Mimi's Final Gift

My grandmother Mimi (the name we bestowed on her) was an amazing woman. She married an equally amazing man in my grandfather Poppi. I never remember them going to church or talking about their feelings on God or Jesus or religion. But I have never known greater disciples of Christ in my life. Through quiet example and, when necessary, stern but loving guidance, they stood up for what was right and good and moral and kind. They taught all of us how to be honorable people. They loved and served and set aside their own needs to ensure we were taken care of. They raised two beautiful daughters, and passed on to my mother so many of their best qualities. I consider it one of the greatest among countless blessings in my life that I was sent to be their grandson. They are both a tremendous part of who I am and who I am trying to become. And I always felt a particularly special bond and friendship with Mimi. She seemed to know and understand me, sometimes better than I did myself.

What I write here is, more than anything, a journal entry. I pray that if anyone else reads it they are blessed and strengthened by it, that it does not resurrect pain or sadness. I write because I need to remember her and I need to remember my final moments with her and the last gift she gave me…

For as long as I remember, Mimi has been this dichotomy between this youthful, funny, passionate, feisty Italian girl—who never seemed to age—and the body and it’s illness that she fought against and suffered through. I don’t remember a time when she wasn’t stepping out of the room to get control of violent coughing spells. I struggle to recall a time when she wasn’t on constant, side-effect inducing medications to control overwhelming joint pain. But somehow—despite 30 years of pulmonary fibrosis and chronic bronchitis and nearly as long with severe rheumatoid arthritis—I also have never once seen her seem old or sick. Illness and pain never seemed to conquer her spirit, her humor, the fire in her eyes and her love for life and everyone around her…until the last few weeks.

In recent months, the combination of worsening illness and intolerable side effects from the medications intended to treat it was robbing her of her strength to keep fighting. She was struggling to be able to eat, and even when she could, was still losing weight. She finally reached a point several weeks ago where she and her doctors realized that nothing more could be done to hold back the inevitable. As much as she wanted to stay—to be there to help my grandfather, to make sure all of us were okay, to meet the great grandchildren who would join our family in the future—she knew that her journey here was coming to an end. She began Hospice care to hopefully make her more comfortable for however many months she might have left. She would have, as it turned out, much less than that.

When Mom let me know, I made plans to come down in a few weeks and spend some time with her. I thought maybe I should call and talk with her, but figured the conversation would be better in person. This procrastination is a habit I have unfortunately mastered, and one quality I certainly did not inherit from my grandparents. For months or even years, I had wanted to write Mimi a letter, to say all the things that emotions and lack of ineloquence would not allow me to articulate in person. I wanted to make sure she knew how much I loved and treasured her. I didn’t want her to leave without knowing her grandson’s feelings and conviction about our Heavenly Father, His love and familiarity with each of us, the gift of His Son and our Savior Jesus, and the company of Christ, her parents and countless other family and friends for which she was bound and in which we would someday be reunited. My desire was not to presume to teach or preach, but simply to know me a little better—to know the testimony that is such a crucial part of her grandson’s life and which I, for whatever reason, had never fully shared with her.

Within days of withdrawing care and starting her on heavy pain medications, her condition began to change daily. Things were moving more quickly than she, my grandfather, my mother, or even the Hospice staff expected. Titrating pain medication is never an exact science, and as the pain quickly gripped her, my mother and youngest brother Scott lost sleep and sweat and tears as they struggled tirelessly to help get her comfortable, a magnification of their efforts to make her well in the preceding weeks and months. Eventually, the only times she was at peace were when she was heavily medicated and sedated. I realized that the time for letters and conversations might have passed.

Why didn’t I talk to her last week? Why didn’t I write that letter last year? Why didn’t I visit more when we lived here last year? Why didn’t I have the courage to talk about spiritual things in the past? Why didn’t I call more and write more and visit more and help more?

