A Burden

A Burden

By Jon E. Stern

            The phone rang a little after 10:30 on Thursday night.  According to the caller ID, it was my sister, Stephannie, who never called past nine o’clock in the evening.  I got out of bed, grabbed the phone off the night stand and headed towards the garage. “Hey, hold on a sec,” I said as I entered the garage to light a cigarette “What’s up?”

            “The hospital just called, they said we need to get there as soon as possible,” my sister responded.

            “What’s going on?”

            “Don’t really know…said Mommy’s getting worse.”

            “Getting worse, like, you know, worse?”

            “I don’t know. They really didn’t say,” my sister said. 

            “Have ya called Dad or Cindy?”

            “No, not yet.”

            Why would she talk to our father and stepmother first?—light another cigarette.  “Who’s going to watch Abby and Nathaniel?”

            “Will.”

            “He’s not going?”

            “No, he said he’d stay and watch the kids.”

            “So, do you think we should go tonight?”

            “No, it’s too late,” my sister said.

            “But what if something happens to her, tonight?”

            “The nurse said tomorrow would be fine.”

            “So it isn’t that bad, then?”

            “Jon, I talked to mommy earlier in the day and she seemed okay.  The nurse really didn’t give me much information, just said that Mommy is getting worse and we should drive up there tomorrow.’ 

            “Why don’t we leave around sixish.”

            “Sound’s good.”

            “I’ll call Dad and Cindy and let them know what’s going on,” I said.  “You okay?”

“I guess.”

            “I love you,” I said.

            “Me too,” my sister said.  Me too was something our grandfather would say to us when we told him we loved him.  “I love you grandpa, Resnick!”  “Me too,” he would reply.

            I hung up the phone and started to light another cigarette when my wife walked into the garage.

            “Is your mom okay?”  My wife, Jenifer, asked understanding my sister would never call this late unless something was wrong.

            “Don’t know.  The hospital called and said Mom isn’t doing well.”

            “Did Steph say anything else?”
            “No, just that she had talked to Mommy earlier in the day and she seemed fine.”

            “Well, I’m sure it’s nothing serious or they’d want you to come right away.”

            “That’s what I’m hoping.”

            “Is she bringing the kids?” Jenifer asked.

            “No, Will’s watching them.  I’m gonna call Dad and Cindy to see if they can watch Jacob and the twins.”

            “What time do you want to leave in the morning?”

            “I told Steph around six.”

            It takes a little more than four hours to travel from Bullhead City to Surprise, Arizona, where Banner Boswell Medical Center is located.  The drive was long, but the scenery, besieged with cacti and multi-colored mesas and mountains, helped us forget why we were driving on a desolate, two-lane highway to a fringe city of Phoenix.  Nevertheless, after making the journey six or seven times in a two-month span, I discovered even the scenery had lost its allurement, leaving me isolated in my thoughts; alone in the front seat as my sister and wife talked in the back.

 There seemed to be a universal observance; no one mentioned my mother or why we were making the trek.  Conversation, if at all, was minimal and without substance.  My sister and wife made small talk in the backseat, while thumbing through one of the many tabloid magazines they assembled for the trip.  I just listened to The Moshav Band, a progressive rock band out of Israel that plays traditional and modern music.  Their music soothed me.  It connected me to my faith and Israel; it made me feel like I was protected—as if I was somewhere else; somewhere peaceful and safe.   

The drive gave me time to think, and the music forced me connect to emotions I buried over the last two months.   With each new song, another memory played in my mind along with the emotional response; it was like a flash flood causing me to wipe my eyes dry ever three to four minutes.  I thought about the journey, not this journey, but the journey that brought my wife, sister and me to drive to Sunrise on a Friday morning.

  It was suppose to be a simple surgery to correct a hernia.  This, of course, turned into a second corrective surgery to fix the doctor’s mistakes from the first surgery.  Three days after the second surgery something happened.  My sister and I think she might have had a heart attack, but the truth is there has never been a medical explanation as to why my mother slipped into a coma. No one at Lake Havasu Regional Medical Center knew what had happened or why she was in this state. The only thing they agreed on was it was beyond their medical knowledge and she needed to be transferred.  Banner Boswell Medical Center is where they sent her and where she would stay silent to the world.

“Mommy, you need to wake-up,” I said holding her hand as ABBA’s Dancing Queen played in the background.  “Mommy, they want to stop life support.”

