Limbo by Jeanine DuBois when monitors blip when tubes protrude when my husband lies still not talking ...words eyes speaking volumes when my heart asks, What next?"   when I look in nurses' eyes we know that we don't know   when? what?   when the future is an eternity unknown when now is all there is monitors tubes charted levels eyes crying breath held life a question no answer today

That Day by Jeanine DuBois That day I knew   78/13* was just too low meds maxed   the end so near That day  I walked into ICU to nurses' hugs wondering looks... "Are you OK?"   That day   my nurse, Bill's nurse looked deep and still into my eyes "I'm sorry," he breathed. "I know," I replied profoundly hushed profoundly sad   That day your death was near And I will never be the same. * blood pressure

 

Time for Peace by Jeanine DuBois You lie there in another world   eyes roaming to and fro   mind and body so tired You hear a voice  Anna and struggle to catch a glimpse of your loved one eyes back... roaming again   I'm here to deliver the secret: your future   I guess you know your eyes with me look deeply You listen Tomorrow -just 12 hours left God - the God you've sought all your life - will enfold you in Loving Arms   You nod "Yes" and kiss my finger I think... you know you're glad Cindy saw it, too. It's right. Time for peace.

Hearts in Sync Personal Narrative Essay on a Moral Choice by Jeanine DuBois, 5/3/2000   Listen to my heart. That's what I learned. Sixty-seven days my husband Bill lay in intensive care, teetering between life and death. The day before his liver surgery, he'd signed an advanced directive for me to remove life support if he were terminally ill. Every time people go through surgery, they're told there's a chance they may die. Bill's chance was one in a hundred. In the doctor's office, it sounded routine. But the tubes, the dialysis, the breathing machine, the feeding tube, the blood pressure medicines, the blipping monitors... they didn't look routine. And why wasn't he waking up? Three weeks had passed, and still he was not conscious. The doctor even let me bring in our furry Sherbert buddy, our orange tabby cat. Anything to bring Bill around. I feared that some day I might have to make the choice Bill had asked of me, to remove life support. I looked deep into the eyes of his nurses and asked loaded questions, like, "Have you seen people this ill recover?" Their answers were at once cautious and honest: "Well, to be honest, not very many, but sometimes they surprise us." Meanwhile, a couple well-meaning friends said things like, "How can you just let him lie there?" Oh, God, their questions tortured me. As if it were easy. But in my heart, I couldn't say that he was terminally ill, so I had another reprieve... another day I didn't have to make the dreaded decision. And then, after three and a half weeks, there were those awesome days when Bill rallied. He became able to nod his head "yes" or "no," eventually to move his arm, look in our eyes, kiss our fingers, and even mouth some words, like "more blankets" and "I love you." Daily I visited, sometimes slept in the fold-out visitors' chair, and hourly plied Bill with every gift I could offer: the phone held to his ear, an answering machine overflowing with love and support; cards read to him, conscious or not; visitors writing in his hospital memory book; stress relief massage lotion rubbed into his sallow, listless limbs; arms and legs stretched in physical therapy; salve rubbed on his cracked, bleeding lips; a watery sponge swabbed in his moisture-starved mouth; restful, dreamy, or spirited music played round the clock. I watched the ebb and flow of his vital signs on monitors, chart printouts, and nurses' faces. Always, there was hope. But those last three weeks, Bill just slid down hill. The night he went into atriol fibrillation with six nurses and two doctors scurrying to his aid, he wasn't expected to live. But he did. Then, however, the blood pressure meds were maxed, and still he was reading 56/43 or 52/38. His wound infection had grown and looked like a deep cavern. It made me catch my breath to see it. The doctors had also embedded a chest tube which, in three days, pumped out four liters of bloody looking fluid from around his lungs. And, yet, hope returned. Doctors removed the chest tube, and there were days when he opened his eyes, smiled, and nodded. How could I give up hope on someone who could still sometimes mouth, "I love you"? And, yet again, a friend asked, "How do you think he feels lying there?" Well, the day did come when I knew in my heart that Bill was going to die. That was the night his blood pressure dropped to 78/13. I just knew. I prayed, "God, show me" and called his family and mine. "He may not make it through the night," I told his children. "Be ready to fly up for the memorial," I told my California family. The next day, my friend Laurie, who had written many songs for Bill, awakened early in the morning and wrote another song for him: "I Will Walk You to the Light." The song spoke of the "brightest light that we will ever know, the Light that calls you Home." (© Laurie Schaad, 11/30/99) I felt at once uplifted by God's promise, saddened that Bill was truly dying, and reassured that my intuition was right. Meanwhile, his out-of-town daughter arrived from Florida that night. The next day, a friend woke up at 3:33 with a dream in her mind. The time struck me, since in Biblical numerology, three is the number for God. She dreamt that Bill's body and spirit were attached by a golden umbilical cord, and that for his spirit to be free, the umbilical cord had to be cut. Ordinarily Bill would cut his own cord, but because of the machines, he was unable to do so. He needed our help to cut the cord by removing the life support. This was truly my answer to prayer. By this time, six doctors were convinced that there was no hope of Bill's physical recovery, short of a miracle. So, that night we had a family meeting with the doctor and nurse. We decided to follow Bill's wishes the next day, after family had more time with him. Then he would be given Morphine and Versed, so that he would be unconscious without pain or struggle, and only the blood pressure medicines would be turned off. We felt that left room for a miracle if God chose to eliminate the most life-threatening part of Bill's illness. I suppose that makes it sound simple. Far from it. Two of Bill's other daughters weren't ready for the decision. At the family meeting, they wouldn't sit near me or look at me, and eventually screamed at me and walked out of the meeting. Months later, after Bill had died and we'd had a partial healing of feelings between us, one daughter yelled at me that I had killed her dad. That thought had been my fear when I first faced the possibility of having to honor Bill's wishes and remove life support. Back then I had even gone to a counselor and talked about my fear. But I knew, just as the counselor and other friends assured me, that if the time came to make the decision, I would know I wasn't killing him. I trusted that and listened to my heart. My friend's dream was the answer I'd awaited. The night before Bill died, I put down the hospital bed railing, cuddled close to him, and spoke with him as his daughter Cindy watched. Although Bill had been incoherent and agitated for three days, he now miraculously looked me in the eye and listened. I reminded him of the advanced directive, his last written request, told him that six doctors felt his body had given out, and told him what we planned to do with the medicines the next day. I caressed his head as I told him that he had sought God all his life, and the next day he would wake up in God's arms. As sick as he was, he shook his head "yes" and kissed my finger. And from that moment through his death, Bill was peaceful. Many more signs reinforced that the time was right, and I had made the right decision. I'm so grateful for the peace I have still today about doing the right thing. It took soul-searching, and research, and courage on a daily basis. But, in the words of Laurie's last song, this time from Bill on the morning of his death, "I must move: This is some kind of liberation. It is time to go, Let my spirit flow, And it's time for me to move. Time to move; It's time to move. I have loved you all, And I love you still, But it's time for me to move. I must move: This is Divine revelation. I am led to go, Let my spirit flow, And I know that I must move...." (© Laurie Schaad,12/2/99)

