision on Sam’s behalf. Hopefully, it will help for you to know that through Sam’s death, he will directly impact other people’s lives.”

  Rationally, I understand this. Honestly, I want to tell her to fuck off and go find somebody else’s husband to mine for body parts.

  “We need to discuss which of Sam’s organs you wish to be removed.”

  I give her a blank stare. “What are my options?”

  “We can remove and donate internal organs such as the heart, liver, kidney, pancreas and perhaps lungs.”

  “OK.” I could be choosing air conditioning and power windows.

  “And how about the skin, tissues and kneecaps?”

  I swallow rapidly, trying to not throw up. I look to Angela for clarification, as she knows the Greek Orthodox customs.

  “I think you better stick with the internal organs,” she says, “because it’ll have to be an open casket.”

  I abhor this custom. But the thought of a skinned Sam upsets me more.

  “Just organs,” I tell the coordinator. No to the leather seats.

  “And do you wish to have Sam’s organs donated to medical research, if transplant is not possible?”

  Sam would flip if I started handing out his body parts to med students. “No.”

  “You’re a strong woman,” the coordinator says to me when we’re done.

  So, my prayer was answered. Big of Him.

  Sam’s sister then goes to The Family Meeting while I go tell Sam about my recycling decisions. I place my hand on his forehead. It’s on fire. I ask the nurse why.

  “He’s likely developing pneumonia.”

  “Is he in pain?”

  “No. He can’t feel a thing.”

  “Then why does he have a spasm when I kiss him, or his parent’s touch him?”

  She opens her mouth then closes it again. “Well…”

  “Goo?”

  I turn around to see my middle brother, Harry, standing in the doorway. Goo is my childhood nickname.

  Harry comes in and gives me a bear hug. Then he looks down at Sam. “Oh,” he says. “Oh, big fella.”

  He looks at me again, wide-eyed. “The doctor just told us about Sam. It was total chaos. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “What happened?”

  “Sam’s parents collapsed on the floor. His aunt screamed. His brother punched a hole in the wall. Family members rushed to help other family members and the whole time, there was all this…wailing. It didn’t even sound human, Adri.”

  The doctor knew exactly what he was doing, speaking to me on my own, away from the herd. If I’d been in that family room and witnessed such demonstrative grief, I wouldn’t have been in any shape to make a rational decision about organ donation.

  “And just to give you a heads-up,” Harry says, “everybody in that conference room and the waiting room are now on their way here to say goodbye to Sam.”

  IF THERE is one thing Sam hates—more than my mother’s long-winded messages on our answering machine—it’s a scene. Turning his last day on earth into a circus would infuriate him, never mind the logistics. Due to the hundred plus people, the nurses quickly establish a three-visitors-at-a-time rule, in addition to me.

  My mom is one of the first to visit. She hugs me then leans in and whispers something in Sam’s ear. His chest shakes with another spasm. I want to scream at her to get away from him. But I know damn well the message is for me.

  As much as I recognize the need for people to see Sam one last time, it makes an excruciating experience even more exhausting. For the next few hours, I hug each visitor but soon realize I can’t keep this up. As the day progresses, I focus all my energy on Sam. And on us.

  In the quieter moments, I gently trace the three small moles in a row on his forearm. I touch the crescent-shaped scar on the back of his hand. “Remember the burning shrimp, Sammy?” I whisper.

  As a kid, he’d put his hand through an iron bar while punching his brother. He’d missed his brother and got the bed frame instead. When I first saw the scar, back when we were twenty, I’d told him it looked like he’d had a run-in with a deep-fried shrimp.

  I run my fingers through his hair and gently scratch his scalp. Now, however, I can only touch the top of his head because…

  “What the hell were you doing?” I ask him. “Why didn’t you look where you were stepping?”

  But Sam had always said that coming home to me at the end of every shift was his top priority. What went wrong?

  In the late afternoon, I find myself singing to him, through sobs, the old song, “You Are My Sunshine,” taught to me in the summer by the young daughter of my best friend, Jodie.

