He lay there, peaceful, at rest; deep inside myself, I
wailed.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
at 3:20 pm, my son John Darin Stith died.
That was a year ago today. At
5:10 pm I got the call from “Kath”, his nurse. In fact, when she said who she was I said, “Oh
yes, I met you yesterday evening in his room”. She acknowledged then went on to say “Patricia
asked me to call you. There was a situation during surgery and Darin passed.”
By the time those last two words
dulled my soul, I was in the kitchen leaning against the tall white counter
chair. Seconds before when I lifted the
phone from its’ docking station, it had not escaped my notice a Hackensack
Hospital number was displayed. Still, I calmly
walked over to the counter, unafraid since his fistula implant surgery had been
scheduled for ten that morning. Now,
seven hours later, certainly all danger time was long gone. So, hearing the words, unprepared
for the devastating information, I was momentarily shocked speechless. No matter, Kath kept talking, telling me
whom to ask for when I got over to the hospital and came to their main floor
lobby reception desk.
“Oh no”, the words spilled
from my mouth, firm and precise, quickly followed with, “I won’ t be coming anywhere”.
My senses had returned sufficiently
to inform me I was in no condition to go beyond the sanctuary of my home. Darin was gone. He was okay now. There was
not a thing I could do for him. Me? I
was not okay. My arms and legs wanted
to wobble around just standing still in my kitchen. My soul wanted to cry out; I wanted to keep
away the requisite confusion his passing would bring. .
. . hide from it as long as I
could. But I couldn’t. His sister had to be told. (And, later I did go to the hospital, driven by a friend who stayed with me all evening.)
Visiting with Darin the prior
evening, my son was emotionally and mentally healthy. As far as I knew, he was optimistically rational
about his physical condition even though we all knew he was not healthy
physically. Visiting with him that
evening we discussed the operation planned for the next morning. He initiated
the topic. “Why the operation now?”, he asked me almost emotionless, reclining against the pillows
in his bed. I sat in the comfortable
chair to the right of his bedside feeling uncertain to have the question to
deal with. I didn’t want to hear doubt from him or from me. My answer, “Well
you know doctors say that fistula implant is critical for future procedures. Your heart is not getting any stronger. It's the time to do it while you are as strong as you are, before you go home."
His loving heart was not strong enough.
We rallied, family, friends, church family, neighbors, community, co-workers, acquaintances from everywhere over a lifetime. We said good-bye to my Darin.
Now, one year later, I'm continuing to say goodbye, miss you, love you. I move forward, keeping in mind that part of my relationship with my son throughout his forty-nine plus years that gave me love, confidence and strength so many times in so many ways.
I'm also remembering how faithfully he would strive to overcome any relatively short -term or longer siege of disabling health - crisis initiated - caused by Sickle Cell Disease. His goal was always to move along to return to his office; to live productive, fun days as best he could with his little family, wife and two daughters (and dog). Cardio-Renal Syndrome was the diagnosis of his final major physical challenge - the by product of organ deteriorating Sickle Cell Disease.
Last summer, in June, he told me about the diagnosis as if he was first learning of it. He was very upbeat, sounded relieved to have a name for this combination of problems for which a balance of successful medical protocols had great difficulty handling. I researched the condition. Considering what I learned and considering he passed just three months later, I'm thinking he actually knew the serious challenge of Cardio-Renal Syndrome several months before he shared the information with me. He shielded me. Today I realize he made a good decision in that regard.
His loving heart was not strong enough.
We rallied, family, friends, church family, neighbors, community, co-workers, acquaintances from everywhere over a lifetime. We said good-bye to my Darin.
Now, one year later, I'm continuing to say goodbye, miss you, love you. I move forward, keeping in mind that part of my relationship with my son throughout his forty-nine plus years that gave me love, confidence and strength so many times in so many ways.
I'm also remembering how faithfully he would strive to overcome any relatively short -term or longer siege of disabling health - crisis initiated - caused by Sickle Cell Disease. His goal was always to move along to return to his office; to live productive, fun days as best he could with his little family, wife and two daughters (and dog). Cardio-Renal Syndrome was the diagnosis of his final major physical challenge - the by product of organ deteriorating Sickle Cell Disease.
Last summer, in June, he told me about the diagnosis as if he was first learning of it. He was very upbeat, sounded relieved to have a name for this combination of problems for which a balance of successful medical protocols had great difficulty handling. I researched the condition. Considering what I learned and considering he passed just three months later, I'm thinking he actually knew the serious challenge of Cardio-Renal Syndrome several months before he shared the information with me. He shielded me. Today I realize he made a good decision in that regard.
I do thank God for my son, for having him in my heart to love today and forever.
My constant prayer and plea is that a cure be found for Sickle Cell Disease. If you can help that happen, please do.
