I brought Chris home on 4/20/23 after having his chest tube removed the day prior. There was no preparation, just a “Your numbers are good, so we’re going to spring you tomorrow” from the pulmonologist. When Chris told me on the 19th, I thought he simply misheard, because it was insane. They weren’t sending him home with oxygen. The pulmonologist said he didn’t need it. My head was full of cement.
I arrived early, despite knowing it wouldn’t be until early afternoon that he would be cleared to leave. With the hours-long discharge process underway, I liberated every bandage, roll of medical tape and other supplies that wasn’t nailed down in Chris’ room.
Eventually, with a binder of paperwork and a two page medication list to fill, I folded him into the front seat of the car at the entrance of the hospital.
“You ready to blow this popsicle stand?” I asked as I buckled his seatbelt.
“Fuck yeah,” he replied, sounding almost like himself. I smiled.
Heading home and traveling on perpetually-under-construction Route 42, he sleepily watched cars duck between lanes and cattle shoots. I checked the rear view mirror to find my opportunity to cross 3 lanes to my right to our required exit.
“You’re really good at this,” he marveled. I laughed.
We had started the last part of the commute after stopping at the WaWa 40 minutes from home for milkshakes and a break. I turned right onto 347 when he spoke.
“I know you’re scared about me coming home,” he said. “And I am too. But we’ll figure it out.”
I stared intently at the road, even though I knew the twists and turns by heart. Scared? I was fucking terrified. Terrified that something, anything, everything would go wrong. Terrified that I wouldn’t do or say the right thing. Terrified that he was dying.
“We’ll figure it out,” I agreed.
Over the next 11 days, I watched Chris pack up his memories. He confused easily and would catch it, embarrassed. He started picking at the blankets, asking strange questions. We spent a few hours on the couch in the evenings, watching one of our favorite shows. We had good moments and bursts of time when we were connected.
One afternoon, with his head on the pillow in my lap, I gently rubbed his head, eventually tracing the lines on his face: the sharp cheekbones I always loved, his chin, the bridge of his nose, around his eyes. He sighed, content.
I was profoundly aware of time. Maybe a week? Two?
On Saturday, April 29th, his pulse oximeter read in the 70s. Any reading falling below the high-mid 80s needed immediate attention.
“We need to go to the hospital,” I said.
“No, not yet,” he replied.
I took a long pause. He was taking control of his death as much as he could. The pain was getting worse and would be excruciating in a day or two despite the painkillers. But this was Chris’ show, so I respected his wishes of being at home.
“Ok,” I said.
On Sunday, April 30th, his pulse oximeter read in the 50s.
“We need to go to the hospital,” I said.
“No, not yet,” he replied.
On Monday, May 1st, he read at 35. As always, I read my own O2, which registered correctly. His skin tone was changing, the inside of his mouth looked like he’d been swishing blood rather than toothpaste.
“Sweetheart, we really need to get to the hospital now.”
“Ok.”
My head was full of cement.
When he read at 35 in the ER, Chris was swept immediately to a private room down the hall. Unable to obtain his vitals the traditional way, the nurse strapped a monitor around his head. His veins collapsed. He was angry, frustrated and at times, mean. Sometimes incoherent. His fear and exhaustion washed over me repeatedly, rolling together with mine, like when the bay meets the ocean during a barrier island storm.
The CT scan showed pneumonia, as well as large abscess in his chest. The strong prophylactic antibiotic I administered once a day proved useless. The arsenal was empty.
“I don’t want to be intubated again,” he whispered.
I pulled a doctor from the hall into the room.
“Say it again, hon.”
He complied.
I turned to the doctor and said frantically, “Do you hear him? Do you understand?”
The doctor confirmed.
“We’re transferring him to Pomona,” the tech said. “This ER is third world.”
Arranging transport takes hours, so Chris’ mom arrived and I went home to eat, feed the cats, catch my breath. I performed my own monologues on fear. Chris had his foot on the gas.
I returned and sat with him into the evening hours. He slept, or at least, rested. We had short conversations about nothing, but he didn’t have the breath for more than a few minutes of talking.
I stared at Chris while he slept. This was not the way I wanted to remember him, but I couldn’t not. My brain fired memories and emotions every few seconds; an assault as I sat quietly, my head full of cement.
The stretcher finally came down the hall, wheels clanking. In seconds, two jovial men entered to the room.
“Am I going back to Cooper?” Chris asked.
“No baby, Pomona. It’s closer.”
“Ok Mr. Sobel,” one driver said. “Are you ready to go?”
“I’ll see you first thing in the morning, sweetheart,” I assured Chris and kissed one of his hands.
The drivers moved him to the stretcher as if he was a delicate object, gentle and mindful. I realized later it was such an act of kindness, that these two men knew how to respect their patients. One of the men expertly transferred Chris’ monitors and oxygen to their mobile unit and I wondered how many times a day he has to perform that task.
When they left, I walked to the parking lot and stood behind my car, breathing. This is the last ER trip, I said to the night air.
I headed home.
It is stunning how exquisitely descriptive your recall is.
You did the right thing. O2 levels in the 70s range can be excruciating but your husband held on and so did you. Thank you for sharing. I love your writing. I am a retired RN worse husband is slowly going thru the same but with brain cancer. Hugs and good night