Thursday, December 31, 2009

spikes of lucidity

It is the last day of 2009, there was a heavy snow storm this morning but it's powdery blanket has left the city almost as quickly as it came. I have seen Frankie everyday since Christmas. She continues to be made comfortable by medications and a caring staff, she also continues to deteriorate both physically and mentally. There are moments when it seems she has full mental capacity; she'll begin to say something or ask a question, but these moments of clarity are usually short, and just as quickly she'll trail off and recede into her metastases stupor.

Yesterday I spent a couple of hours with her. We talked a little, I fed her some soup, I read to her a bit, but mostly she slept as I sat with her. When it was clear that she was sound asleep, I left and crossed the park back to the West Side.

At about seven o'clock my phone rang, it was Frankie.

"Hi Honey!" I said excitedly when I heard her voice.

"What's with you?" she said, "why do you sound like that?"

"I'm just happy to hear you sounding so good. How are you feeling?" I asked.

"Sounding good? I feel awful, I can't get comfortable." she said fully alert, " When are you coming over here?"

"I was just there for a few hours today," I said "We talked and I fed you some soup."

"You were?" she cut me off, "Oh God, this is awful, I don't remember a thing. What kind of soup?"

"Squash soup," I said "you really liked it, you ate it all."

"I did? Oh no, that soup's awful!" She responded "This is all so terrible. It's like I'm on a different planet."

And then just as quickly she left. The words became difficult and she couldn't get them out. The nurse took the phone from her and told me that she needed to sleep.

Early on, when I took on the responsibility of being Frankie's health care proxy, I was told that metastases with brain involvement is often much more difficult for the family and care-givers than it is for the patient. The patient can be kept comfortable as the disease progresses, but they often drift into dementia, or slip into unconsciousness and mental deterioration. It can become increasingly more difficult for loved ones who are left to watch this happen. It seems that this is exactly what is happening to Frankie.

Today I was there again and she was much like she was yesterday. Her head remained tilted to one side and her mouth hung slightly open. She drifted in and out of sleep, and the few times she attempted to speak it was difficult and clearly frustrating for her as she couldn't string together more than two or three words at a time. I fed her some apple sauce, moisturized her hands, head, and face, and did some hand-holding and talking. I brought a sandwich with me and ate it in the chair next to her bed. I talked to her about the snow storm this morning, asked if she needed anything, and tried to make her comfortable. I noticed that someone had left a copy of "As Bill Sees It" in her room, so I read a passage from it.

A man appeared in the doorway, his face crinkled in anger and discomfort, resting his weight on a cane, a small woman standing behind him. Frankie looked toward the door and with full force and clear, crisp diction said: "Oh my God, Is that my brother Herman?"

I left the room and sat outside in the anteroom with Herman's wife. Frankie has been estranged from her family for years. I don't know the specifics of their history, nor do I want to, but as adults they have not been part of each other's lives. Herman's wife asked me about Frankie's condition, her prognosis, etc. I gave her brief answers and we just sat as Frankie and Herman spoke in the other room. After a few minutes Herman began to walk back out through the doorway but stopped as Frankie said in a loud, clear voice, "I just want you to know that I love you."

Herman turned around and reentered the room and said to his sister, " I love you too."

The wife took my hand and with teary eyes said, "I'm so glad he was able to say that."

Herman walked back out of the room and said over his shoulder, "Be good"

Frankie responded loudly, "Not much chance of that"

"Well if you can't be good be careful"

This exchange was done in such a quick and steady tempo that it suggested to me this may have been something that they said regularly to each other years before.

Herman and his wife left. The visit couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes, but the arrogant and curmudgeonly man that had entered the room just minutes before left an altered man. The short time with his sister had clearly been healing and transformative. It illustrated to me the importance of closure, and reconciliation, and the power of forgiveness.

I went back in to see how Frankie was doing and she was completely spent. The exchange with her brother had taken all the energy she could muster. I leaned down and asked her if she was alright or if I could get her anything, and she couldn't form words, her mouth made odd shapes and she could produce only weak sounds. I took her hand and said, "That was something, wasn't it?" She squeezed my hand, looked up at me, and smiled. I went out to get her some apple juice to give her a few sips, but before I could tear the paper off the bendy straw I saw that she was sound asleep. I kissed her on the head and left.


namrebos said...

You are a wonderful man and have such a way painting a picture with words. I aspire to be a man of your caliber.

sibilla patrizi said...

Jeff...thank you. You have a gift many but one for write like a pro..and you made me feel close to Franky today...remembering the same sort of feelings I had sitting for just a couple of hours at my mothers death bed
I love you