In Memory Expository Essay on the True Colors of Bill DuBois by Jeanine DuBois, 2/3/2001   My husband, Bill DuBois, was vibrant, often larger than life, right up until the day he died. His curiosity, humor, and dedication molded him into a man who was well-loved by many, a man who touched hearts and lives irrevocably. Bill's curiosity, like a neon question mark, was the first trait I noticed. When he would read something considered a source of wisdom, he would break it down into the smallest, yet most significant little words. For example, he emphasized the words, "...trudge the road of happy destiny," not to happy destiny. "Life is not a destination; it's a journey!" he exclaimed. Soon I discovered that Bill's curiosity stretched to the study of the heavens, an interest we both shared. At first he read books like The Amazing Universe and Space, Time, Infinity. Then he got increasingly sophisticated telescopes, starting with a $1 yard sale find and concluding with a $600 Edmund Scientific. Bill explored still further on OMSI trips and later through extensive reading and study of other cultures, particularly ancient Egypt. Because of Bill's interest in the world beyond him, he frequently had something interesting to share. Many friends and admirers loved the way Bill could spread his wisdom with humor. He wanted to write a book, but never went beyond writing one lovely vignette in which a little child sat in an overgrown, old-fashioned garden, looking at gladiolas, dandelions, forget-me-nots, violets, and mustard greens. Finally, the little boy said to God, "God, I don't get it. How do you tell a weed from a flower?" and God replied, "Don't feel bad. I never could tell the difference myself!" Sometimes Bill's humor was light and ridiculous, like the Rodney Dangerfield jokes he was so well known for, or the times he would flip his false teeth uppers half way down and make a menacing face, mimicking a werewolf. Often he had his own clever sayings that caught the listener by surprise. A classic was his line, "I had my nose broken in three places: Connecticut, New York, and Los Angeles." And I still smile today at his conclusion of a speech with, "and that's no fried ice cream!" Bill's humor, whether comic relief or poignant insight, nestled around us like a warm baby blue blanket. Whether curious or humorous, underlying most all of Bill's choices was a powerful dedication. He even used to say, "When you get desperate, get dedicated!" And that's just what he did. An activist, Bill supported and participated in Portland's Coalition for Human Dignity, KBOO radio's Ol' Mole Variety Hour, distribution of The Alliance newspaper, and attending Solidarity meetings. Within Bill's family, he dedicated himself to showing love and support through long talks, walks, and faithfully helping eat turkey and rutabagas on all special occasions. Perhaps Bill's greatest commitment, though, was in his search for God. He read, chanted, prayed, meditated, visited all kinds of teachers, like Swami Muktananda in Los Angeles, Dadaji from India, and the Rosicrucians in San Jose. Bill's search for God ended on Thursday, December 2nd, 1999, when, as I told him the night before, he would wake up the next day in God's loving arms. I see Bill's dedication as the circle and triangle symbol which he so thoroughly loved: a golden circle for eternity, a golden triangle for the Trinity of God and of Self: mind, body, spirit. Today it brings me great joy to know that Bill's curiosity, humor, and dedication live on in his grandchildren and all whose lives he touched.

