Near Death Experience
When we approached the doorway to enter SICU room 3 at Good Samaritan Hospital, my name and phone number had been written on the whiteboard. That wasn’t a good sign. The day before hadn’t gone well, but I was optimistic that more rest and additional respiratory support would help him turn a corner. He was the same as when I left the night before. Unconscious and unable to respond.
My older brother had flown overnight to arrive first thing in the morning. We went straight to the hospital from the airport. We stood on each side of the bed with our father between us. The beep beep beep of the heart monitor was constantly being interrupted by the alarms for his low oxygen level and the increasing danger of his low blood pressure. I checked the catheter bag. That was good. His kidneys were still producing urine.
The whiteboard had a section for “Today’s Goals.” The nurse had written a short list, “Better breathing, Get better, Breathe better.” The goals we have when we are facing death are good goals for every day it turns out.
Indeed, there was much to ponder as we waited for the infectious disease doctor and the internist to make their rounds and have a planned group discussion. Like the physicians that day, I will be brief and to the point. Our dad was dying.
He had an E. coli infection that had gone septic. This had caused severe pneumonia. His respiratory and circulatory systems were failing. The doctors and nurses were doing everything they could. At that point, they were keeping him alive. They gently asked us to think about how long we wanted them to keep doing that. And what we wanted them to do in the event that he stopped breathing. And what they should do if his heart stopped beating. And what if his kidneys failed. And what if his blood pressure continued to fall after the medicine was maxed out. And, and, and.
I remained calm on the outside. Inside I was screaming, “Do all the things! For as long as it fucking takes! That’s how long!”
The physicians left, and the Physician Assistant who had been listening in stayed behind to offer some comfort and support. She tried to help us understand what had happened and why the outlook was so bleak. She used the words traumatic respiratory event.
The PA began checking all his vitals, and she raised her voice to try and get him to respond by shouting questions to him, “John can you hear me? Where are you John? What year is it John?”
I thought that was a stupid question. He hadn’t been able to answer that one the day before.
She began again after a few moments of silence, “John, do you know who is here to see you? Do you have any children?”
“Yes,” he said with all the strength he could muster to form the word with his frail voice.
“What are their names? Can you tell me their names John?” the PA asked.
“Christopher,” he managed to garble the syllables of my brother’s name between gasps for air. He wasn’t able to continue.
The PA and I made eye contact and shared a big smile before she turned to my brother and shook her head affirmatively. She asked a few more benign questions that dad made no attempt to answer. Then she pulled open his eyelid and shined her cell phone flashlight in.
Dad didn’t care for this and crankily rasped through his weakness and desperation, “Why are we doing this?”
Because we love you, and we aren’t ready to let you go I wanted to say out loud.
The next three days were all very similar, but the conversations with doctors were shorter and fewer and farther between. The conversations between my brother and me, between us and our father, were taking place out loud and quietly in our hearts. It is impossible for me to know what my dad or my brother were thinking. Though I am sure at least one of the millions of thoughts running through my head must have been the same as theirs.
I couldn’t unravel a lifetime of mistakes in just a few days. I couldn’t remember all the great memories I wished I knew at the time how cherished they would turn out to be. I am so glad I got the chance to try. Each night we would leave the hospital I was prepared for it to be the last time we saw our father alive. Each morning we arrived I was so grateful for one more chance to be with him.
On Friday, my brother had a great idea to play my dad’s favorite music for him. Lots of Big Band music featuring Tony Bennett, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr., and Frank Sinatra. He also played our dad’s favorite country artist Willie Nelson. And Lady Gaga, our dad loved Lady Gaga like kids love Christmas. We kept talking about music and sports. We agreed dad would like that.
At some point on Saturday, I decided to update the date on the whiteboard which hadn’t been changed since dad had arrived. I replaced the day, month, and year with a sideways 8 to make the symbol that represents infinity and said a prayer. We needed a miracle. A low-probability event that happens without rational explanation. My mind told me it was possible even though the physicians said it wasn’t. My heart told me to believe even though the tightness in my chest and tears flowing down my face were evidence that I didn’t.
My brother and I needed to talk. My brother left his phone with the music playing, and we walked outside. We weren’t having those conversations in front of dad. The sun was bright, and it was a beautiful day. Miraculous you might even say.
As my brother and I discussed the realities of the situation it began to occur to me that I had never been with someone when they died. The thought of being with my dad—not if, but when he passed—was simultaneously terrifying and comforting. I had no idea what to expect, but I decided when we returned to his bedside I wasn’t leaving again. One way or another we were going to leave that hospital together.
After 4 days of standing and pacing around, I decided to pull up a chair next to my dad. My brother stood on the other side of the bed holding my dad’s hand. For 4 days all I wanted was a miracle, completely unaware that I was in the midst of one the whole time.
The music continued to play. The nurses had turned off all the monitors in the room and kept vigilance on his vitals at their station, so dad could listen to the music and be with his sons in peace. After several hours, late that afternoon, Frank Sinatra began to sing “My Way.” Frank Sinatra was dad’s hero. A great voice, a great actor, the consummate all-around entertainer—a real pro, as my dad would say.
So was our dad. Through the years, his voice would bring tens of thousands of people to their feet and send crowds of sports fans roaring in stadiums and arenas from San Diego to Miami. He even got to act in a major motion picture called A Minor Miracle.
As Frank’s iconic voice began, “And now the end is here, and so I face the final curtain…” I rose to my feet.
“My friend I’ll make it clear, I’ll state my case, of which I’m certain…” Frank continued as I watched my father’s chest rise and fall with each breath. He was still with us. Even though he couldn’t speak he had one last thing to say.
“I’ve lived a life that’s full, I traveled each and every highway…” I could hear my dad’s voice singing with Frank’s now.
“And more, much more, I did it, I did it my way.” The verse ended, and I admired my father like I never had before. How lucky was I that I got to be his kid?
The verses continued, and my heart kept the beat with his. As the final note of “My Way” slowly drifted into silence, our father went with it. The exact moment there was complete silence, my father peacefully left his body.
One last lesson. Do it your way kid.
As the three of us shared the last moment, the nearest to death that any of us had been, I realized that life gives us one gift. It is ours to open if we wish. The chance to be ourselves. Why would we waste time doing anything else?
Each moment is precious. So when fear comes. When doubt creeps in. When we wonder if we are good enough. When we question why we are here. Remember this. Life is a miracle. My life is a miracle.
After you were conceived, your heart was formed before your brain. The pitter-patter of its beat sent life to every new cell forming in your body. Every cell containing your unique DNA code. There has never been anyone like you. And there never ever will be again. I am so grateful you are here. I am so grateful I get to be here with you.
I am so grateful I was the strongest swimmer that night my dad made love to my mom. My dad had such a powerful voice. Before he died I used to have to see him or call him to hear it. Now that he has passed away I can hear it anytime I want to. I just have to ask and then listen.
The afterlife is in the same place as the before-life. Life is in our hearts. Listen as the conscious creative force of all that is pumps the miracle of reality through your veins.