Reliving April 10, 2009.
I enjoy trail running. Not because I'm a good runner or have something to prove, but because it is a spiritual experience for me. During my run yesterday, and after reading an article about burying your head in the sand, I got the feeling I needed to share some intimate details of Mike's death. This hit me hard because it is extremely intimate and ugly. I prayed that if I choose to do this, that God would some how be glorified and this story wasn't just about me. Please keep in mind that this is my perspective, only, and I cannot relay for anyone else in the family, what they experienced. I've used the same title before in this blog. I would like to warn you, if you are squeamish, or do not want to know details, from my perspective, of the last moments of Mike's life and the time I spent with him after he died, skip to the last paragraph.
I have been with numerous people when they died. Too numerous to count. Some have been the natural, peaceful progression to death, in which case the body is not fighting death, but embracing it. Some have been fighting for life. Some never got to experience either as death was immediate.
I got the call to come back to the hospital, that Mike was not doing well. I can remember being told that CPR was being performed. I can remember telling my dad to make them stop because there was nothing to compress. Mike's sternum had been broken in the wreck and that is the area where compressions for CPR are performed. I can remember going in the room when he briefly had a pulse and we were waiting for Hunter to get there so he could say goodbye. I can remember looking at the heart monitor and seeing a rhythm but knowing there was no pulse with it. I can remember watching the color, the last shred of life go out of Mike's face. I remember watching him go.
I wanted to help prepare Mike's body for viewing right after he died. This is something that health care providers do for families so they can see their loved one peacefully and without all the wires and tubes. I can remember embracing Mike's head as the nurse removed the neck collar. I felt the broken bones in his neck rub together and for an instant, I shuddered at the pain this was causing, then was relieved that there was no pain. I remember watching the breathing tube being removed from his mouth. There was so much sputum and mucous on the end of it. The reality of the difficulties of ventilating Mike were harsh. I can remember laughing a bit that I would prefer the nurse remove Mike's foley catheter. There are just some things a sister should not do. I remember helping change Mike's gown to a clean one. In doing so, his belly was exposed. After exploratory surgery his belly had been left open and was covered with a clear, plastic-like covering. I could see his internal organs splayed open. I can remember the cast on his right lower leg and how he had actually, briefly, walked on that broken leg when he got out of his truck just after the wreck. I can remember thinking that it must have caused terrible pain. But no more. I can remember the nurse placing the bed in the flat position. The only way Mike could have been placed flat, after all he'd been through, was by being dead.
I relive these moments on a fairly regular basis. Please understand, though, I do have wonderful memories of my brother. I laugh at him more than I cry!
I struggle, though, with these images and wonder why I have to relive them. I wonder if I should relive them. I wonder if it makes me morbid, or sad, or weird.
One of my favorite songs is "I am a seed." (David Crowder's version of it is just fabulous!) During my run yesterday, I was listening to that song. "I've been pushed down into the ground, but I will rise us a tree." Sometimes I think we have to descend into darkness to really understand and appreciate the light. Just as a seed draws nutrients from the ground so it can push itself up through the soil and into the light, I draw on the word of God when I am stripped down to the raw, dark, cold reality of life's challenges. I laughed as I compared myself to a dogwood. It's not a particularly pretty tree except for one time of the year. It dots the landscape among many other trees. Otherwise, if many were planted together they would not be very pleasing most times of the year. But they sure stand out in the spring! Otherwise, it is a hard and hardy tree that withstands the seasonal changes.
I guess I do not have to spell out what is good, bad or ugly for you. You get it, I'm sure. But are you really thinking of the ugly reality of death or the beauty of the dogwood, or the beauty of no more pain after reading this?
What makes God real for you? Dark realities force me to focus on Philippians 4:8;
Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.
Thank you for remembering Mike with us.
Michael R Watson, Jr. February 14, 1970-April 10, 2009.
