By RaeJean Spencer Hasenoehrl
The Easter bunny visited Mom’s
hospital room with help from my nephews. At the clever ages of 10 and eight,
the boys didn’t want Grandma to miss out on Easter treats just because she was
in the hospital for a second knee replacement surgery.
A few days later, Mom
returned to her Utah home to recuperate. My sister and the boys lived nearby
and would help provide care. Neighbors planned to pitch in, a nurse would stop
by throughout the week and a physical therapist would visit twice a week.
I lived in Washington State
with my husband and two young daughters. I desperately wanted to be with Mom
after her surgery, but after much prayer, I realized I wasn’t meant to go home
to Utah. I felt guilt — oddly combined with comfort — but each time I prayed,
the answer was “wait.”
Within two days of returning
home, Mom’s health declined. The nurse reported her concerns to the surgeon who
believed Mom’s slow recuperation was due to her heavy weight, depression, and
the fact that her two knee replacement surgeries had been scheduled so close
together. After subsequent phone calls and a doctor’s visit, the surgeon was
still unconcerned, but recommended she be admitted to a rehabilitation center.
The nurse at the rehab center
strongly disagreed with the surgeon’s lack of diagnosis. He consulted the
onsite doctor who diagnosed Mom with a staff infection that had spread from the
IV point in her arm to surround her heart.
Extreme actions were taken. The
medical staff provided her strong antibiotics through an IV and were frustrated
when, time and time again, the IV wouldn’t work in either of her arms or her
ankles. Finally, they delivered the antibiotics through the IV directly into
her heart.
Mom’s life was saved. Her health began to improve, though she remained very weak. The doctor believed she would need to stay four weeks at the rehab center.
My sister and nephews made
every effort to visit her each day and take care of her home and her dog. I
made plans to fly home once Mom was released to assist in her care.
At the four-week juncture, telephone
conversations with my sister, the doctor, and the nurses made it clear that Mom’s
health was still extremely fragile. In desperation, Mom begged me to take her
home.
My answered prayer whispered
one word: wait.
I tried to console Mom,
reminding her that if she stayed in the care center for just a few more days,
school would be out and I’d be able to bring my little girls with me to visit
her. Thoughts of being with all of her grandchildren kept her sanity a step
ahead of her misery.
Six weeks into Mom’s stay, at
two in the morning, I got the call. The E.R. doctor informed me that Mom’s
heart, weakened from the staff infection, had stopped. She was gone.
Through my shock and grief, a
startling statement filled my mind: Now you understand why I told you to wait.
You see, three weeks before
her death, Mom told me she wanted to sign a do-not-resuscitate (DNR) order.
Should, for whatever reason, she should stop breathing or her heart should stop
beating, she didn’t want anyone to perform CPR or attempt any other form of
advanced cardiac life support.
Had I traveled home, had we
taken Mom out of the rehab center, my young nephews, my sister or I would have
found Mom, her heart stopped, and a DNR requested, but not yet legally in place.
Wait. God’s simple word
shielded all of us from that pain of discovery, that pain of choosing life or
death for Mom.
Wait. A simple command,
difficult to follow.
and lean not unto thine own understanding.
In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.
Father in Heaven, when I’m caught
in a whirlpool of emotion,
please help me to listen for your answer to my
prayer.
And when the answer is “wait,”
please give me the patience and courage
to do so.