“Jon, keep trying,” my wife said looking at the nurse and doctor as they started making their way to my mother’s room.

“Goddamnit, Mom, you need to wake up now.  If you don’t wake-up, they are going to stop life support… I know you can hear me.  Wake up!  You hear me; wake the fuck up!” After a month in a coma, I could feel her hand slightly grasp mine—I could feel her fighting to wake-up.

We pulled into the parking lot a little after eleven in the morning.  It had been almost a month to the day my mother awoke from her slumber. 

“You okay?” my wife said.

“I don’t know.  I hate this place.”

“Why?” my sister said in her sometimes overbearing positive way.

“I hate the drive—four hours here and four hours home,” I said. “How many times have we driven here in the last two months?  Eight, nine, ten times, which is like three or four days of our life devoted to driving to and from the hospital.  I’m just so fucking sick of hospitals.”

“Jon, this is also the place of second chances,” my wife said sounding like my sister.

“That’s true,” my sister chimed in.

When we get to the room there was a sign on the door indicating that we needed to put on protective clothing—my mother had MRSA.  So we dressed up in the yellow throwaway gowns, put on our gloves and masks—the masks came off sooner rather than later. 

When I walked into the room the first thing I noticed was my mother hooked up to a dialysis machine.  She was also jaundice, and when I took her hand in mine, I notice that her arms were leaking what seemed to be an almost yellowish fluid. 

“So, Marian, do you want us to put ABBA on for you,” my wife said with a smile. My mother smiled back because we had told her that while she was in a coma we played ABBA’s Greatest Hits, over and over again.   This made me wonder if it was dark and noiseless or could she hear the music we played?  Did she dance to the songs coming from the CD player we bought, or was she screaming for the music to stop—a scream no one could hear.  I did not know the answers because I thought I had time to ask the questions.

“I don’t think so,” my mother replied with her thick Bronx accent.

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” my wife replied.  “As soon as you get out of here, Steph and I will take you to see Mamma Mia! in Las Vegas,” the Broadway hit my mother was dying to see. 

“Deal,” my mom said.

The talk was casual.  She asked about the kids, and we asked about her.  I joked around like I always did when I am in an uncomfortable situation.  The more we talked, the more I did not understand why we were here.  My mother looked as healthy as anyone can look considering her situation.  She was in good spirits, and seemed, in general, happy. 

In-between my bad jokes, I would walk outside and ask general questions of the nurse hoping that the nurse would volunteer some information as to why we were here.  She never pushed the conversation and neither did I.  

“Hon, we are going to go downstairs and get something to eat, do you want to come?” my wife asked.

“No, I think I am going to stay. Can you bring me something to drink?”

“What do you want,” my sister asked.

“I don’t care.” 

“So, how are you really doing?”  I asked my mom once we were alone.

“I wanna go home,” she said.

“I know,” I said as I sat down next to her.  I reach for her hand, and held it in mine, but could not feel her warmth through the gloves I had to wear. “How are you?”

“I don’t know.  I’m alive and that is a good thing.”

“Well, you look kinda yellow, but you seem to be in good spirits.  Has Stephannie said anything to you?”

“We talked on the phone yesterday and she said there was some concern about my kidney and liver.”

“Kidney?”

“Yes, I’ve told you I only have one kidney.” 

And she was right.  I knew that, but knew I wondered if Stephannie had told the doctor prior to surgery.  She must have, I thought to myself.  “I know you only have one kidney.”

“She also asked me about the DNR order.”

“What about it?”

“If something were to happen to me.”

“Well, don’t you think we are past that now?”

“I know that, but if something happened now.”

“So what did you tell her?”

“That I understand everything.  That I was okay with it; that I was fine with everything, but to be honest, I am not ready to die, Jon.”

“Die?  Why are you talking about dying?”

“How are things with you and Jen? How are the twins and Jacob?”

“Things are good.  The boys are fine.  Why are you talking about dying?”

“I’m not ready, Jon; I’m just not ready…Jon, I don’t want to die,” she said sullenly looking at me.

“Okay, why all this talk of death.  Are you planning on going somewhere?”

“Jon, I am just telling you that I’m not ready to die.”

I had no idea why my mother was talking about death; I had no idea why we had traveled over four hours on a Friday.  Everything seemed to be in order.  The nurse had not given me any indication otherwise; my mother was talking and was in good spirits.  Maybe my sister misunderstood the nurse.

