Robbie's death was not a simple death. He struggled for months with a debilitating condition. In the end he could not move, he could not breathe on his own, he didn't open his eyes and he wasn't really conscious, he required heavy dosages of pain medication, and after months in a hospital, antibiotics could no longer help him fight off one infection after another without serious ramifications. The last one in the arsenal was shutting down his kidneys.
We sat in a conference room twice with his team of doctors, nurses, a social worker. At the second meeting it was decided. Technology was prolonging an untenable life. We would take him off his respirator. The decision was heart wrenching and unanimous. I consoled myself with the thought that if he was meant to live, he'd begin breathing on his own.
Sitting in the conference room having those discussions was surreal. I couldn't help but remember the last time I sat in a conference room discussing a matter as weighty as the end of Robbie's life:
The beginning of Jack's.
When Jack's birth mom was seven months pregnant, we were summoned to the agency to meet her and her parents. Both of our caseworkers were there to facilitate the meeting. It was simultaneously the most natural and the most unnatural experience I've ever had. Good, but totally surreal.
While I watched Jack's birth mom talk, I kept seeing members of my family in her face and her mannerisms. My cousin in the set of her jaw. My grandfather around the eyes.
On the way home I said to Roger, "Between her childhood allergies and the allergies in my family, this kid doesn't stand a chance." Of course that was absurd, but it made me realize that Jack had already become a part of us on a deep, subconscious level.
My only immediate experience with bringing life into the world and letting life go involved meetings in conference rooms. Surreal, yes, but the only actual real for me.
3 comments:
Fascinating. I remember you talking about the experience with Robbie. It did sound gut-wrenching, and I can't even pretend to imagine having to make a decision like that.
But life can be defined in various ways, and I would argue that you have had many experiences with life that have happened in classrooms and bookstores too.
Wow, Margy. I can't believe it was almost a year ago your brother died. I'm so sorry you had to go through such a difficult experience...
I was there when they decided to let my grandpa go too, also almost a year ago. I still miss him everyday.
I wish these kinds of meetings to discuss such weighty matters could happen somewhere more natural than a hospital room. At least there should be a potted plant or a bookshelf or something. Maybe it would take the surreal edge off.
I can remember a similar experience to yours with Robbie. It was when Dad went into the hospital for the last time. I drove him to emergency and he got out of the car on his own. Then he said to me, "I'm not coming home you know." He went downhill fast and onto life support. Then we called your Mom to come and we waited. When she arrived, she wanted time before we decided to take Dad off the machines. We all stood around waiting, hugging and crying but he kept breathing. Later that night he passed peacefully and, in a way, it was a blessing.
By contrast, what a blessing, too, of an out come to your "other" conference. Jack is such a wonderful boy. I often see our family in him even though the only connection is your loving parentage and the love of his adopted family.
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