The Everlasting Hope

And Courage of a True

      Respiration Intensive Care Unit, Medical College of Virginia, Richmond, Virginia; January 14^th. It was 5:00 p. m when I glanced across the room to Dr. Helene Goldsman, Chief Nurse for the Respiratory Intensive Care Unit. She paused for a brief moment, and then regretfully gave a nod that precipitated the removal of life support systems from my wife’s body. As her staff proceeded, I glanced over at my wife’s dear sister and aunt, who’d been sitting patiently in the corner of the small room for the past six hours, clinging to the last bit of hope that she would pull through this period of critical illness. I could not have waited for that period and I didn’t try. I had said my final goodbye several hours before in the words that we had exchanged each night before going to bed.

      “Good night, Honey, Sleep tight.” It had taken every bit of my composure to complete those words as I stood over her bed.  Those had been my words to her lifeless body minutes after I discussed her dismal prognosis with the doctor. I understood that life supporting measures would remain in process but the hope for her survival was not good. Throughout the day, I remained in the waiting room and received intermittent reports that her condition continued to be grim. Telemetry showed only wide complex beats. They became increasingly rare as the day progressed on.

      Despite this, her sister and aunt were refusing to believe what I had accepted to be inevitable earlier that morning. I could see her sister, Rose Mitchell, sitting in the corner just shaking her head and uttering silently, “No! No!” But her please, and everyone’s desperate prayers were of no avail. Linda M. Milligan was falling victim to the viral pneumonia that had preceded a tragic and unexpected liver failure. She was drawing closer to her death.

      “I’m afraid she’s lost all blood pressure. This respirator is pumping air but she’s not breathing on her own at all.” said Dr. Goldsman. I could see the disappointment in her eyes as she knew she could not continue to provide us words of hope that she had over the last few days.

      “I’m going to take her pulse….”she paused….” but if there’s no pulse than that’s it,” she added. My loving wife, whom I had shared ten years of an incredible and wonderful life with, was slipping away from me.

      There were several other procedures taking place that indicated she would no longer survive. There was no spontaneous respiratory rate. There was no response to deep pain. Her pupils had become dilated and non reactive. There where no heart beats nor breath sounds to be heard.  Dr. Goldsman carefully felt her wrist and waited for a pulse. She desperately repeated the procedure three times, listening intently for some hope of a faint pulse, which would indicate she was still clinging to life. There was none. As she looked over to us, she nodded, crestfallen. We knew what that look meant. Linda M. Milligan was dead.

      Sister Rose and Aunt Sarah immediately reacted with a frantic outpouring of tears and disappointment. I, myself, stood in shock and disbelief as the respirator and intravenous cords filled with fluids that had supported her organic functions were being unhooked from her body. I began to feel a weakening sensation in my legs and dizziness in my head. At this point, I didn’t know what would be more painful for me – realizing that my wife was dead or enduring the painful outburst of her two loved ones who had spent the last week putting all their hope and faith in her recovery. I didn’t want to see either.

      Her sister and aunt sat quietly, staring, glaring, and refusing to believe that a young woman who had been so full of life and love had perished. I just knew I couldn’t take this sight. I had to get out of the room as soon as possible.

      An eight-year battle with a debilitating liver disorder had tragically come to an end. The greatest shock to the two relatives and me was that death had occurred within the face of what we thought would certainly be life. Just three months before, I had telephoned them in Louisiana with a great expectation of an upcoming liver transplant. They had barely time to recover from the news that I had passed on ten days before Linda’s death, when Linda had suffered an unexpected liver failure. Somehow, we had kept the faith that the events of the past week were all just a bad dream and that she would be okay.

      Several days before, Aunt Sarah Alexander, who received a kidney transplant a few months before, flew into town. She had arrived with the enthusiasm of a knight to the rescue. She had sat in a similar bed in Houston, Texas clinging to life in much the same way. She had more hope and courage than the rest of us combined. She was certain that if a 54 year-old woman could pull through this, Linda certainly would, no matter how imminent death appeared. Her optimism was not to be rewarded.

      We couldn’t believe that one who lived with so much determination and courage would lose this battle. As I saw the looks of dejection on the faces of the members of the hospital staff, I knew that they knew it was all over. I became more and more bewildered by the moment. For it was just two month prior, I had been out playing tennis with Linda. The former high school tennis star had been hitting the ball harder and more accurate than she ever had during the many times we played in our ten-year marriage. We had been playing racquetball together in late November.

      After a brief hesitation, Dr. Goldsman looked towards me and uttered. “I’m so sorry, she’s gone!”

