Blow the Candle Out

Two Years Ago

David is discharged from the hospital on December 23rd. There was never an explanation of his severe abdominal pain; there often isn’t.

We have everyone at home for at least part of the holidays. Our good friend and blogger, Ellen Patton, does an extensive photo shoot. David looks healthy and strong, smiling through his bushy beard.

Christmas 2016

Our Christmas was gentle, quiet, and peaceful. Peter, Xiomara, and our grandchildren, Andrew, 3 ½, and Victoria, 1 1/3, drove a borrowed pickup truck up from NYC Friday night. Saturday, Xiomara and I made egg nog, Jim did some last minute Christmas shopping, and we enjoyed a lovely fire. Sunday morning we opened a few presents before sacrament meeting at church. In the afternoon we built another fire and roasted marshmallows over the coals.

For me the highlight of the holiday was Monday afternoon. As Victoria’s parents packed their things in the guest room, I entertained Andrew by re-lighting the dinner candles each time he blew them out. After many cycles, he wandered away and I stayed next to little Victoria in her pink fleece hoodie. As I placed a candle in front of her, she pursed her lips and blew the most delicate baby breath imaginable. With each tiny puff the flames bent away from her. For about fifteen minutes, I lit candles and she blew her little girl puffs of air at the flames.

When Xiomara and Peter were ready to go, I invited them into the dining room to see Victoria’s new skill. For the rest of her life, I’ll be the one who taught her to blow a candle out.

"In the Bleak Midwinter"

Two years ago

The week before Christmas is rough. On December 18th David’s white blood cell count had doubled in 3 days. Do the math: this could be fatal by December 27th. December 19th, at a routine visit, David tells the nurse he’s having abdominal pain: an 8 on a scale of 1-10. Of course, he hasn’t said a word to me.
While he is at Cox, I go forward with my plan to drive to my 1 p.m. therapy appointment in Waltham. From MGH, I take the Mass Pike, an unfamiliar route. Even though I have GPS, I get confused and miss the Newton exit. I then miss the Waltham/Route 128 exit, so I have to go to Framingham. And then the traffic slows to a crawl.
Feeling desperate and stressed, I call my therapist, saying I need to see him, if only for a short visit. He’s got free time, so he says to drive safely and he’ll be waiting.
As expected, David is admitted to Lunder 10. He probably has an intestinal infection. We know it isn’t colitis: he has no bowel. One small perk: he’s scored a 10th floor room with a stunning view of the Charles River.
December 20th, inpatient, David’s blood pressure dropped to 70 over something. His nurse, Meg, gave him a bolus of saline, then a unit of red blood cells. It’s a bit tense: both Meg and Judy Foster, the nurse practitioner, were in the room. Afterwards Meg said, “I knew we weren’t going to lose him.” I didn’t know that.

Just before Christmas 2016

I’m looking forward to the new year, when people will stop asking me the perfectly innocent question: who’s coming home? For four different reasons, Peter and his family are the only ones who will be with us. And, of course, we’ll miss David.
My good friend, Cami, comes over with her kids to help me decorate the house and tree. Cami’s a good sport about installing the tree lights. She just bought a pre-lit tree to avoid that task at home.
They’ve promised to come back after Epiphany to put the decorations away. I was struggling with the prospect of taking down the decorations, so much so that I couldn't put them up alone.

But, really, things are not all dreary; mostly life feels good. I walk to Cami’s for my weekly piano lesson: 5 ½ miles total. The Saturday snow (about 6 inches) has mostly melted, though there are patches of ice to be wary of. I get home after dusk, which falls at 4:15 p.m. Tomorrow is winter solstice.

Advent

Two years ago

Jim, David, and I drive to New Jersey for my dad’s funeral. I plan to stay on with my siblings to start emptying the house my parents lived in for 29 years. After Jim and David leave, I realize that all of my belongings are still in the trunk of the car: my laptop, my clothes, my wallet, even my psych meds. Lucky for me Maggie’s husband John is a doctor. We go to Walgreens and he writes me a prescription to tide me over till I get back home. I spend the week wearing my dad’s purple shirt, cargo pants, and a belt.
         The packing up is bittersweet. We fill box after box of Mom's books. When we think we've packed up the last of them I open a cupboard in the attic and call down, "More books!" Murder mysteries I'm sure she hadn't read for fifty years.

On December 10th, David’s WBC count is the lowest of the past two months: 3.84. The hydroxyurea, that old workhorse of a drug, brought the count down from 95 to under 4 in just 7 days.
        David wants us to have our traditional Advent suppers. Since 1998, we've invited old friends each of the four Sundays before Christmas. David becomes a little girl magnet. Two sweet five-year-olds snuggle close to him as we gather in the family room to read Christmas scriptures and sing carols.

Advent 2016

I struggle to prepare for Advent each week this year. My friend Cami comes over after she puts her one-year-old down for her afternoon nap and we set the tables together.
The Compassionate Friends, a support group for bereaved parents, grandparents, and siblings, holds its annual candle-lighting on Sunday, December 11th. I invite my family, far and near, to light a candle for an hour at 7 p.m. local time. In New York, our sweet little granddaughter immediately blows it out.

Maple Butter candle for David

Jim lights ours: a two-wick scented candle in a jar. I sit in a wooden chair next to the couch where David sat last year with those adoring little girls. I can’t sing the first few carols: my throat constricts. But I'm prepared: I have a dish towel to catch the tears.

(If you lit a candle for David, leave me a comment, please.)

Sticky Leukemia Cells

Two years ago

In my blog I report that David’s WBC count skyrockets during the week of his Chicago road trip, from 24 to 90. (Normal range is 4 to 11). I don’t mention the reason: David forgot to bring his hydroxyurea, the drug that kills blood cells and keeps the leukemia in check.

Tuesday, December 2nd, the WBC count has risen to 95. Dr. Gaby Hobbes, covering for Dr. Fathi, initiates a conversation she hopes is premature. At this high volume the “sticky” leukemic cells can clog capillaries in the organs, including the lungs and brain, causing serious complications and even death.

I ask to see a social worker about hospice. I am shocked to learn that hospice is 98% family-given care; evidently my picture of hospice being hospital-level care at home is a common misconception. I still want David to die at home; I hope I’ll be strong enough.

Thursday, December 4th, my 91-year-old father, Dr. George G. Hazen, dies of a heart attack. That week he’d swum his usual laps at the YMCA; his death is unexpected. I post a tribute on my blog.

Early December 2016

First snowfall: Monday, December 5

David's grave after first snow

The Compassionate Friends, a support group for bereaved parents, grandparents, and siblings, meets in Concord on the first Monday of each month. Jim and I attend a Boston Philharmonic Youth Orchestra at Symphony Hall on November 7th; for the month following I look forward to Monday, December 5th. A friend of mine describes going to a bereaved parent support group several years ago and deciding that she didn’t want to make the loss of her child her identity. For me, I find great comfort in being with parents who know what it’s like to lose a child.For now, it is a place to say David’s name aloud, to talk about my sorrow and face the grief. It’s a club no one wants to be a member of. It’s a club that brings me relief.

This Sunday, December 11, The Compassionate Friends is holding their annual worldwide candle-lighting. Please join me by lighting a candle at 7 p.m., local time, to honor all the sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, and grandchildren who left too soon. Imagine the candlelight circling the globe that night.