“Jon, the doctor wants to speak to us,” my sister said walking back into the room. 

“Okay, have him come in.”

“No, he wants to speak to us outside.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, just come outside,” my sister demanded.  “Mom, we’ll be right back.”

I left the room and took off the yellow throwaway gown and gloves.  “Why do we have to talk outside for?” I asked.

“Because he wants to see us without mom.”

“Whatever,” I looked around for the doctor. “I don’t even know why we had to come today,” I said under my breath, “Mom is fine.”

My sister and wife walked towards whom I assumed was the doctor by his white coat and stethoscope hanging around his neck.  “I bet it’s a 14K gold Littmann,” I said.

“What?” my wife said.

“His stethoscope, I bet it is a Littmann.”

“Oh, okay,” my wife said shooting me the shut the hell up look.

As we approach the doctor, I could see the decorative L on the chest piece—it was a Littmann.  “Well, it isn’t gold,” I said.  This time I got the shut the fuck up look.

 “Ah, you must be her son,” the doctor said as he put his hand out.

“Yes,” I said taking his hand and turning it slightly so my hand was on top.  “Jon Stern. Nice to meet you.”

“Dr. Wazzi…has your sister informed you of the seriousness of your mothers condition?”

“No, just that you wanted to talk to us,’ I said.  “She looks good,” it was more of a question than a statement.

“Well, let me get to the point.  Sseveral of your mother’s vital organs have failed or are failing.   We had hoped that her condition would have improved over the last few weeks, but we are not seeing anything significant.”

“What do you mean her organs have failed?  She seems to be doing a lot better than last week, I mean, except for the jaundice.”

“That’s just it.  Her kidney is not functioning at all, neither is her liver.  Her heart is stabilized due to medication.  In other words, Mr. Stern, your mother is dying.”

 “Dying?” I said turning to my sister.  “Does Mommy know about this?”

“We talked about it last night.

“So you knew why we were coming here?”  My wife grabbed my hand and gave it squeeze.  It told me that my wife knew more than I did and I felt setup.   “Okay, so what do we do?”

“There isn’t anything we can do,” Dr. Wazzi said.

“What about kidney transplant, my sister or I could be a match, and then we could find a liver.”

“We cannot do a kidney transplant because her liver is not functioning, and the hopes of getting her on a list, with her aliments and age, are very complicated.”

“When you say complicated, you mean impossible, don’t you.”

“Mr. Stern, we could send her to another facility, like a nursing home and wait, but without a new liver, she will become septic in a week or two—and that is a very unpleasant way to die.”

“So what is it that you are asking?”

“Jon, Mom had a DNR, and when she slipped into a coma, Havasu did not follow the DNR,” my sister said.

“So you want to put Mom down?”

“Listen to what the doctor is saying,” my wife said.  “No one wants to let go of your mother, but she would want to die with dignity and on her own terms.”

“And what does Mom have to say about all this?”

“I talked to her last night about it, in fact we have talked several times about it and she is ready,” my sister said. 

“This is bullshit,” I said.

“Why don’t I give you folks a little time to talk,” Dr. Wazzi said as he walked away.

“You’re telling me Mommy is okay with dying—today.”

“She has come to terms with it,” my sister said.

“How long have you known about this?” I asked my sister.

“I put it all together last night, after the hospital called,” my sister said.

“And you,” I said looking at my wife.

“Steph told me when we left the room earlier,” my wife said.

“So, you both decided not to say anything to me?”

“Hon, if Steph told you last night that we were coming here to fulfill the DNR, would you have come?” my wife said. 

“I don’t know,” I said and she was right.  A year before my dog, Cody, was ill and I had to put her down.  I could not bear to witness it so I said my good-byes and dropped her off at the veterinarians.

“What about a home near us?” I said.

“We don’t have a facility close that can take care of her.  She would be in Phoenix with no one around. 

“So what are we suppose to do?” I said.  “It isn’t right for her children to have to make such a decision.  Fuck, she is only 65-years old.  What about the kids?”

“Abby has said good-bye to her in her own way,” my sister said.

“What about the twins?”

“Jon, they are too young to know what is going on,” my wife said.  “I know this is hard, but it is the right thing to do.  It is what your mother wants.”