Lauren, who had planned on coming the week after I had, changed her plans and arrived on Tuesday with Lily. Our family is small. Scott and Mark still live here. So does aunt Kim, with Chris and Kelly. Everyone was at her side but me. Things were moving quickly. I cleared my schedule and planned to fly down with Arden on Wednesday evening. As much as Leah adored and missed Mimi, she would stay behind with Logan and Jude. We wanted them to remember Mimi how she was: vibrant and full of life.

By the time we landed around midnight, there were calls and texts from Mom and Lauren to come straight to the house because she was going quickly and they had her on increased oxygen to keep her going—for me. A new wave of guilt emerged: she was enduring more just to let me get there? I told my Mom it was okay if they needed to let her go, I’d be okay. But I think Mimi knew better. Mark picked me up at the airport and we made the half hour drive to their home, Lauren took Arden down to Mom and Ray’s, where Ray graciously rocked her to sleep for me.

This night was to be one of the saddest, yet somehow sweetest of my life.

Everyone was at her side, her husband of 58 years, her two daughters, and her six grown grandchildren. Illness and pain had taken her body, which now no longer looked like Mimi. But as you searched her face you could sense her spirit was still here with us, struggling to hang on a bit more. Tears came. Words wouldn’t. “Mimi, it’s Jon. I’m here. I love you.” That was all I could find. Poppi got up and comforted me. He hugged me and told me it was okay. My mom did to. She encouraged me to just talk to her, that she could hear me. I think it was harder with everyone there. I sat on the other bed next to Poppi and just held her hand. Through tears, he told me “she was 19 when I met her and she was a young woman—not a girl, but a young woman—and that’s what she always stayed. She was the light of my life and still is.”

I think Poppi knew I needed a moment with my grandmother, too. He sacrificed some of his last time with her and suggested that they all go out in the living room and give me a few minutes. I sat on the bed next to her and held her hand. I struggled to control the overflow of emotion, and through more tears the words finally came.

“Mimi, it’s Jon. I’m here. I’m sorry it took me so long. There are so many things I wish I had talked to you about, but none of that matters now. I hope you know how much I love you. You have been everything in my life. Thank you for marrying Poppi. Thank you for having my mom so I could come and be a part of your life. You gave so much to each of us. I’m sorry you’re hurting and I’m sorry you’ve had to hurt longer to wait for me to get here. Thank you for letting me say goodbye to you.

We never really talked very much about God or religion. Lots of people talk about God, about Jesus, about how to be a Christian. Some people just live it and that’s what you always did. I need you to know that I know our Heavenly Father knows you and has something amazing in store for you. I know we’ll see you again soon.

Leah and Logan and Jude wanted so badly to be here with you. But we felt you would rather have them remember you as you were. I am so grateful that they got a chance to know you and be blessed by you. Leah loves you so much. You inspire her. I found an amazing woman to spend my life with. I’ve never told you this, but I was looking for someone a lot like you, and I found it in her.

I hope this is okay, but I want to pray with you, if nothing else just to make myself feel better. Heavenly Father, thank you for making this woman part of my life. Thank you for your Son. Please bring her peace. Please take away her pain. Please bring her home to you. We are all going to miss her terribly. We’re going to feel like a part of us is gone when she goes. Please give us your Spirit to comfort us. Help her to know that we’ll be taken care of. Help us to show our gratitude for the blessing she has been in our lives and to live the way she did. I pray in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.”

I looked up at her. She didn’t seem to be hurting. I kissed her on the forehead and again on the cheek.

“I love you Mimi. I’m going to miss you so much. But if you can…you need to let go. It’s okay to let go.”

What happened next, some people would call coincidence. A noticeable change came over her. She seemed to relax. Her breathing became shallower and less labored. I got my grandfather and family. The nurse came back in. It was clear her suffering was finally about to end. My grandfather held her hand. Fighting back tears, he turned to us. “I think she’s going”. He turned back to her, and leaned in close. “If I asked you to marry me again, would you say yes?” I couldn’t see, but I think he kissed her. A moment later, she was gone.

