October 12, 2014
Day 165
Andy's Uncle Fai has now been in the ICU for two full months, and last night was by far the scariest of all his days there. Though Fai was alive when we left him, another patient died earlier yesterday, and her family members were left in tears. She wasn't the first to die in that area--probably the fifth or sixth in the past two months, in fact--and she won't be the last. Though ICU stands for Intensive Care Unit, I can't help but also think of it as an "I See You" recognition of Death itself.
And now this morning, it appears Fai's turn may be next.
In the time we've been going there to visit Fai, we've heard more than half a dozen chimes across the PA system, announcing a new baby was just born into the world somewhere else in the building. And in the time we've been going to the ICU, half a dozen patients have succumbed to their body's injuries or illnesses. No matter how much good work is done there by dozens of amazing doctors and nurses day in and day out, there comes a time in every person's life...when life itself just needs to slip away.
Death may not come walking down the hall as a shrouded figure carrying a huge scythe, passing each ICU bed until he reaches the one he's going to attack, but there's absolutely a profound darkness about it all. I'm a man of considerable faith, and yet I see no beautiful transitions in the ICU, no happy, peaceful passings, or even sad-but-easy endings. This isn't end-of-life hospice care. It's a do-all-you-can kind of fist fight against Death for each and every patient. These are people suffering with really serious issues, and the "C" of ICU, the Care, is absolutely "I"ntensive.
Last night, amid all the scary moments and beyond-serious situations around Fai's bed (I counted a dozen or more bags of medicine or blood going into him, and doctors and nurses rushing past this way and that), I was suddenly reminded again of the mystery of life. With machines beeping and blipping all over, frowning nurses scrambling to check Fai's vitals, and doctors trying to explain to his family what they were trying to do to make him stable again, I heard a familiar chime on the hospital's PA system. Another baby was born.
I don't know a lot of things, but I know for a fact that the soul survives death. My father's soul proved that to me in 1999. And yet his last hour, I am told, was horrible to witness. Death, in all its many possible methods, can still be very, very hard to witness. The soul is one thing, but the dying body can show enormous struggle and pain. Watching a loved one suffer can rip you to shreds inside, and make you feel so bad for what the person is going through. And then, in one single moment, their body just stops. The many beeps turn into just one very long, unending beep. Then finally, someone presses a button to silence the machine, before glancing behind him at the clock on the wall. Minute and second are noted with the click of a ballpoint.
My faith tells me life is much more than the organs and blood squeezed into the body parts I carry, and my dad taught me that soul survives even the awfulness of death, but my eyes also tell me that in some of our darkest times, all we see is Death. All we see is the darkness and the pain, the broken hearts and the loss. Among all the blood-stained gloves and syringe caps littering the floor, there is no soul to watch floating away, or angel of light to tell us it'll all be better. Though some people have had such rare moments of supreme hope and proven faith, most of the time, there is only darkness, and a most profound grief.
Somewhere as you read these words right now, a chime may or may not be playing to welcome a new life to planet Earth. And somewhere else as you read these words, a long, uninterrupted beep may be playing for someone else. So see the light where you can, but see the darkness too. See the death, and the hardness, and the difficulty, and the tears. See them all as well as you can, and absorb them when they cross your path.
Fai may leave us today. He had a bad night that still hasn't ended. Death may indeed have found him at last. His family is most likely going to ask for morphine now above all other medicines.
The dark night of yesterday is showing us all no sunlight here today, but they will do all they can to make Fai's transition easy. The darkness isn't easy to see by any means, but it's important to acknowledge. Keep the light on inside you, but acknowledge the darkness when you see it too. Respect its power, and respect its might. Don't love it or wish it well, but do respect its presence and might when it walks down the long hall before you.
We understand life a little better when we fully understand and acknowledge death.
And now this morning, it appears Fai's turn may be next.
In the time we've been going there to visit Fai, we've heard more than half a dozen chimes across the PA system, announcing a new baby was just born into the world somewhere else in the building. And in the time we've been going to the ICU, half a dozen patients have succumbed to their body's injuries or illnesses. No matter how much good work is done there by dozens of amazing doctors and nurses day in and day out, there comes a time in every person's life...when life itself just needs to slip away.
Death may not come walking down the hall as a shrouded figure carrying a huge scythe, passing each ICU bed until he reaches the one he's going to attack, but there's absolutely a profound darkness about it all. I'm a man of considerable faith, and yet I see no beautiful transitions in the ICU, no happy, peaceful passings, or even sad-but-easy endings. This isn't end-of-life hospice care. It's a do-all-you-can kind of fist fight against Death for each and every patient. These are people suffering with really serious issues, and the "C" of ICU, the Care, is absolutely "I"ntensive.
Last night, amid all the scary moments and beyond-serious situations around Fai's bed (I counted a dozen or more bags of medicine or blood going into him, and doctors and nurses rushing past this way and that), I was suddenly reminded again of the mystery of life. With machines beeping and blipping all over, frowning nurses scrambling to check Fai's vitals, and doctors trying to explain to his family what they were trying to do to make him stable again, I heard a familiar chime on the hospital's PA system. Another baby was born.
I don't know a lot of things, but I know for a fact that the soul survives death. My father's soul proved that to me in 1999. And yet his last hour, I am told, was horrible to witness. Death, in all its many possible methods, can still be very, very hard to witness. The soul is one thing, but the dying body can show enormous struggle and pain. Watching a loved one suffer can rip you to shreds inside, and make you feel so bad for what the person is going through. And then, in one single moment, their body just stops. The many beeps turn into just one very long, unending beep. Then finally, someone presses a button to silence the machine, before glancing behind him at the clock on the wall. Minute and second are noted with the click of a ballpoint.
My faith tells me life is much more than the organs and blood squeezed into the body parts I carry, and my dad taught me that soul survives even the awfulness of death, but my eyes also tell me that in some of our darkest times, all we see is Death. All we see is the darkness and the pain, the broken hearts and the loss. Among all the blood-stained gloves and syringe caps littering the floor, there is no soul to watch floating away, or angel of light to tell us it'll all be better. Though some people have had such rare moments of supreme hope and proven faith, most of the time, there is only darkness, and a most profound grief.
Somewhere as you read these words right now, a chime may or may not be playing to welcome a new life to planet Earth. And somewhere else as you read these words, a long, uninterrupted beep may be playing for someone else. So see the light where you can, but see the darkness too. See the death, and the hardness, and the difficulty, and the tears. See them all as well as you can, and absorb them when they cross your path.
Fai may leave us today. He had a bad night that still hasn't ended. Death may indeed have found him at last. His family is most likely going to ask for morphine now above all other medicines.
The dark night of yesterday is showing us all no sunlight here today, but they will do all they can to make Fai's transition easy. The darkness isn't easy to see by any means, but it's important to acknowledge. Keep the light on inside you, but acknowledge the darkness when you see it too. Respect its power, and respect its might. Don't love it or wish it well, but do respect its presence and might when it walks down the long hall before you.
We understand life a little better when we fully understand and acknowledge death.
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