On my birthday, I received a phone call from a crying mother that her daughter was rapidly dying. She wanted to know if I'd like her to hold her phone to my unconscious dear friend's ear so I could speak to her one last time. It was a gut punch.
My friend has been in an ICU for over 150 days, critically ill, fading, then rallying only to decline again. I'm riding a rollercoaster as I watch her struggle. With so many death-dealing conditions, lungs that are not working are being replaced by machines designed to only be used for a few weeks. Yet she's lived by them for over 100 days. She would have suffocated long before now.
Her body is wasting away, all her muscles atrophying. If she does survive, her recovery will take a year or more and she will be left in a wheelchair living with a ventilator.
As this journey unfolds, I find myself wrestling with what is best for her. Family and friends, including me, have pounded on the gates of heaven for a miracle. But there has been no substantial improvement. Just temporary times of consciousness and responsiveness followed by severe setbacks. How she has managed to survive this long is unfathomable. But much of it is due to her mother's endless advocacy for extreme medical intervention to prolong life. She is a nurse who knows what is available, and what could be thrown into the mix to keep her daughter alive. She's already lost two children and is desperate not to lose a third.
Still, my friend is living in a purgatory of human design. I worry she is conscious enough to be suffering but unable to communicate it due to sedatives. And I've been forced to search my own heart as to whether or not I would want to be kept alive through such measures; I would not. So, my prayers have evolved from seeking a miracle, to what is best, for what she might want if she could say. And my heart breaks for her, for her mother, and for me.
The day after the devastating phone call, I received a text saying my friend had rallied and was conscious again and kissed her mother, along with an apology for having ruined my birthday. I assured her mother I was grateful she had given me that opportunity believing the battle was over. But rallies often come before death finally wins. My joy tempered by knowing another call may come soon and this time truly be the last.
I grieve. I grieve that a critical illness has taken a vibrant woman and reduced her to being barely alive by machines. I grieve her final moments may be awareness of the sounds of equipment, lying in a hospital bed, with bed sores and failing kidneys, gasping for oxygen.
If it's wrong for me to want this to end, then I will have to live with that if she dies. Letting go is the hardest thing to do. Yet it also seems to be the most merciful thing, the only thing I have the power to do for her as I pray for God's merciful best.
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