Maybe the timing was coincidence. Maybe I lucked out and made it just in time. Maybe nature finally took it’s course, her blood pressure finally dropped beyond where her heart rate could keep up, her oxygen saturation dropped, her heart failed, and her body finally succumbed. And maybe all of that just happened to coincide with our family being together by her side and me getting to pour my heart and soul out to her.

But I don’t believe that.

I believe my grandmother knew each of us and knew what we needed. I believe she gave or will give a final gift to each of us. Mom and Scott are my heroes. They did what nobody else could have done. More than anyone else, the two of them have mastered that selflessness that my grandparents possess. They cared for her in ways that were neither easy nor pretty. They dealt with all the unglamorous parts of helping someone who is suffering and dying. They did what I know I could never have had the strength to do, even if distance had allowed. My baby brother became more of a man than I may ever be. My mom once again set aside her own physical and emotional needs to ease pain. She has since felt my grandmother’s spirit whispering to her own, continuing to encourage and teach. Lauren was able to bring Mimi’s newest great-granddaughter Lily so they could meet. Mark was able to spend time with her and pray with her, as well. Mimi even managed to get all of us and Kim and Chris and Kelly together again for the first time in a while to hug and cry and comfort and remember together.

I cannot speak for everyone and what they experienced, or how they will grieve. But I know that my grandmother left this life surrounded by a husband, her children, and her grandchildren who love her and have been blessed beyond explanation by her life. I know that there is a special place for her in our Father’s kingdom. I know some things do happen for a reason, and if we listen, we are guided through pain and struggle to happiness and peace. I believe Mimi knew that we needed to say goodbye to her.

I know that somehow, she knew that I needed to talk to my grandmother one more time. I needed to share those words with her. I needed to pray with her. I needed to share my testimony with her and thereby renew it within myself.

And I know that with our Father’s help, she waited and held on a little longer so I could.

I am grateful for her final gift. I thank God that she is no longer in pain. I hope I can live in a way that makes her proud and honors her life. I hope I can be to our children and grandchildren even a portion of what Mimi was to all of us. I am grateful to my grandfather, who gave up a few of his last moments with his beloved wife…for me. I am humbled that I was allowed to play a small part in walking her to the threshold and saying goodbye as she moved on to what lies ahead. I pray that Poppi will feel the Lord's comfort and companionship as he waits to be reunited with his bride.

I know that the love, happiness, and even sorrow that we share as family teach us more about our Father in Heaven and His Son and how to truly follow them than much else in this life.

I know that Mimi is not gone. She is still that youthful, feisty Italian girl. She is still that young woman that was and is the light of my grandfather’s life. She is still, as always, our grandmother, mother, and wife, constantly watching over and loving each of us. She lives beyond this life, through our Savior Jesus Christ. And she lives in each of us through the countless gifts she gave us.

Thank you, Mimi, especially for your last gift to me.

An Emotional Teacup Ride

Okay, so I created this blog a while ago as sort of an outlet of expression/journal, and have yet to make my first post. That ever-important first post, I have come to find out, is a daunting task, especially when you have years of memories and experiences and--well, just life--to account for. My first words to the world should be bold, memorable, even profound. Right? Unfortunately, if I keep that as my goal, I may never write anything at all. In the end, I suppose it's just like penning those mundane essays in freshman-English: the hardest part is putting the pen to the paper and starting. Hopefully, like so many of those pointless and pathetic pieces, this will begin to flow more naturally (and if I'm lucky, a little less pointlessly and pathetically). So, here we go!

I was sitting in the first lecture of my OB/GYN clinical medicine block today, marveling at how much more interesting this stuff is compared to our last block. That probably is due in part to the fact that our last block was endocrinology, whose endless hormone disorders are just mind-numbingly boring--at least compared to other areas of medicine for me. But I realized that it also has much to do with being a father and having experienced a bit of the obstetrics side of that field.

