Goodbye, Joe

It was a Wednesday in August. At about 9:20 a.m., the phone in the office rang. My colleague got it and in a minute she handed it to me, saying, "It's from Dr. Silverius. He said there's something wrong with your husband."

The doctor wanted me to come immediately. Joe had suffered a massive heart attack. He had sent for an ambulance to take him to the hospital. I was, however, not very affected by that serious voice on the other end of line. After all, doctors made mistakes. Joe was OK a few hours ago.

Looking back, I recalled that Joe had asked me if he would open his shoe shop that day. Rushing to my office, I said in return, "Why not?" That was our last dialogue at home. I have the opinion that routines have healing value to help people through tough times. He has been, as I noticed, working through the course of grief over the loss of his idol brother, in his prolonged and most sensitive way.

And by opening his shop that had been closed for weeks, there might be solace. Living in a small town, friends passing by might drop in to have a chat, or he could then be busy serving customers. I had meant to help. But, had I been a bit more inquisitive that morning, I wouldn't have felt so careless.

Halfway to the hospital, my colleague suggested that I stop an ambulance heading in our direction. It stopped. Inside, a nurse was attending to Joe. His damp shirt stuck to his body and sweat poured down his face.

Could I still be reaming in the morning? But I knew I wasn't. I held his hand, it was as cold as ice. "The pain is so severe, it's here," he gathered his strength to put his hand on his chest.

Lying on the hospital bed, Joe was soon on a life-support system: respirator, heart monitor, feeding tube. Why did this happen? Joe had never been seriously sick, except for the flu and the usual fatigue after hours of gardening, a thing he loved most in his life. In less than an hour, Edwin, our only son, was with me.

Apparently, Eli, my husband's best friend, whose house was in front of ours, had rushed Joe to the doctor and later had collected our son from school. We clung together in disbelief.

Morning turned to afternoon. There was no trace of the usual healthy glow on his face. After he was bathed in bed, Joe vomited. I was much alarmed, because as far as I could remember, that was a very rare occurrence in his life. Later that afternoon, I read on his door, in big letters, "No Visitors"; but still friends and relatives popped in. One by one they tiptoed into his room, telling him not to utter a word. He looked happy seeing those familiar faces.

After midnight, Joe told me he was feeling better. Instead of snatching a few hours' sleep as Joe told me to, I escaped to have a bath and change the office uniform I was still wearing. When I returned to the room, he was asleep. I sat on a stool close to his bed.

Soon my thoughts were pacing the miles back home. Life was good. There were many times when the three of us were sitting at table, talking, laughing and sharing our days. We were fortunate -- no real problems we couldn't handle. There was love and that sense of humor on his side. And for me, Joe has been the easiest person to share my life with. We were bound together despite our differences by mutual respect and shared expectations. We had our commitment not to change the other, with the consequence that I couldn't ask him to give up smoking.

My train of thought stopped at each episode of my life with Joe. It started when we were in high school. Then those years of waiting because of family matters. Then came that blissful Sunday morning when our son was born, three years after our marriage. Life was almost perfect. I was woken from my reverie by the birds whistling "hello" to the dawn. So it was that the day of Thursday, Aug. 9, 1990, broke.

The morning nurse, looking spotless, entered Joe's room. Dressed neatly in her white uniform, she had been the wingless angel to seize Joe from me. She greeted him with a smile and told him that she was there for the blood test.

In an instant I could catch that frightened look in his big eyes. He grabbed my hand, panic stricken. His voice was so desperate and terrified, "But I'm feeling terribly weak, why should she ..." He couldn't continue. The nurse was through with the doctor's order and left the room triumphantly with the vampiric tube in her hand. All his life, Joe had been terrified of any medical procedures, despite his knowledge of the family's history of heart disease.

What followed was a disaster. He was gasping as if his lungs were filled with gallons of water, drowning him. His failing heart was panting, starved for breath. It was as if his respiratory organs were enveloped in the smoke of the thousands of cigarettes he had inhaled throughout his life. Meanwhile, Dr. Silverius had sent for Father Wid to give Joe the Last Holy Communion and Sacrament for the sick. Joe's breath continued to come in very loud, unnatural puffs and he was jolting so restlessly, changing from a lying to a sitting position, scattering the intravenous needles inserted in his arms and blood was dripping from the wounds.