But she just told me that she didn’t want to die! I wanted to yell, but I said nothing.  If I said something, maybe the guilt would have made my wife and sister change their minds, but then again, was living in this manner, waiting to die what was right for my mother.  Was this the right thing to do for my family?  Driving here every weekend and staying overnight was getting expensive, not to mention taxing.  For the last two months, our weekends have been spent sitting around hospitals.  It had become a burden.

“If this is what is best.  If you think it is the right thing to do then I will tell the doctor,” I said.

“It’s what right,” my wife said kissing me on the cheek.

“We will go see mom,” my sister said.

I walked to the nurse’s station and asked for Dr. Wazzi, who came immediately.

“Go ahead,” I said.  “How will it be done?”

“We’ll stop on medication and life support.  Once her medication is stopped, she will go into a sleeping state, and then we will start giving her morphine to slow down her respiratory system. It is not painful at all, I assure you.” 

We were openly discussing the murder of my mother.  It was surreal, but with it a sense of ultimate power.  I had just decided to end someone’s life, and within the sadness there was a high and sense of relief—relief that I did not have to see her suffer anymore.   

I stayed away from the room because I could not stop replaying her words, “I don’t want to die.” My last act as a loving son was to give the doctor permission to murder her. 

When I finally went into the room, my mother was sleeping, or unconscious.  I told my sister and wife to go get something to eat and I would stay with her.  I did not know if I was protecting them, or punishing myself for not fighting harder to change the day’s outcome.  Either way, they left, and I sat down next to my mother and held her hand, this time without gloves, as the nurse came in with the first of four doses of morphine.  I sat there as her hand grew colder and the beep of the heart monitor became less consistent.  “Let me turn that off for you,” the nurse said.  Now, all I could do is watch the lines go from mountains, to valleys, to the plains. 

Four hours ago, my mother, the person who gave life to me, nurtured me, protected me and helped me when I was alone, and scared, had told me she did not want to die.  I did nothing to protect her, or fight for her survival.  Instead, I took the easy way out and got rid of her.

            As she was slipping, I could not help but wonder if she was screaming for help, or if she looked down upon me, sitting there alone without tears, as she ascended, looking down upon me with shame. Or was she begging, “Jon, my son, my first born, I don’t want to die.” I will not be a burden.  I will sit in my room quietly.  Just do not let me die.  Don’t kill me.”  Or was it hate she felt for me as she took her last breath?   “Why son, why did you kill me?  Why did you let me die?”

            We left the hospital for the four hour drive home, only once for some food and a stiff drink.  We ordered and then I excused myself.  “I need to get my phone from the truck,” I said.  As I walked to the truck I had thoughts of just getting into it and driving nowhere, anywhere.  But I did not.  As I walked back to the restaurant, with phone in hand, I felt the tears well up, but I could not cry—would not let myself cry.  Murderers do not have that right.

 The day we arrived home from Sunrise Hospital, my nine-year-old boxer, Maple, greeted me at the door; rubbing her head against my leg, I felt something warm and wet.  Thinking it was just drool, I wiped my leg with my hand, but it felt thicker, stickier than drool.  I looked at my hands and then my leg—both covered with blood.  My boxer, my Maple, was bleeding from her mouth.  I knew what was wrong—she had beat cancer two-years prior. The first thing Monday morning I took Maple to the Vet and he confirmed what I already knew.  She had cancer in her lymphatic system and her jaw.  I could have put her down that day, but didn’t because I wanted more time with her.  The veterinarian gave me pain medication, and I took her home.  For the next week, I spoiled her in every way possible.  I wanted her to know how much, I loved her.  How different my life would be without her.  She was there for the good times, and the bad times.  She helped me through a divorce and back surgery.  She was there when Jenifer and I brought the twins home from the hospital, and she held a vigil over them when they slept. 
            Eight days after her final diagnosis, I took Maple back to the vet’s office.  The whole office was very sympathetic –they had known her since she was a pup. Maple lay down on a blanket, which was placed on the cold tile floor.  I sat down next to her and she laid her head on my lap--did she know?  As I held and caressed her, I told her how much she meant to me.  “I will never forget you,” I said.  “You are going to be with G-d.”

“Are you ready,” the veterinarian said.

“Yes,” I said as a shook my head no

   Slowly, her eyes closed—the veterinarian left me alone with her—and her breathing became shallow, then still.  She was gone.  I wept—something I could not do for my mother.