Suicide, The Moment of Death - Part 7

If you haven't read Parts 1 - 6, you can find them here:

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

*WARNING* Parts of this story are quite graphic and may be disturbing to some of you.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

A nurse came into the small room where the family was gathered. She asked if I wanted to see Alan. Of course I wanted to see him, why wouldn't I? She explained to me that he wasn't going to look like himself. Not only were his head and face swollen, but there would be tubes and wires in every conceivable place. How bad could it be? I wanted to see him. She grabbed me by the elbow very tightly. I couldn't figure out why it seemed she was trying to hold me up, I was at least 10" taller than her, clearly I would be fine. Then I saw him and immediately fell to my knees. This couldn't be my husband. This looked nothing like my husband. There had to have been a mix up. They assured me this was Alan, and as much as I wanted to remain in denial, I knew they were right. I was quickly escorted out of the ICU.

Someone called my parents in Washington, and Alan's parents in Texas and California, to let them know what had happened. I don't know who made the calls – I don't even remember giving the numbers to anyone. Alan's family stayed at the hospital with me until the next morning, when the rest of the family was due to arrive. The first 24 hours were unbearable. I was tired – so very tired – but each time I closed my eyes all that I could see was my husband slumped against the sofa with a bullet through his head. If I didn't close my eyes, I didn't see it. I tried not to blink.

My family arrived sometime during that first day. I don't know when – I don't know how they got there. There were questions – too many questions. Were we having problems? Was I pregnant? Didn't I see this coming? I had to talk to hospital staff about insurance (we didn't have any) and organ donation. Organ donation? He wasn't even dead! They made me talk to a social worker who offered to give me sleeping pills or something that would take the edge off. I blamed drugs for the suicide - the last thing I wanted to do was use them now to escape. I just wanted all of this to be over. Why didn't he die? The doctors informed me that Alan had taken a large dose of Xanax right before shooting himself. They couldn't let him die until all of the Xanax was out of his system so they could specify cause of death as a self-inflicted gun shot wound to the head.

Alan's family arrived. This was much more difficult to handle. I felt a great deal of responsibility to them in taking care of their son and I let them down.  Alan's mother was distraught, and she let me know that she blamed me for what happened. I could have stopped it. Look what I had done to her son. 36 hours into this and I'd still had no sleep and no food. I sat in a wooden armed chair staring at the wall, trying not to blink. As slow as time seemed to be moving, things were happening around me at break-neck speed. It was nearing the time when a decision had to be made regarding Alan's continued care.

I was told there were two options for care. The doctors could perform surgery to remove the blood clot that had formed around the gunshot wound. If they did this, they would also be removing part of his brain. He had done no damage to the part of the brain that controlled breathing and heartbeat, and removing the clot would ease the pressure on that part of the brain, allowing him to breathe on his own. However, all indications were that he was brain dead. What one learns during these times is that doctors will never tell you there is no hope – they will not - cannot - give definitive answers. They talk in percentages that never include 100%.

The second option was to let him go. They were fairly certain that at this point, if they were to remove the respirator, he would not be able to breathe on his own. His breathing would get slower and slower, his heart rate would decrease, and he would die. What? Those are my only two options? There had to be something better – an option they hadn't considered. I couldn't choose between those two things. But as his wife, I had to choose, and it was only my choice that mattered.

I'm sure there was discussion with the family, however it is only Alan's mom's position that I remember. She wanted her son, even if he was in a vegetative state for the rest of his life he would still be alive. She wouldn't have to let him go. I wondered just what she would be holding on to, but she was insistent.

When it became clear that I was going to have to make a decision, my first thought was that Alan would have never wanted to live out his years in a nursing home. Putting a gun to your head is not a cry for help, it's a decision to end the pain. There was also a selfish side to my thoughts. Keeping him breathing would mean that I would spend the rest of my life married to someone who could never love me back. I would be charged with caring for the shell of the man I once knew. There would be no children, no home with a white picket fence. My life, my marriage, would be about caring for someone who likely wouldn't even know I was there, and definitely couldn't give me any care in return. I couldn't imagine it. I decided to let him finish what he had started – it was time to let him die.

When the moment came to turn off the respirator, I wanted to be alone with him, but knew his parents – his brother – would want to be there too. What I didn't expect was that his brother would want his girlfriend there. I didn't want her there. She wasn't part of this family and she didn't need to gawk at Alan's death, but I had no fight left. I gave in and let her stay.

This was my first (and only) experience watching someone die. When they turned the respirator off, there was nothing but the sound of Alan breathing. We stood by the side of his bed and watched as his chest rose and fell slower and slower, until there was no breath left. He immediately transformed from my dear husband, with warm hands and skin full of life, to something, not someone, gray and cold. I believe I watched his soul leave his body at that very moment. I stood there briefly, making sure he wasn't going to start breathing again, then turned and left the room.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I will post my Sunday Secret tomorrow morning (almost as sacred as HNT) and will follow tomorrow evening with Part 8 of the Suicide Story. Monday I will post an Epilogue of sorts, explaining some of the missing pieces of how I got from there to here, what the ramifications of my actions were from the almost 2 years prior to "A"'s suicide, and how his suicide has impacted me - both bad and good (because there are some of each).

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~