        She impressed me greatly with her composure. In fact, for a brief instant, my thoughts shifted to admiration for her professional handling of this traumatic situation. It was indicative of the type of strength I had struggled to maintain during the week. I guess I didn’t expect her to cry or show any emotion at this point. It was expected that her role as the head nurse was to maintain her composure. I know she had probably been faced

a similar situation many times before.

      “We’ll give you a few minutes then we’ll begin to clean her up,” she added, referring to the blood that was now slowly going from Linda’s mouth onto her gown. It was a sight that I had never seen before and I could only look at for a brief moment. Even during the most severe periods of illness in the last eight years of this ordeal, I had never seen her look so helpless. I felt my entire heart drop from within me. I had never before seen death staring

me in the face. In my wildest nightmares I would have never thought to see such a complete metamorphosis in my beloved wife. It was too shocking to believe.

      As I looked in disbelief, I inquired of the foamy blood gushing from her mouth. The attending nurse explained to me that she had been continually given blood products over the last few days to sustain her as they hoped for a miracle. But there was no longer blood pressure and the blood products were flowing out. Liquids had been running right through her, through a long tube and into a waste vial at the foot of her bed. It needed no explanation. I was intelligent enough to know that without blood pressure, a body was gone past the point of return.

      There were never the right words to say to family members at a time like this and I appreciated Dr. Goldsman’s decision not to prolong the agony any longer. The six hour wait from the time I had said my final goodbye at approximately 9 a.m., until now, had been the longest, most agonizing period of my life. I sat in a waiting room watching football games with several other friends. They were clinging on to wishes that I knew were past being granted. When you live with someone for ten years, you become so connected that you know inside yourself when they are gone.

      So, I just sat and waited for the inevitable. If there was no way to make a change in these events, then I felt relieved that it would soon be over. I knew that Fate had rendered its decision to take her home. I had nothing left to cling to at that moment.

      Within minutes after leaving the ICU, I found myself standing in the long hallway which led from the waiting room to the four adjoining intensive care units. I was surrounded by family, clergy, and other friends. But it was like I was standing alone. For those moments, I too had died inside. There was no emotion within me.

      The only sensation that I felt was of total disbelief.

      In the next few hours I completed the normal administrative procedures required of surviving relatives. I proceeded to sign the form granting the hospital staff permission to perform an autopsy. I questioned Dr. Goldsman about its purpose. She revealed to me that it would be necessary to conduct research to try and discover more about the liver disease and other associated problems.

      There was a sense of logic that found its way into my heart despite my sudden sorrow.

      I responded, “Well, if it can help save someone or promote your study, you have my permission.” Dr. Goldsman nodded in acknowledgement and I could see in the expression on her face how painful it was to approach me at that particular time. Yet, we both knew she had a job to do.   As I completed filling out the paperwork at the Hospital chapel and arranging for a funeral home to handle my wife’s body after the autopsy, I couldn’t believe all this was happening. I felt I had become a walking machine that was being programmed to complete certain actions. It was the only way I could understand what was going to happen.

      The chaplain’s staff took our son, Tyrell, into a small room to explain to him about death. It was quite important that he be made to understand so that he could begin to grieve. It was a devastating sight as I returned to the ICU floor from the chapel, our 7 year old so crying profusely in the arms of a hospital chapel assistant. I knew they had explained what had happened. yet, it was shocking to know that even a seven-year old boy had become well aware of the tragic loss of a loved one and what it really meant. As I watched from outside the room for a moment, quite hesitant to suffer the pain of going before him, I became slightly relieved that somehow he had relieved me of the burden of that responsibility. The conversation I had had with him on two occasions to prepare him for her passing had been painful enough. Somehow God had provided one of his servants to handle that responsibility, to leave me to my own personal grief. There was no room within my suddenly broken heart to help anyone but myself.

      It wasn’t until the two relatives, my military work supervisor, a Major William Gilliken, and I departed in my vehicle that I really felt some sense of balance within. I knew at that point, I wanted to maintain control of myself and the situation and insisted on driving home. Major Gilliken, who knew me very well, not only as a boss but also as a friend, could tell I was losing my grip at this point.

      It was now past dusk, and it had become quite chilly on this early January evening as we prepared to depart from the park deck towards the interstate. Just by looking at the sky, one could sense in the deep, dark, cumulus clouds, that death filled the air.

      Major Gilliken became cautions of my actions and studied me very closely for the first few moments to be sure that I would maintain the composure I had throughout the day. He had been with me at the ICU waiting room since around noon and had waited patiently with me as we sat and watched the football game. I knew throughout the day that he was the only other person who had sensed the end as I did. He would now continue

efforts at congenial and trivial conversation in an attempt to ease my mental processes, just as he had for several hours before Linda’s death. I never appreciated the friendship and compassion he was showing me more than I did at this moment. The best attributes of a warm, gentle and caring man were becoming quite evident. I had only known him for two and a half month since I had been assigned to his section. Yet , it seemed like he was my closest friend. He knew he could not relieve me of the shock, but tried to distract my troubled thoughts in order to ensure our safe trip home.

