A Sad Anniversary

By this time, two years ago, Lionel had been in the intensive care ward at Georgetown University Hospital for almost two months. The doctors had determined there was absolutely no chance that he would ever recover. And the miracle for which I had been so desperately praying had not come to pass. A few days prior, his family had finally and collectively, made the heartbreaking decision to disconnect him from the life support machinery which, at that point, was keeping him alive...but they were having a difficult time deciding when this would be done. It was a cold, grey Sunday. A day very much like today. I had gone to the hospital, as I did every day since he was admitted, arriving a little after one in the afternoon. Ordinarily, I went later, Sundays were usually a busy visiting day on the ward, but I had a show opening the following night and the final dress/tech rehearsal was that evening. Plus, my job was renovating its Baltimore office, and I had to be up early the next morning to take the train to Baltimore to be on-site with the contractors. I sat holding his hand, watching him sleep much of the afternoon, and was glad when some of his family arrived to visit, as I hated leaving him alone to go to my rehearsal. We chatted briefly, then I headed outside, where a light drizzle had begun to fall and it was growing dark. On my way to the bus stop, I encountered more of his family on their way up to the room. Again, I was relieved. At first. But by the time I got to the bus stop, and saw even more family parking their cars. I became concerned. It seemed odd that he would have so many visitors in one day. Finally, the reason hit me and, when I talked to his family members, they confirmed that the decision had been made to disconnect Lionel from life support that evening. It was a very stressful and emotional time, and everyone thought someone else had told me. It scares me now, to think how close I came to not being there. I accompanied them back inside to the ward where, individually and collectively, we all said our goodbyes. Finally, came the moment I had been dreading. As we all crowded into the room, surrounding his bed. The nurses came in and disconnected the machinery keeping Lionel alive. Although they had gradually eased him off the sedatives, he did not regain consciousness. I know that was a blessing for us. I hope it was a blessing for him. I cant' help thinking he would have been stoic, but terrified. I certainly didn't want that to be his last experience. We all told him we loved him. Even though, I had known for a week or two, that he would never be coming home, I was not prepared to say goodbye. In a lot of ways, I still am not. It was very emotional when the nurses came in to confirm to us that he was gone. Lots of tears, lots of hugging as we tried our best to support each other. After everyone left the room, I sat with him for awhile longer, just telling him one final time how much I loved him and how much having him in my life had meant to me. I gathered up some of his personal things, I had taken -- a stuffed animal one of my co-workers had sent, a "Krusty the Clown" toy I had taped to his bedframe, so that he would have something familiar to keep him company. With most of the machines off, it was dark and quiet in the room. The only light from the nurses station just outside the door, and the small Christmas tree I had brought to cheer him up. He loved watching the ebb and flow of the colored lights. it seemed to calm him. Over the years that I'd known him, Lionel frequently had trouble sleeping, due to pain, illness, having a lot on his mind...and frequent nightmares. Sometimes, i would go into the room and see he was in the throes of a frightening nightmare. Trying not to startle him or awaken him too abruptly, I would stroke him on his arm, talk to him soothingly, kiss him, on the forehead, and reassure him it was just a bad dream. Sometimes, he would awaken and smile, drowsily trying to describe his nightmare. Frequently he said he was being chased and had flown into the air...then suddenly remembered that he shouldn't be able to fly. I'd sit with him, until his eyelids started getting heavy again. I would stroke his forehead and we would talk quietly until he started to fall asleep again. Other times, he never awakened, so I would talk to him gently until I saw his his furrowed brow slowly relax. I'd know then, that the nightmare was over and he was sleeping peacefully. While waiting for that to happen, I would keep murmuring to him, "You're fine now...safe and cozy." Over time, that also became our little ritual, the last thing I'd say to him each night. After helping him let out his bed, making sure our front door was locked, the lights were out, his television remote was nearby and he was tucked in comfortably, and before heading into my bedroom myself to retire, I would say, "Here we are, safe and cozy." And, each night he would reply "Yeah, safe and cozy...." and smile, sleepily. Before leaving his hospital room that final night, I leaned over, kissed him one last time, and murmured, our parting words, "Safe and cozy, Lionel." He was no longer suffering. I'd like to think that he was at peace.