Now, do not mistake me here. I would not call this a new found passion and have no intention of working in this specialty when I finish school. I do, however, find fascinating the processes of conception, pregnancy, fetal development, labor, and delivery, particularly having been through these twice (yes, I know, only as an observer) with our own children. Logan, in particular, gave us quite a crash course in nearly all things obstetric; and I realized as I sat there in lecture that I may never have adequately recorded my reflections on the "emotional teacup ride" that was Logan's birth (forgive me for my reliving the memory if it turns out a bit graphic or emotional, but I don't want to forget it).

Aside from some pretty severe morning sickness and other unpleasant but 'typical' pregnancy adventures, Leah's first pregnancy progressed without major complication. Her due date came and went with no sign of Logan, so her doc (Alexandra Runnels, a brilliant young professional who couldn't have been more than a couple years out of residency and who soon became one of my heroes) scheduled her for induction a few days later. Leah checked in for some prep the night before, and I enjoyed my luxuriously comfortable 4 1/2-foot-long-daddy-recliner-bed-thingy next to her on our last night as free and footloose newlyweds. 

Morning came, and with it the Pitocin to start contractions. Leah was a little anxious about the whole 'needle in the spine' thing, so she experimented with natural labor for a couple hours. But without principled homeopathic determination or pride to motivate her, she soon opted for the epidural over the recurring pain. We spent the rest of the morning relaxing and napping together on the tiny hospital bed, and with the fetal monitors providing the only evidence of contractions, I remember comments from her along to the lines of "hey, this childbirth thing isn't so bad". 

After a slow start, things eventually began to progress and before we knew it, baby was crowning and Leah was ready to push. Rested and relaxed, my girl was all fired up and ready for the final sprint and the joyous welcoming of our angel Logan. 

But this is where the real adventure began. 

An hour and a half later, Leah was still hard at work. She was getting good pushes, but following each one, the stubborn little infant would retract back slightly, resulting in no forward progress. Next came the vacuum extractor (sort of a gentler, but less effective version of forceps), to no avail. By now Leah was running a fever of 104, and emergency c-section would soon be the best option. Finally with a last-resort epesiotomy, an enthusiastically chearleading Daddy, doctor, and nurses, and a big final push from Mommy, out peeked Logan Juliette's little head.

And this is when my world began to spin.

My precious daughter's head only came halfway, then quickly turned a shade best described as plum. All I could think to do was squeeze Leah's hand, keep her eyes locked on mine to prevent either of us from panicking, and wonder what happened to our smooth and joyous delivery. Doctor Runnels, though, reacted swiftly and decisively--simultaneously calling for the NICU team, repositioning with the extractor, directing two nurses to put my wife in some crazy contortionist position (McRoberts Maneuver), and another nurse to help push our little girl out from behind. 

And out she came.

For what seemed like an eternity but probably wasn't, there was no cry. Just an oddly purple baby girl, a blur of doctors and nurses, glimpses of an oxygen mask, mutterings about vital signs and a broken clavicle, a bewildered Mommy, and a Daddy on tiptoes trying to rescue our Logan with his will and hope and frantic prayers. I seemed to be drowning in agony that flooded my eyes, my throat, my voice, and my heart.

Then finally, we heard the sweetest sound on Earth, Logan's soft little cry.

Soon, light replenished our little world and the planets resumed their orbits. Mommy only got to have a moment's glance, unfortunately, before they took our little Logan to the NICU. Grandma had been waiting patiently outside and was a lifesaver, taking care of the love of my life, while I went to take care of our brand new daughter. I spent much of the next few hours there, returning periodically to bring pictures and video to Mommy until she could hold her. I felt like I became a daddy in those few hours, even if all I could do was be there for Logan with a familiar voice and a finger to cling to. Leah and I were so excited to become parents, but I never imagined I could feel this way about a tiny child I had never met--a feeling you can never quite understand until you meet your first.

 

Soon, Logan stabilized and could go and be with Mommy, and though she gave us a scare, has no lasting problems from her grand entrance into the world. I have spent the ensuing weeks and months in awe of this amazing little girl--and in gratitude for an eternal companion I often don't deserve, for strength beyond my own, for faith answered, and for Logan's place in our family that, at least for a moment, seemed so fragile.