She’s a doctor. An ER doctor. But I still think of her as the teenager she once was — a young friend of my daughter who often spent time at our house. I remember her as a studious girl whose long, blond hair spilled over the pages of her textbooks as she sat at our dining room table doing her homework between school and dinnertime. She was serious then and she was serious now, two decades later, phoning to let me know that, no, Jon had not suffered. He did not die in anguish. It was over quickly, she said. Before he knew what was happening.
The Teenager had read my post of two months ago, “Widowed: As He Lay Dying,” and she wanted to set me straight.
I had written that post awash in anguish of my own: I had just noticed on Jon’s death certificate that a full hour had passed between the time he first struggled to breathe and the moment he died.
The prospect had brought me to tears — what was going through Jon’s mind for that last hour as he lay dying? Was he afraid? Did he long to say something to me? To his children? Something he had left unsaid?
The Pulmonary Embolism
Pulmonary embolisms are not always fatal, said The Teenager over the phone. But when they happen the way Jon’s did — in a hospital, with six doctors at his bedside, unable to save him — it means that the blood clot was massive, and that death was inevitable.
Jon’s nurse — Jon was in the hospital recovering from a mild stroke he’d suffered two days earlier — told me that my husband had been feeling fine that day. A little confused, but energetic and gregarious. Jon was still Jon.
But that evening he told his nurse that he didn’t feel well. Soon he had trouble breathing. Then his heart stopped.
Six doctors and four nurses rushed to his room. They got his heart beating again. It stopped again.
What Really Happened at 7:22 p.m.
The death certificate states that Jon’s time of death was 7:22 p.m., February 19, 2021. But The Teenager wanted me to know that Jon did not die at that moment: 7:22 was the time a physician had called the time of death. It was the moment that the doctors and nurses attending him finally had to accept that he was gone. Jon’s time of death was not about Jon; it was about his doctors,
Jon had died in a matter of minutes, The Teenager insisted. He left very fast. He did not die in anguish. Jon — what made Jon the entity he was — was not there at 7:22.
“I know that for sure,” she said. “I’ve done those resuscitations. I have laid my hands on patients like this. I have done this job. He was not suffering for that hour. He did not have an hour thinking, ‘I’m dying.’ That’s not what happened. I promise you.”
The way Jon died was a gift, she said. And that’s why she had called. “It was a huge gift. I wanted to tell you that.”
No Stopping Him
So that’s how it was. Jon was alive. And then he wasn’t. There was no stopping him. His time had come. He had lived nearly 80 years — and then he was gone.
This wasn’t how I thought it would be for us. I thought we had many years ahead of us, plenty of time to say our goodbyes, to utter some words of appreciation. To thank each other.
But no, Jon’s time was up. His life had had a beginning. A middle. And now it had an end. An unavoidable end. There was some comfort in that.
Some.
One gets one’s comfort where one can. And in this case it came from a teenager, a nice girl who did her homework at our dinner table and has since laid her hands on death many times over.
I was learning how to be OK with getting old — but I thought it would be with Jon. More about aging at “The Shame of Aging.” Also at “Anne Lamott on Aging: Drop That Rock.”
Your blog updates, especially in regards to the grief process and to what you’ve learned about his passing, are a comfort to read when missing Uncle Jon. I go through a lot of emotions when thinking about him, but in this very moment, I am excited for him, and for you. You still have so much interesting life left, and I know he’s somewhere fantastic.
I kinda think Jon is somewhere “fantastic” also.
Oh, Barbara, I am so glad this ER doc, “The Teenager,” who has the experience and cares for you, called you. My mother, 1 month shy of her 54th birthday, died of the same. Came out of nowhere to someone still young and “healthy.” For her sake, I was so grateful she passed quickly. Bless “The Teenager.”
It made it easier on Jon and in some ways made it easier on me — even though the shock of it is still with me.
Such important words to hear at this time, to help with the enduring pain of that tragic incident. And maybe it is really not as tragic as our limited minds envision… so natural in that the loss is definitely ours… all who know Jon. We can also easily imagine that he is now in a good place, a wonderful, amazing place.
We miss our good, cheerful, positive friend a lot. So sorry that you have the really difficult part to deal with. Rich
Thank you, Rich. It helps to know that other people are missing Jon, too. Somehow that validates everything that I am feeling.
I am comforted by the teenager’s observations & experience. It must be a comfort to you that Jon was not struggling, that his heart had said goodnight/goodbye. The moment had come for Jon’s life to put a period at the end of the line.
This has to be hard for you to adjust to a different relationship with Jon. I have no experience like this. But know that we your friends love you & pray for you being at peace with this change in your precious life. 💕💕💕🙏🙏🙏. Joy
Yes, that’s what I’m beginning to feel — a period at the end of Jon’s life.
Barbara, I didn’t know. I am so very sorry. Those days by the Mint don’t seem long ago at all.. Lee and I send love and support..
Thank you, Shelley. I’m hoping to put together a little history of Zodiac News Service. And I’m hoping you will contribute!
Happy and relieved for you, for Jon, for all of us who care so much. Please thank The Teenager for me, too. Ginger
Yes! Thanks to The Teenager, who went way out of her way to make that phone call.
Loved to read the story you told us with all your writerliness.
Thank you, Carrie. Writing helps.
Thank you for that blog. It also gives me peace.
Good to know. Thank you!
Thank you for this update. I’ve been wondering about the circumstances of Jon’s death ever since I heard of his passing.
Life is a series of goodbyes. Eventually we must say goodbye to everything but God. To him it’s only more Hello every day.
It’s hard to write about those details, especially because I’m reminded every time I do that I wasn’t able to be there with Jon. Covid has taken its toll in so many lives in so many ways. Right now I’d like to be helping out my overworked son and his family — but I don’t dare get on an airplane.
I understand your reluctance to explain details to the many people who have asked. I'[m so sorry you could not have been with Jon to hold his hand and possibly reassure him. A good friend of ours lost their daughter who died at UM Hosptal without them with her.
Jon died very suddenly and very fast. If covid had not kept me from being the hospital, there’s a good chance that I might not have been in the room at that very moment… I had been able to talk to Jon on the phone while he was in the hospital with the stroke, which was relatively mild. And I’d talked to him that very morning, and he was his old self. My friend the ER doc tells me that the way Jon went made it very easy on him, but a lot harder on our kids and me; it was a shock and traumatic for us… Your friend’s daughter — that’s heartbreaking; the daughter might have been conscious and aware of what was happening to her for hours or days.
Actually, I don’t feel private about the details of Jon’s passing. But it is hard to talk about it.
What I have learned over many years is that some people care and act with caring. Others do not. Caring is great for everyone. Love you, eb
Yes, The Teenager cared enough to take time out of her busy life.
Such a wonderful gift to have a person you’ve known so long and so well, offer you her unbiased, actual, experienced reassurance that Jon passed peacefully and quickly. I believe that’s how we all wish to transition. To have someone you trust and care about tell you this is beautiful. I hope it gives you peace, Barb. Hugs.
That phone call helped a lot. Because of the message, but also because somebody cared so much.