I am thankful for memories. Life is too short, and one of my missions in life has been family history, such as ancestors. However, as those closest to me die, it has become even more important to try to keep the more recent memories close, particularly the good ones. One of my current projects is digitize Super 8 films from the 1970s and ’80s. The soundless movies of my brothers and I, with occasional glimpses of other families members, such as one of my great-grandmothers who died at age 94, two years after she was in one such home movie. I have about half them done now, going to a fairly local library that has the equipment to digitize such films. Some of my family members never imagined that we would be able to watch these again.
52 years ago, my parents were married on Thanksgiving Day. I was not there to witness it, but I was a promise to come in the future. I revel in the photos that exist of that day. Somewhere, there is a reel-to-real-audio recording. I wish there were a Super 8 film taken that I could digitize. Two years ago, on their 50th anniversary, I helped my dad take good pictures of pictures to share on his social media account. They made it 50 years together. My mom and dad were each other’s best friends. That didn’t mean that they got along on each and everything, but they were beast friends. We all expected that they would be together in life for many more years. Three of my grandparents made it past 80. My dad’s dad made it to 94.
Two and a half months later, my dad dropped from a “sudden cardiac event” while getting ready to the grocery store. That was it. And I knew from a distance. I’ve always had that ability. (Is it being empathic?) I had dreamed only a few hours before that my dad was a spirit, and in the dream he was telling me that he wanted my mom, his best friend to be happy, and that he loved all of us. I didn’t want the dream to be true – although, I did and do want my mom to be happy – so I did not call and tell my mom. I had already had a scare three days before when my mom called mid-morning that day and I asked if Dad was okay. She chuckled, and said they were at Costco! This did not allay my anxiety very much.
So three mornings later, after my troubling but peaceful dream, I was just opening the fridge to get my younger child some breakfast, and I had my phone on me. I don’t always keep my phone with me, and often the ringer is not on. That morning it was in my pocket with the ringer on in addition to vibrate. Somehow I knew, underneath, that this might be it. My phone rang, and I initially fumbled with it in the fridge. I was crying already when I saw “mom” on the screen. She’s crying and I’m crying. They tried 40 minutes of resuscitation, but it was truly over instantly.
My mom made me promise not to drive by myself this time.
I called my spouse. I never call him while he is at work unless it is a true emergency. I might text so he can read later, but I never call him. I called on his cell phone, and he answered. He promised to come home as soon as he could so I could go hug my mommy. I was worried about her. (I still worry about her.) The little girl inside of me felt guilty that I didn’t warn her, that I had somehow failed my daddy, that I didn’t wake from my comforting dream in enough time to call. That I tried to ignore that strong feelings I was left with.
Sixteen years ago at this time, I was pregnant with my first child. He was due in just a couple of weeks. He was my first baby boy, and I had no idea how giving birth was going to go. We know he had Hypoplastic Left Heart Syndrome, and Double Outlet Right Ventricle (rare congenital heart defects.) It had been a hard decision at 20 weeks to decide if I would carry him full-term, and if so, what we would do then. Finally, we decided that we would try the three surgery plan (the Norwood, the Glen, and the Fontan), because I could not imagine giving up on our child yet.
I heard him cry twice, little lion roars, before he was intubated. I was halfway out of it, as I had an emergency c-section after a failed induction. They put me nearly all the way under as the anesthetic worked a little oddly on me. (It still does take a little more for me, but now we know the reason. It’s another topic for another day.) I was in incredible pain, but I heard him cry, and I hope I will never forget.
He died at one week short of four months old. He made it through his first surgery at 8 days old. It was discovered that he was possibly missing the vein from his right lung back to his heart. Still, he survived, and we all did everything possible to give him a chance. I sang to him, and did as much as a could with him in the hospital, on a vent to help him breathe. The night before he died, my husband and I gave him a bed bath. His blood pressure was low, and they didn’t know exactly why yet. He was internally bleeding out. Earlier that day, I had kept my phone on me on vibrate (an old flip phone) in my pocket, away from the hospital, while the staff were doing rounds. I just had a feeling that day. The doctors were going to decide what to do about his right lung, and a decision was going to be made. My feeling all day was that our Sam was going to be the one to make the decision and soon.
That night, I could not sleep I was so restless, and I never did turn on the ringer on my phone. I heard my phone as it vibrated near me. I jumped and answered. I have no idea what I said, but it was not “hello” nor “hi.” I do remember asking if we should come now and the nurse said yes. My spouse drove that time, too. I said, “I knew something was going to happen. We should have stayed.”
All the regrets. The feelings of guilt. Like I could have changed something. Anything.
I held him my arms as his heart beat for the last time.
I heard my deceased grandma in my mind’s ear saying, “It’s okay, Leisl. He’s with me now.” I saw him in his great-grandma’s arms, cuddled and smiling. I sang him Beatles’ songs for the last time as I held him for hours, his body cooling, but free from tubes and lines.
My dad was the first to arrive at 4 in the morning. He helped us so much even though he was grieving and in shock as well. When my dad died, my hope was that he was with his parents and our little Sam once again, that my dad and grandpa were playing with trains with Sam, all together. None of them are in pain anymore.
Leisl Jaberg 