June fifth, twenty-thirteen. I never want to relive that morning--the morning I got out of the shower and was greeted with my mom calling from the other room that Jane had just had a stroke. I think it's finally time to share my story. Well, it's really Jane's story, but it is MY account of what happened those last few weeks. I was in Tembagapura, Indonesia--a place Jane often referred to as the "buttcrack of the world," but a place where Mom lived. I had arrived on Sunday after a grueling three days of travel, and we got the awful text from Melinda on Thursday. It told us that Jane had been found unconscious at home after not showing up to a doctor's appointment and had been taken in an ambulance to the hospital because she had a second stroke (the first had been in 2010, right before my NAU graduation).
Mom and I were a wreck, and I was so glad that I was there with her. We stumbled around, unsure of what to do until we had more information. As we got more and more news, we knew we needed to get home. Fast.
Not surprisingly, we weren't fully thinking. Mom had a school-wide musical performance the next day and the rehearsal was that morning so we packed our backpacks and headed to the performance space to meet the kids for the first dress rehearsal. It kept our minds off of what was going on, but her close friends knew something was wrong. Right before we headed to the rehearsal, we caught word that Jane was not going to make it. Keeping our minds on the students was the only way to hold in the eminent tears that would be flowing as soon as the faucets were opened.
When the rehearsal finally ended, we went home to try and find tickets for the next day to get back to the States. The whole next few hours were a giant blur, but they involved getting tickets, preparing Mom's room for the summer since she wouldn't be back until the next school year, tracking down Mom's passport which was somewhere in the government offices in the lowlands to renew her visa, packing my stuff that I brought and whatever Mom needed for the summer in the States, and more.
SUPER early the next morning, we headed to the shopping center to try to get the very first helicopter out of there for the day. If the weather was too cloudy, helicopters would not be able to get out and that was our ONLY chance of catching any planes off the island. We had our flight booked from Jakarta onward, but were waiting to get down to the lowlands before booking our first flight. Luckily, we made M1 (the first chopper) and made it down, booked a ticket, and had time to get breakfast in Timika.
Every layover we had brought more bad news, but Japan was the worst. We had flown from Timika to Jakarta (where I broke my ribs, but that is a whole different story) and Jakarta to Tokyo where we had an 8-hour layover and went to shower. I got out of the shower later than Mom, but she met me with tears streaming down her face to tell me she had just called home and Jane was being moved to hospice. I wasn't quite sure what that meant at that point, but I knew it was bad as we stood there in the middle of the lounge holding each other and crying. I eventually was able to ask and find out through sobs that it meant she had no chance of making it--something I already knew from what we were being told, but this just confirmed it.
FINALLY we made it back to the States and were picked up at the airport and rushed to hospice to say what we thought were our final goodbyes. When we walked in the room, Jane gave Mom a look that seemed like she was saying, "What took you so long," in her typical way and when she saw me, she gave a big smile. After that brief visit, I was taken to Urgent Care for the first of what would be three doctor appointments and a rush to the Emergency Room for broken ribs.
The first few days weren't as bad as we thought they would be. Jane was more alert than we had anticipated and the nurses said she was giving us a true gift in her "communication." I say it in quotes because the stroke killed all her communication abilities, but I know there was some way that she knew we were there and loving her like crazy. As the two weeks went on though, she left us before her body did. It was apparent when Mischief (very much HER dog) came in a few times to see her. She knew to pet Mischief, but the dog wanted to follow Melinda around wherever she went. For anyone who had interacted with Mischief before, they knew that she and Jane were completely attached. If anyone made any movements towards Jane, they were warned there would be consequences to pay from her watchful "guard dog." (Mischief is a lap dog size and wouldn't be able to hold off robbers if they ever got into the house!)
The night of the Supermoon, my roommate from college was flying in from Seattle and heading up to her hometown of Prescott with her sister. I was able to pick her up from the airport (a much needed "pick up" for me too!) We met her sister for dinner and I received a text from my mom at dinner saying that Jane's skin had finally started turning purple and "mottled." I asked if that meant it would be her last night and Mom just thought it would be no more than a day or two but that I might want to stop by hospice on my way home. She didn't need to ask again.
When I got to the Dobson House, Mom was in the hallway with a friend who had brought her dinner so I went back on my own. I told Jane who I was when I entered as I always did (hearing is the last thing to go and I wanted her to know she was surrounded by people who loved her) and went to check her feet. They were cold and purple and had a strange appearance to them. I moved up to her side and told her I loved her and kissed her forehead and heard IT.
I know someday I will be even more comforted by the honor of being there when she breathed her final breath, and I know we had always had a connection different than my sisters did with her. She was the one I could talk to about anything at all, even before Mom! Mom was always glad that I had someone I could confide in and wouldn't pry as long as I was talking to someone. Those last two minutes together were priceless, but the sound was haunting.
Many often refer to it as a "death rattle," a psychological phenomenon which occurs in someone who is near death. The rattle often plays roles in fiction, with Victorian authors in particular being especially fond of describing this phenomenon in lurid retail. Hospice gave us pamphlets that advised us up and down about what to expect of the last breath: quiet shallow breathing that slows to a final stop, audible exhalation as the final breath is released, facial changes, eyes that either open wide or close or remain partially open, lower jaw muscles relaxing as the jaw falls open. None of those truly prepared for what the sound was and I cannot describe it in words, but I still hear it as I fall asleep some nights.
The night of the Supermoon, three of the eleven people in the Dobson House passed onto the Next which was more than they had ever experienced before. Jane knew she was surrounded by people who loved her, and that was true even until she was wheeled out to the waiting van when it finally arrived.
I've never lost anyone that I was this close to or loved this much and even a few months later it still hurts. I don't think that will really change anytime soon. Many people have been asking about wedding planning, and that is not really on my mind yet. I've been making some plans because I know I need to and I've been trying to stay busy just to think about other things. Many people use Facebook and think that I have had this awesome summer of travel, but don't remember that it is just a tool that is used like a window into someone's life.
To quote my favorite boss of all time, if you were walking past a house and looked in the window to see a man raising his hand towards his wife, with the full intention of a slap and the look of true fear in her eyes, what would you think? Would your mind be like the majority of the world and think that he was being abusive and she was fearing for her life because he was hitting her again? Chances are by looking through the window, you missed the bee that was covered by the solid walls and that the man was saving his wife's life by trying to kill the bee that she was deathly allergic too before it finally landed on her head.
In my Facebook window of the summer, I am posting pictures and status updates of the happy times. I am not posting about trips to the car dealer to help fix/update/sell cars that no longer have an owner. I am not posting about bank appointments where accounts are changed/closed/switched that no longer have an accountholder. I am not posting about cleaning out closets of clothes, shoes, and accessories that were sorted/folded/donated because they don't have a wearer. It all hurts and is not getting easier, but I hate having to justify myself to people who supposedly love me.
I am trying to post the highlights of the summer so I have somewhere happy to turn to. My wall (and this blog) is exactly that: Mine. The glimpses through the windows here and there might look like I am purely having fun on all of my "vacations" this summer, but they aren't showing the tears that flow every. single. day. from missing and loving Jane.