      I appreciated his efforts to make conversation but I had no interest. The sister-in-law and aunt were not as pleasant as he was and understandably more obvious. They were so overcome with disbelief that they remained silent throughout the trip and did not respond.

      Little Tyrell sat behind them on the back of our Toyota van seat and was also quiet. He was more confused than anything. Although he was well aware his guardian mother had died, he didn’t quite understand what was going on. He just knew there was a bitter sadness and shock in each of us in the vehicle with him. He knew our behavior had suddenly become quite different than that of the playful manner we had shared with him the last few days to hide our emotions. I could see his little eyes straining to shed a tear, perhaps of sadness and fear. I glanced in the rear view mirror several times. Yet, I could only glance for an instant as I knew that to look upon his confused heart would cause me to break into tears.

      I had to avoid any release of emotion at all costs while I was operating the vehicle and as I reached the half-way point home, I stopped looking into the mirror.

      My most painful moments throughout the last ten days were sharing the pain my relatives were encountering. I knew I couldn’t look upon them now while I was driving along this dangerously busy route.

      Major Gilliken, being the wise and astute person he was, knew how to handle the emptiness and shock of the passengers within the vehicle. He left them to their own thoughts and focused his attention on me. He was well aware there was no danger if they drifted off into despair so he immediately pursued conversation with only me. It didn’t bother him the least to do that. He was totally concerned with providing comfort to us all.

      Yet, I felt no need to reveal to him my lack of interest in conversation. He would obviously understand. So I had to make the best of it. My responses came out of politeness and courtesy.  There was nothing that could shelter me from the feelings of this moment.

      Somehow, as we departed the city of Richmond and headed onto the interstate, I was able to spit my attention between my troubled thoughts and concentrations on traffic in this congested highway. It was a painful trip along the same 30 mile route back to our home at Fort Lee, Virginia. Yet, it was the first time that the drive had not been endured with perseverance. I sensed something beyond my span of mental faculties allowing me to operate the vehicle along that route.

      I would pass several reference points along the way. As I would later think back, I couldn’t remember passing anything, only that somehow I arrived safely. I knew that something was controlling me besides my own ability. This sensation became even more apparent to me as I continued to drive and share conversation with my passengers. Yet, I still wondered how I couldn’t remember driving past a particular point.

      It wasn’t until I reached the exit sign to the Fort Lee military base that I encountered painful flashbacks of the last ten days. The inevitable moment arrived. As I entered the gate, I saw ahead that long strip called A Avenue. It was the route I had taken to transport her to the local military hospital emergency room ten days ago at approximately 3 a.m.

      As I drove into the base, intersecting that avenue, I permanently etched into my thoughts forever, the memory of that tragic night. It was the night in which eight years of hope, courage and the prospects for the bright future came to a bitter end. It was the beginning of a nightmare I will never, ever forget. It was indeed the beginning of the end for my loving wife, Linda Marie Milligan.

The Beginning

of the End

It was Sunday, December 31^st.   It was the end of a decade. It was a decade that saw a quiet, but pretty young woman, struggle through pain, discomfort and unpleasantness for most of those years. Yet, she had always been optimistic and kept driving forward. Her enthusiasm on this morning was quite symbolic as it had been through most of her hospital stays during the last eight years. I had never felt more proud of her. What she had endured during the past months and through the past Christmas holidays was beyond belief.

      As we both awoke, we looked enthusiastically towards going to church, sharing a great day together, and starting out another year with bitter goodbye caused by a debilitating liver disease. We were one month away from January 1990—the transplant month. It seemed almost symbolic that the year would end with great expectations.

      We had indeed intended to end it on such a positive note. There was much to make up for from this terrible month. It had been a disastrous month, December, for us. It was one that had nearly taken the Christmas spirit out of both of us.

      As I drove towards a church in Petersburg, I could clearly recall what had happened four Sundays ago that started this most tragic last month of her life. I recalled that on December 3^rd, we had departed for Richmond, Virginia to begin shopping for Christmas items to send home to the family. This was the first year we had promised each other we’d make this Christmas very special. Just about every Christmas over the last five years had been less than expected due to being overseas or having home for a death of a relative. It had prevented us from sending Christmas gifts home to relatives in advance. We had always found ourselves shopping at the last minute, which was no fun. Often, we didn’t get to send something to one of the youngsters, as we wanted. This year we planned for it to be different. Finally, we thought we’d get to shop in advance and get Christmas gifts home on time.

