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Update: Part 2
8 years ago
General
Went and saw Andy yesterday. Luckily, I have a boss who understands where we all come from when it comes down to making friends at work and gave me the day off. Seeing her was...tough. The ventilator was what was keeping her alive, which I don't think I could constitute the state she was in as 'alive'.
My last conversation with her, face to face, led her to reveal that when her father passed away, he was in a state of comatose. Unaware and in a deep coma. He couldn't move, speak, even open his eyes. But in her belief, he could hear her talk to him.
The state Andy was in was similar. She was strapped in by tubes and those sticky squares to monitor her heart and lungs. The ventilator gave off a low hiss as it drew in oxygen, and passed it through to her by the tube attached to her mouth. It would cause her chest to inflate from each breath it passed on to her. The screen attached to the ventilator had an animated image of a pair of lungs inflating and deflating from each breath that was given to her. But her movements...they were not normal. Not in the smooth, natural way that our chests expand whenever we take a breath. It was forced. Shoved. In every way, it wasn't natural nor did it look comfortable. It caused her to jerk and shake each time she breathed, and it just...it was hard to watch that.
Marion and I got the room to ourselves for a good while. We stood in silence. The beeping of the monitors and machines drowned out the sounds of chatting outside the partially closed door leading to Andy's room. Looking at her face, seeing the way she was leaned back, her arms laid at her sides and her hands open with palms down...
I didn't expect this image to burn itself in my memory.
At any given moment, I was expecting her eyes to open, just to look at us with her blue eyes. But it didn't happen. I could hear Andy's voice in my head, her fears from our last conversation echoing in response to what I was seeing.
"I don't want my grand kids to see me like that."
I couldn't feel after that visit. It felt like I was walking, was here, but wasn't.
Before we left, I was able to speak to Andy one more time. I held her hand, which was swollen from the cancer's effect on her body but still warm. Once my hand touched hers, she moved her head side to side. Her hand didn't move, but watching her caused me to panic slightly.
I jerked my hand back, thinking I was hurting her. But Marion consoled me, saying Andy could sense I was there, and that she could hear me. She then stared at me, waiting for me to say something but I couldn't say a word. I just looked around the room, out the window, trying to find my voice somewhere in the back of my throat. It was extremely hard, but after a few minutes, I finally mustered my strength to just say something, gently placing my hand back against hers.
"I love you, Andy" When those words passed from my lips, I felt at ease yet still heavy. I felt pathetic as we walked out of the hospital, millions of questions running through my head as I wondered and prayed and tried my hardest to guide Marion out of the hospital.
What type of friend was I? Did Andy ever wish I saw her more? I know I should of, I know she needed me at times....Did I fail her? Did she resent my friendship with her?
Did she ever think I didn't care about her and just moved on with my life away from her?
Did she think I thought of her as a burden?
I guess the only type of consolation I have at all of these questions, was when I was saying good bye to Andy's daughter Heather and her husband Bob.
Both told me that Andy loved me, loved all her friends from work. And that she talked about me a lot. I joked at first, saying she must of said all lies or bad things.
But from all the things she did for me; driving me home when I had a concussion from an accident, talking to me about my life, giving me advice on what I should do with life. She gave me a lot.
And I feel like I gave her so little.
I guess that is only natural. To feel like you didn't live up the expectations that someone would expect friends to be. When you lose friends to death or difficulties, it leaves you hanging onto different scenarios and what if's.
As I drove home, I just thought and replayed my memories with Andy. The good times. I guess that will stay with me forever. And I won't ever have to worry about if I was a good enough friend. We had fun together. Made each other laugh. It was worth it.
I guess that is all you can ask for in a friendship.
(I'm sorry for the details in this post. But I want it to be here for me. To at least recall and understand. I am not seeing pity or anything. I just wanted to let it out for me to remember.)
My last conversation with her, face to face, led her to reveal that when her father passed away, he was in a state of comatose. Unaware and in a deep coma. He couldn't move, speak, even open his eyes. But in her belief, he could hear her talk to him.
The state Andy was in was similar. She was strapped in by tubes and those sticky squares to monitor her heart and lungs. The ventilator gave off a low hiss as it drew in oxygen, and passed it through to her by the tube attached to her mouth. It would cause her chest to inflate from each breath it passed on to her. The screen attached to the ventilator had an animated image of a pair of lungs inflating and deflating from each breath that was given to her. But her movements...they were not normal. Not in the smooth, natural way that our chests expand whenever we take a breath. It was forced. Shoved. In every way, it wasn't natural nor did it look comfortable. It caused her to jerk and shake each time she breathed, and it just...it was hard to watch that.
Marion and I got the room to ourselves for a good while. We stood in silence. The beeping of the monitors and machines drowned out the sounds of chatting outside the partially closed door leading to Andy's room. Looking at her face, seeing the way she was leaned back, her arms laid at her sides and her hands open with palms down...
I didn't expect this image to burn itself in my memory.
At any given moment, I was expecting her eyes to open, just to look at us with her blue eyes. But it didn't happen. I could hear Andy's voice in my head, her fears from our last conversation echoing in response to what I was seeing.
"I don't want my grand kids to see me like that."
I couldn't feel after that visit. It felt like I was walking, was here, but wasn't.
Before we left, I was able to speak to Andy one more time. I held her hand, which was swollen from the cancer's effect on her body but still warm. Once my hand touched hers, she moved her head side to side. Her hand didn't move, but watching her caused me to panic slightly.
I jerked my hand back, thinking I was hurting her. But Marion consoled me, saying Andy could sense I was there, and that she could hear me. She then stared at me, waiting for me to say something but I couldn't say a word. I just looked around the room, out the window, trying to find my voice somewhere in the back of my throat. It was extremely hard, but after a few minutes, I finally mustered my strength to just say something, gently placing my hand back against hers.
"I love you, Andy" When those words passed from my lips, I felt at ease yet still heavy. I felt pathetic as we walked out of the hospital, millions of questions running through my head as I wondered and prayed and tried my hardest to guide Marion out of the hospital.
What type of friend was I? Did Andy ever wish I saw her more? I know I should of, I know she needed me at times....Did I fail her? Did she resent my friendship with her?
Did she ever think I didn't care about her and just moved on with my life away from her?
Did she think I thought of her as a burden?
I guess the only type of consolation I have at all of these questions, was when I was saying good bye to Andy's daughter Heather and her husband Bob.
Both told me that Andy loved me, loved all her friends from work. And that she talked about me a lot. I joked at first, saying she must of said all lies or bad things.
But from all the things she did for me; driving me home when I had a concussion from an accident, talking to me about my life, giving me advice on what I should do with life. She gave me a lot.
And I feel like I gave her so little.
I guess that is only natural. To feel like you didn't live up the expectations that someone would expect friends to be. When you lose friends to death or difficulties, it leaves you hanging onto different scenarios and what if's.
As I drove home, I just thought and replayed my memories with Andy. The good times. I guess that will stay with me forever. And I won't ever have to worry about if I was a good enough friend. We had fun together. Made each other laugh. It was worth it.
I guess that is all you can ask for in a friendship.
(I'm sorry for the details in this post. But I want it to be here for me. To at least recall and understand. I am not seeing pity or anything. I just wanted to let it out for me to remember.)
