Hooked on Hospice®: A Frog in the ICU

By Karla Wheeler

Copyright 2007 by Karla Wheeler. All rights reserved.

In my exhausted sleeping stupor, I recognize the tender voice of nurse Alice and others in the Intensive Care Unit as they tend to my 54-year-old husband Gerry, who is on life support and has been in the ICU for 20 days. His body has been rapidly declining ever since he was diagnosed with an advanced and aggressive form of cancer 47 days earlier.

As the nurses gently adjust Gerry's intravenous medications, breathing tube, feeding tube, and other medical interventions, I smile as I watch one of the nurses lovingly stroke the soft surface of the green stuffed frog our daughter Jenny gave Gerry once he was transferred from the cancer floor to the ICU. A nurse looks at me as if to ask if it's okay to push the frog's plump belly. I nod. "Ribbit... ribbit... ribbit... ribbit... ribbit" croaks the fist-sized toy, which the nurse then tucks under Gerry's limp fingers. We all grin except Gerry, who is blessedly in another world, thanks to the pain medication that flows through his veins.

When the nurses leave the room, I go to Gerry's side. I caress his forehead and temple, and a clump of his once-thick hair falls into my palm. I grab a tissue and tuck away the wad of hair. I stuff it into a zipped compartment of my purse, where several other such crumples reside.

"I love you, sweet Gerry. We all love you so much and thank you for being you. Rest now, sweetie. That's your only job right now -- just rest." I gently stroke his strong forearm, twisting the familiar reddish-brown hairs with my fingernail. I maneuver his hand so our fingers entwine, just like they have done since we fell in love -- at first sight -- while skiing in Killington, Vermont, 30 years ago. With my other hand I pat the green frog, which has brought a snippet of joy to anyone who has been visiting or tending Gerry these past weeks. I put on a music CD of Pachelbel's Canon, a hauntingly beautiful instrumental song Gerry and I used to listen to time and again. I allow myself to float along with the music, uplifted by decades of magical memories. How I love this man!

What an incredible father he had been. A wonderful, loyal, patient, supportive life's partner. An awesome son, brother, friend, coworker. The floodgates open wide, and I let the tears run like a river.

My tears, I realize, flow strongest when I think not so much about the fact that Gerry's vibrant earth walk is coming to a completion at such a young age, or that I will be widowed at age 53, but rather that Jenny will no longer have her devoted father by her side. He has adored her since she was sill in my womb. He has spent quality hours with her each and every day.

My hospice volunteer work has taught me that these tears are healthy. "Tears help let the pain out," I've been reassuring 14-year-old Jenny the past 47 days ever since we learned that Gerry was seriously ill. She and I often sit together in the car, on a bench outside the hospital, or on her bed at home with a box of tissues between us, giving ourselves full permission to cry and release feelings of impending sadness and loss.

I glance at the clock: 7:17 a.m. In about eight hours, Gerry will be removed from life support. Doctors say he could live 30 minutes without the ventilator that breathes for him, or as long as 30 hours. If he lives longer than two hours, he will be transferred back to the cancer floor, where he had spent two pleasant weeks -- that was back when he could still walk, talk, philosophize, joke, and laugh -- before tubes and narcotics silenced him forever.

I'm numb. Is this really happening? Is this man -- the love of my life for three decades -- really dying? Are we as a family actually going to go through with our heart-wrenching decision to follow Gerry's wishes as he stated in his Living Will and allow the hospital staff to "pull the plug?" Surely, if someone were to pinch me right now, I'd awaken and realize it was all just a bad dream.

How surreal this seems. I'm sitting by the bedside of my dying husband, and in all likelihood, today is the day he will die. This afternoon, we will all gather 'round him to surround him with our love, light, and gratitude. We'll find the strength to give him permission to go. We can do this, I tell myself, especially because I know that a hospice nurse will be here to help ease the way. It brings me such peace of mind to know hospice can help Gerry and all of us on this bittersweet day, even though he was never enrolled as an official hospice patient.

Hooked on Hospice® is a registered trademark of Quality of Life Publishing Co.