There were spots of blood everywhere. Red and fresh, on the pillow, on the sheet, on the blanket, on his shirt, and on my dress. Through the ordeal, he was steadily gazing at Edwin, leaving messages only father and son could interpret. The heart- breaking scene continued. It had been hours of anguish for the three of us. The chances of Joe winning his battle were getting slimmer as the minutes dragged by.

His time was drawing near. I knew what I had to do. I had never felt so much pain in my life, until that moment when I could find the courage to help Joe soar away to freedom, to an eternity where there is no agony. "Joe, if you wish to be with your brother, we'll let you go." Those words spoken and the heart-tearing breathing subsided. The hospital room stood still. I felt relieved.

It was the next minutes that were a nightmare when I heard Edwin say, "Papa has gone." I saw the heart specialist still trying to directly massage Joe's heart by hand, but there was no sign of life. They asked for my consent to turn off the life support system. A piercing pain stabbed my heart, but not a syllable was said, not a tear shed. I just nodded in agreement. Joe wouldn't need it anymore. His wish had come true, he had repeatedly told me that he wanted me there, at his death bed. I thanked both doctors, I knew they did all that they could.

Meeting Edwin carrying a big bag at the gate of the hospital, some colleagues of mine thought that Joe had been allowed to leave the hospital that morning. "Yes," explained my son, "Papa is soon expected to be taken out of the hospital." They changed their mission in a minute.

Soon the house was crowded by relatives, friends, neighbors, and colleagues; all wished to share my grief. I was tired and jittery. There was that flash of thought: wondering what on Earth Joe was doing, why he didn't give me a hand while I was busy with all those visitors; I kept on wondering until my eyes set upon the coffin. I shuddered at the thought. Rituals and cremation arrangements were satisfactorily organized by caring people.

The midday sun above my head couldn't chase my gloom away as we sailed southward, some miles from the beach to bury the earthen jar containing Joe's ashes. In a second, it was going down into the deep blue water of the Indian Ocean. Since then I have that crazy idea that Joe's home is now somewhere in the water, and the memory of him has been embedded even deeper in my heart.

There was quite a chill in the air as darkness settled around the house the first night after Joe departed. In the dead night we heard Chicco howling. He ran frantically to the garden in search of his master and then back to the house. When he couldn't find Joe there he continued lamenting the loss of his garden companion in his own way.

Two incidents have remained a mystery to me. We were to see our brother at the hospital hundreds of kilometers away and before we left Paul wanted Joe's confirmation that he would visit him once again. "On the 25th", said Joe convincingly. So they had arranged the appointment, for, when I checked the calendar backward, I learned that Paul had gone exactly 25 days ahead of Joe. Was Joe foreshadowing my calamity that early August afternoon? The three of us were at the usual table when Joe told us he wanted to move. Edwin and I exchanged glances. How could he possibly leave his garden? But Joe said he meant it and I burst out laughing.

I loved those days when the three of us were home and shared our great times, so how could God let this happen to me? Why was Joe taken away without a warning? It was a rebellious acceptance that followed. Along with my new life came that burning desire, in time, to know his whereabouts. I wanted signs. Something, anything to know he was somewhere.

I didn't feel Joe was still there, on the spot where his ashes were thrown overboard. He must have drifted out to another ocean. But again, there was no sign of him when I was on a ferry cruising the harbor of New York. I was then sure he was not in the Atlantic. In the melancholy waters of the Pacific, my heart could only hear the waves singing their immortal melody. No sign of Joe. Escalating at the top of the Empire State Building, hope was rekindled, down below I could see cars as big as match boxes. So heaven -- where Joe is supposed to live now, as he is nowhere in the water -- mustn't be very far up there. I searched the open sky and all I could find was my solitude. My heart was filled with despair. I felt so empty, so alone and so tired of searching.

Through the silent lapse of years, a peace flowed over me. Although the experience of losing Joe had been shattering, and the attempts to know his whereabouts had been frustrating, as time passes by, I have come to terms with it. How long my grieving will take depends entirely on myself. It is a new attitude, to be self-caring, rather than self-pitying, that has been able to pull me through my crises that fate chose to hurl at me all those years. I left the old house and his garden. I am determined to say goodbye to the past.