Blue Heron Farm Alpacas
Nancy Clark
Blog
Do go gently. . .
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Sometimes these days, despite the barks, whinnys, clacks (guineas), coos (alpacas), and honks, the silence around here is deafening.
On May 17 Neil, my husband for 32 years, died at 78, four years after he was diagnosed with multiple myeloma. His death was unexpected though not surprising -- he had been in a pretty steep decline since his kidneys failed at the end of February. But the doctors, our sons and I all hoped he would rally, then stabilize, perhaps even push through to Ken's wedding on August 30. Here he is, many years ago, with the groom-to-be:
He was killed, suddenly, by a gall bladder infection that raced through his immune-compromised system like a wildfire, shutting down one organ after another.
Alex had been visiting from Los Angeles for almost three weeks when, on a Friday morning, I couldn't get Neil up to go to dialysis. We followed the ambulance to the hospital, where he was intubated, sedated and admitted to intensive care. Ken and his fiancee Rosanna arrived that evening, and the three of them stood vigil in the ICU while I went home to tend the animals.
The next morning, the ICU doctor told us that Neil was septic, that the infection was uncontrollable and that he had apparently had a heart attack since being admitted. Oh, and he probably had a blood clot in one or both lungs. Clearly, he would not recover. So why, I wondered, did that doctor -- and others and the nurses -- work so desperately to stabilize him? Why use every drug in the arsenal to get his blood pressure up to a level where they could start dialysis? Why tell us he was going to die and then move heaven and earth to keep him alive?
It was several days before I understood. It wasn't just "that's what doctors do." It was so we could say goodby while he was still alive (though not conscious -- not conscious since early Friday morning), and make the decision as a family to let him go. And it was a great kindness, especially for the boys. I think I had been mourning Neil for months, knowing he was surely dying, but the boys were not at the same place. They needed to say goodby, to hold his hands while the machines and the IVs were turned off, needed to be with him when his heart stopped -- not be told in some wating room that their father had gone on without them. The ICU staff gave us a blessing in that, and I will always be grateful.
When the boys were babies, in Manhattan, we bought two trees for our tiny terrace on East 73rd Street -- a crabapple for Kenny and a red Japanese maple for Alex. When the boys were three and five, we moved to New Jersey, and we took the trees with us, in their pots. We planted them side by side between the house and the pool, and they flourished. The crabapple must have been 20 feet tall by the time we left. And when we moved to North Carolina, we brought an offshoot of the maple with us. And now I bought a crabapple sapling and we planted it side by side with the maple, between the house and the pasture. And we buried some of Neil's ashes between those two trees that spanned our lives together.
And I hope he rests in peace, overlooking the pond with its heron and its geese, with the alpacas and the horses wandering nearby to drink from their tub, watched vigilantly by Faith and Dolly, and the guineas noisy and busy, ever busy.
On May 17 Neil, my husband for 32 years, died at 78, four years after he was diagnosed with multiple myeloma. His death was unexpected though not surprising -- he had been in a pretty steep decline since his kidneys failed at the end of February. But the doctors, our sons and I all hoped he would rally, then stabilize, perhaps even push through to Ken's wedding on August 30. Here he is, many years ago, with the groom-to-be:
He was killed, suddenly, by a gall bladder infection that raced through his immune-compromised system like a wildfire, shutting down one organ after another.
Alex had been visiting from Los Angeles for almost three weeks when, on a Friday morning, I couldn't get Neil up to go to dialysis. We followed the ambulance to the hospital, where he was intubated, sedated and admitted to intensive care. Ken and his fiancee Rosanna arrived that evening, and the three of them stood vigil in the ICU while I went home to tend the animals.
The next morning, the ICU doctor told us that Neil was septic, that the infection was uncontrollable and that he had apparently had a heart attack since being admitted. Oh, and he probably had a blood clot in one or both lungs. Clearly, he would not recover. So why, I wondered, did that doctor -- and others and the nurses -- work so desperately to stabilize him? Why use every drug in the arsenal to get his blood pressure up to a level where they could start dialysis? Why tell us he was going to die and then move heaven and earth to keep him alive?
It was several days before I understood. It wasn't just "that's what doctors do." It was so we could say goodby while he was still alive (though not conscious -- not conscious since early Friday morning), and make the decision as a family to let him go. And it was a great kindness, especially for the boys. I think I had been mourning Neil for months, knowing he was surely dying, but the boys were not at the same place. They needed to say goodby, to hold his hands while the machines and the IVs were turned off, needed to be with him when his heart stopped -- not be told in some wating room that their father had gone on without them. The ICU staff gave us a blessing in that, and I will always be grateful.
When the boys were babies, in Manhattan, we bought two trees for our tiny terrace on East 73rd Street -- a crabapple for Kenny and a red Japanese maple for Alex. When the boys were three and five, we moved to New Jersey, and we took the trees with us, in their pots. We planted them side by side between the house and the pool, and they flourished. The crabapple must have been 20 feet tall by the time we left. And when we moved to North Carolina, we brought an offshoot of the maple with us. And now I bought a crabapple sapling and we planted it side by side with the maple, between the house and the pasture. And we buried some of Neil's ashes between those two trees that spanned our lives together.
And I hope he rests in peace, overlooking the pond with its heron and its geese, with the alpacas and the horses wandering nearby to drink from their tub, watched vigilantly by Faith and Dolly, and the guineas noisy and busy, ever busy.
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