PART ONE
On January 20 this year, my husband died.
Just like that.
We had lunch. Less than an hour later, he was dead.
When we’d finished eating and spent an appropriate amount of our childfree time showing each other humours memes, he said he felt weird, when he stood up he did not look ok.
When he collapsed at the door of the Hungry Jacks we had eaten lunch in, I didn’t worry.
Or, I didn’t worry any more than usual. He’s collapsed before. He had an auto immune disease he refused to accept meant he couldn’t stand for long periods and so as if to prove himself right he would still try and do stuff that tired his legs.
And as is to prove to him that he ultimately had no control over his body, they would give way. He was too big for me to catch so I just put myself under him in a fashion to break the fall and make sure he didn’t hit his head.
He apologised for falling down.
But when he fainted the second time, it was different. I knew it was different. I didn’t think for one second it would end be way it did. But I wasn’t stupid enough to think it was going to be ok right away.
When someone asked if I needed an ambulance I said yes and found my voice faltering and panic starting. But I couldn’t let it. Deal with the situation. Talk to him, shade him from the sun. And stop thinking about how much your third toe hurts because he dropped his entire 130kg front on it and now it’s throbbing.
When the ambulance came and the girls couldn’t lift that frame onto the bed and those autoimmune affected legs couldn’t push him up, the people who came to help needed to be thanked. The couple who offered to drive our car behind the ambulance so I had it needed to be thanked.
“Get in the ambulance, we are going and you are coming with us.”
Not for one second did I think that less than 1/2 an hour later he would be dead.
He was panicking about not being able to breathe. He was talking. When we got to the hospital he was panicking and trying to get off the bed to get air and begged the Dr not to put anything over his face. But he was talking.
They took him into a resusc bay and I saw him get off the stretcher bed and onto the bed. He stood up.
A Dr stood in front of me and closed the curtain: “You need to go and fill paperwork out. Go and fill paper work out.”
It seemed so flippant and stupid to be holding back tears and panic when they were asking me his name and date of birth and was he taking any medications. For goodness sake just answer the questions. We are in a hospital - the best place to be.
When the Dr asked what medications he was on, the timing couldn’t be better that the people who drove our car arrived - I’d just go grab the bag with them in it. It’s a long list. I hadn’t learned all the names. I’ll Be back in a sec.
When they took me into a room and the nurse told me he’d been intubated to get air into him I was glad. He’d been so panicked about not being able to breathe. But right, I told her, that means we are here overnight, I’d better try and find some accommodation. I opened a message on my phone to his parents and mine: In Ballarat. Pete’s collapsed. In hospital. Will update ...
Then the Dr walked in, I joked ‘have you convinced him he’s not dying yet?’
The Dr didn’t laugh.
‘No Liz, that’s what I’m here to talk to you about...’
I told him I was joking. He told me he wasn’t.
It’s just like the movies when they tell you.
My hands have never shaken before. They started shaking. I remember looking at them and thinking ‘wow, that’s really involuntary’. I started hyperventilating.
I listened to what they said and decided I needed to be logical about it all. Stop being dramatic and listen.
They needed to ask if they could stop resuscitation attempts.
I told them that I’d watched enough episodes of Ambulance and ER to know they weren’t in that room, telling me that and asking me this, if they honestly thought they could get him back. And if they could, if it would be him again.
‘No Liz. He’s gone’
That’s it.
There’s a weird silence in your head. People were talking.
‘You poor girl. You poor poor girl.’
They told me the nurses would get him ready and I could see him. I had to walk past all be bays of people in A&E - An older couple where the man had a heart monitor on. An old lady holding a sick bags. They were looking at me. So I tilted my chin up. And swallowed and walked. And tried to remember to breathe.
He was just laying on the bed. With a tube in his mouth. He was warm. He was dead.
The whiteboard read:
CPR
Adrenaline 16.04
Adrenaline 16.09
Adrenaline 16.13
16.26
The nurse apologised as she took off the monitor pads and pulled up the sheet to his chest that she was interrupting me.
When I sobbed into his chest asking “how am I going to tell the kids?” She let out a sob, apologised and left. I put my head on his chest.
Get the kids home.
You have to get the kids home.
The nurses kept saying they’d make the calls. There’s terrible mobile service. Use our phone. Let us ring them for you.
I had to make those calls. It couldn’t come from a stranger with notice.
Get the kids home.
There’s no easy way to ring. I had steeled myself. Stay strong. Just get them on the phone and talk. As soon as Dad answered I knew I couldn’t. I told him to get away from the kids. Was he near the kids? Move away from the kids, Dad. But he didn’t know who is was. The hospital phone told him ‘No caller ID’.
“Dad can you hear me?”
“Yes but I don’t know who it is”
“It’s EB”
“Right...”
“Dad, we are in Ballarat. Pete’s collapsed...” I started to cry. Stop it - you were going to be so strong.
“Oh shit, what’s happened?”
“Dad, he’s died”
Hearing your own father panic 900kms away and yell for you mother and brother and repeat what you’ve said to them and to hear their reactions is like hearing a car crash. That first reaction can’t be hidden.
Ring his parents.
You have to ring his parents. No, the nurses can’t. That’s not fair to them. That can’t be the first time they know something is wrong. You didn’t ever get to sending the message. You can do it.
His dad was too cheerful.
Ease him into it.... No, you’re not good.
In fact, really not good. Something bad has happened. Something terrible.
They panic.
Politeness means you try and placate their hysterics. It’s only right. You’ve just delivered them the worst possible news.
They are beside themselves. They ask who is with you?
“You’re so far away. And you’re on your own.”
You look at your dead husband lying beside you. With a tube sticking out of his mouth. And his
chest not rising.
Yes you are. You are very much alone.
But then strange things happen. You notice his shirt - his brand new Rodd & Gunn shirt he’s only worn one other time since getting it for Christmas is cut off him and lying underneath him. You survey his body. He has no clothes on under the blanket. You presume they have cut them off, too.
He has no shoes on.
Please don’t have cut his top boots off... please don’t have cut his boots off.
But then you spot the blue bags in the corner, just like in the movies, and they have that distinctive shape to them.
They haven’t cut his boots off.
Your son can have his Dad’s boots.
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