Holding On/Letting Go

It’s almost ten p.m. By this time last year, almost exactly, Lionel had been in the ICU for nearly two months. Although the rest of his body was frighteningly frail, his grotesquely swollen legs and feet were weighed down by inflatable boots that he found hot and uncomfortable. Both hands tied to the side rails of his hospital bed to prevent him from attempting, In his delirium and claustrophobic panic, to remove the tubes down his throat, mask over his nose and the 4-5 IVs (frequently including Propofol) attached to his neck. His liver, kidneys, and lungs continued failing…but his heart clung on, tenaciously. I sat by his bed all evening, each evening, holding his hand…gently stroking his arm, both of us listening to the beeping monitors.

This particular night, he began to get agitated and squirm, as he sometimes did, from frantic discomfort and from the delusions and hallucinations common after weeks in the ICU. I talked to him trying to soothe him, but he only grew more and more agitated. I leaned over him, trying to guess what he needed: The nurse? The bed adjusted? Pain medicine? The bed pan? Too hot – take the sheet off? Too cold – pull it up around him? With each guess, he would only frown and shake his head in frustration. He stared into my eyes intently, his own eyes blinking back tears. His rail-thin arms strained as he struggled against restraints that had already dug in and left scars on his wrists from his weeks of stubborn escape attempts.

Totally stumped by what he was so desperately trying to communicate, my own eyes began to fill with hot tears of despair.

“I’m so sorry, man. I know you want something, Lionel. But I can’t tell what it is. I know you hate being tied down and that old tube down your throat that keeps you from communicating.” I leaned over him more closely, even though I knew he couldn’t speak. “What is it, dear heart? I’m sorry. I just don’t know what it is you are trying to tell me. ” He continued to stare into my eyes, but the strain of trying to communicate had exhausted him, and he sank back into the pillow, despondent and resigned. He closed his eyes, but his brow remained furrowed. I knew he was not at peace.

Helpless, with nothing else to do, and mindful of the tubes and straps and monitors and IVs…I leaned over and barely hugged him -- very, very gently. Immediately, he opened his eyes, smiled, and nodded his head, “Yes.” Somehow I had stumbled upon it. That’s all he had been trying to tell me. That’s all he wanted to do. He wanted to give me a hug. To cheer me up. He smiled again. I hugged him again. He nodded “Yes” again, then lay back, gradually drifting off to an uneasy sleep.

Sitting by his bed, once again holding his hand, I tried not to let him hear me crying. It would be ten more days, before his family agreed to take him off of life support on December 12, 2010 and he immediately passed away.