  Around 6:00 p.m., Stan and his expectant wife, Megan, arrive from Vancouver. We stand, arms around each other, staring down at Sam and I recall a game the four of us had played on the Sea to Sky highway en route to Whistler, B.C. years ago. We had to come up with one word that described each person. I don’t remember anyone else’s answers except Stan’s word to describe Sam: solid.

  I look at him now. A white sheet drapes his frame like a bad toga costume. Wires and tubes sprout out from his neck and chest. A catheter pisses for him while a respirator does his breathing. What will solid mean when there is, physically, no more Sam?

  At 7:00 p.m., eleven hours after I first saw him in the ER, I watch a nurse lift up his eyelids one at a time to shine a light in. One pupil is a tiny speck; the other fully dilated. I fold into the nearest chair.

  Around 9:00 p.m., my eldest brother, Ed, arrives from Northern Ontario. Since he’s missed the family meeting, he isn’t as up to par on Sam’s medical condition as the rest of us. He asks a nurse—not one of Sam’s regular ones—if they’re absolutely sure there’s no hope left.

  She glances at her clipboard then back at Ed. “Well, I personally haven’t read his entire chart, but it says right here that his gray and white matter have mixed—so no, there’s no hope.”

  When she sees the expression on my face, she back-peddles. “I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know, am I?”

  “Oh no, no,” I reply, waving my hand.

  I understand Sam’s head hit the concrete hard enough to kill him but until now, it hadn’t registered that his brain is a goddamn tossed salad.

  Then the organ transplant coordinator comes in. ‘Oh fuck,’ I think, now what organ do you want? But she hands me a teddy bear. I read his nametag: Hope.

  “I just thought you might need someone to hug,” she says.

  I throw my arms around her.

  Just after ten, the doctor tells me an operating room hasn’t yet come available and it might still be a couple of hours. Good: more time with Sam.

  “And because of the pneumonia,” he adds, “we’re concerned about the fluid building up in one of Sam’s lungs. We’d like to do a procedure to try and drain that.”

  “Can I stay in here?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea. We’re going to have to make an incision in his side, so it’s probably best if you wait in the hall.”

  The poor guy is getting sliced and diced, poked and prodded. From a medical perspective, he’s already a collection of body parts versus a hum
an whole.

  When I walk out into the hallway, my youngest brother, Dale, is waiting for me. We walk toward the window together.

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” I say, looking out over the city Sam had been so goddamn determined to serve. “All that schooling and volunteering and working at jobs he hated and then all those rejections by the different police services…”

  I shake my head at the irony. He’d devoted eight years of his life—our life—trying to get on with this stupid police service before they actually hired him. Now, after only four years, he’s somehow managed to die in the line of duty. This is Canada; very few officers pass away on the job and as far as I can tell, it sounds like a freak accident.

  “At least he went doing what he loved,” Dale says.

  I turn to him.

  “Sam never gave up,” he continues. “He was the most determined person I’ve ever met.”

  I jerk my head toward Sam’s ICU room. “Yeah and look what that got him.”

  Dale is quiet a moment. “The chief told me today that Sam was one of her stars.”

  “Was,” I reply, “is the operative word here.”

  “No,” says Dale, shaking his head. “I’d say star is.”

  WHEN I’M allowed back in the room, it’s nearly eleven so I figure I better come up with some sort of strategy: an Ops plan for widowhood. I know I can physically survive without Sam for seven months because we’ve been apart that length of time before. In 1992—after we’d been dating three years and I’d just graduated from university—I’d gone backpacking on my own and made it as far as Hong Kong before I’d phoned Sam, sobbing about having made a mistake in leaving him behind.

  “Bullshit,” he’d said. “You’ve always wanted to do this, so do it—and don’t come home until you’re ready. If we’re meant to be, then this time apart will let us know.”

  “Don’t you miss me?”

  “It’s been two days. Besides, it was nice watching Monday Night Football with the boys again.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m kidding!” he’d said. “Just relax and enjoy your trip. You’re lucky to have this opportunity so quit whining and have some fun.”