One Little Prayer In 1999, doctors removed half my husband’s liver and gall bladder to eliminate a tumor.  Bill was expected home in ten days, but he survived 67 in ICU.  His nurse John was polite and thorough, but I found him very irritating. He never laughed or smiled, wouldn’t mention Bill had visitors, and worst of all, called me Ma’am! Arrgghh!   I tried to communicate with John. After sleeping at home, I would ask if anyone had visited and get only a yes or no. No names. No times. Not even the slightest smile. And the “ma’am” thing… I asked him to call me Jeanine, but all I heard was ma’am! He was from the South; it was a term of respect. I insisted “Jeanine” was all the respect I needed.   Meanwhile, Bill looked horrible. Day one, puffy, his kidneys stopped. Day two, on dialysis. Day three, still unconscious, his eyes rolled back. I don’t know how I managed to teach all day and spend long nights in the hospital, but that’s what I did, saving my leave for Bill’s return home.   The fourth day, before leaving for the hospital, I said a prayer. “Lord, you know I want to see Bill, but I’m really having a hard time with John. Please, help me get through this.”   On my way in, I learned OHSU nurses were on verge of a strike. Oh, wow. Our district had gotten close. Talk about stress. I decided to say something to John.   “I heard you’re close to striking. As a teacher, I’ve been there, and I know how stressful it can be. I’m sorry.”   “You teach? I have so much respect for teachers. It’s such an important job.”   That morning John cracked a little joke and gave a smile. What a relief! I placed a journal with a sign on the window ledge. John even pointed visitors to it. Now Bill’s friends and family could leave messages. And John finally dropped the “ma’am!”   During Bill’s 67 days in ICU, he had 33 nurses, John more than others. John became a mainstay of support. While Bill’s nurses were admirable, Bill's kids and I came to know and trust John the most. We could ask tough questions: Have you seen patients recover when they’re like this, sporadically conscious, with blood pressure down to 32/23? John’s actions taught me compassion and honesty while facing hard times. He was gently supportive, especially the day I could not stop crying. He told me he’d never seen anyone so dedicated. (By then I’d gotten leave from work, often slept the night in the chair-turned-cot, and sought every way possible to comfort Bill and communicate friends’ loving support.)   John seemed to take Bill’s kids and I under a wing that covered the families of his patients, and he attended to us as we navigated this unexpected, challenging road.   After Bill died, I returned with symbolic gifts—full-spectrum lights—to thank the nurses for their sustaining Light. One nurse said enough for me to realize that, most likely, Bill almost died that first night. Probably those first few days were a real stretch to keep him alive. No wonder John wasn’t smiling.   I’m thankful for Spirit’s nudge to say that one little prayer, the prayer that opened me to receive such kind support when sorely needed. ~ Jeanine DuBois, 11-15-2014

This page was updated on 11/16/2014.

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