      Linda had worked hard and long hours the last few months, hoping to make this dream a reality.  I had warned her several times to slow down. I even warned her about accepting six days a week on her job schedule.  Was so afraid of anything risking her getting sick and making the transplant more difficult but she wouldn’t listen. She was determined to work as much as she could and save as much money as possible to buy gifts for her family. She seemed to look on my offer of funds as charity. It was something she wanted to do for herself and could give her a great sense of accomplishment. Nothing was going to stop her from doing it, not even the threat of getting ill or tired. Linda was committed to getting a gift for each of her nieces and nephews and this would be the first year she would be financially able to do so.

      Though she had been weakened from slight exhaustion from the previous week, she was determined to have a big shopping afternoon.

      We were quite enthusiastic as we headed to Richmond, Virginia on this clear, sunny afternoon. It was quite cold, in the mid-twenties, but pleasant just the same. We bundled up, dressed our son, Tyrell, warmly and headed out. Nothing, we thought, could prevent us from bringing home a load of gifts to wrap. She was clearly focused on touring the malls on a Sunday afternoon. Everything seemed to be going well, despite the fact she hadn’t been feeling well the last week of November.  There seemed to be no cause for alarm, though.  Her doctors from the Medical College of Virginia had told us that her liver was deteriorating and she might experience intermittent fatigue. Yet, they felt no need to warn us about changing our normal routine.

They basically warned her to rest when she needed to but not to get too alarmed. Sudden fatigue was common with liver illness. Yet, she had never, to this point in her illness, experienced the degree of fatigue that the physicians had warned could occur with an auto-immune disease as serious as hers.

      As I neared the church, I continued to be puzzled at how I couldn’t stop thinking about that particular Sunday four weeks ago. It was almost as if my thoughts were trying to tell me something. I remained quiet as I drove, to keep from exposing my anxiety to her and ruining the morning. Yet, the pictures of that day were vivid on my mind as I drove to the entrance of the church.

      As I pulled in front of the church, I again thought about that day, December 3^rd. Although the entire month of bitter and sweet memories had passed, I continued to think of that day.  As we sat in church, I began to daydream. I began to think about what occurred that entire month up until this day, December 31^st. I didn’t retain much from the service.

      My memory took me back to that afternoon. I recalled how, at about twenty minutes after we had arrived at the mall, Linda suddenly stopped to rest because she had gotten very tired. She quickly mentioned that she had never felt such a sudden loss of energy. She had no more energy to do any walking through the stores. I could see the disappointment in her face as she sat on a bench to catch her breath. The sight nearly cut out my heart. I immediately decided to go straight home but she changed my mind by showing her usual spurt of enthusiasm and warmth. It was her way of trying to hide her discomfort for my benefit. Somehow, she had convinced me she had gotten her second wind and was going to try and hang on long enough to stop at a seafood restaurant in Richmond. It was supposed to be the highlight of our evening. She had been talking about coming to this particular restaurant for months.

      I took the chance that she was being honest with me and would have no problems during dinner. She said she did feel that she would be alright. Yet, I was already sensing concern in her face and voice.

      As we sat and ordered I could instantly tell she was battling the fatigue again. She winced several times.

      “Lynn, are you alright?” I asked.

       “I’m okay” she replied attempting a weak smile to reassure me.

      Then she suddenly got up without warning and started to walk away.

      “Where are you going?” I asked.

      “I’m going to the bathroom…I’ll be back!” she replied rather bluntly.

      It wasn’t like her to leave so suddenly and I knew something was wrong. She had always been courteous when leaving a dinner table. As she came out, I immediately saw the distressed look on her face. She looked pale and sad. She admitted immediately that she couldn’t make it home.

      Probably the most devastating words were for me to hear her ask to be taken to the emergency room. In nearly ten years of marriage, I had never heard Linda ask to be taken to the hospital. I immediately sensed that she felt sicker than she had ever been during her prolonged illness. For what reasons, we didn’t know. She would never had asked to go to the hospital on a Sunday afternoon unless she was really, really sick. I knew by the tone of her voice that she was. It became very frightening to me.

      We left the restaurant immediately and I rushed her to MCV emergency room. In reaction to overwhelming nervousness and anxiety, I found myself fussing at her about slowing down and almost blaming her work pace for her illness.  

      Then there was an exchange of conversation which I will always remember until I die.

       “Lynn, I know you don’t want to die from this disease!” I said as I had concluded a lecture to her about her activities.

       “I know!” she replied. “But I’m not afraid of death.” She added.

        I was completely shocked to hear her utter those words. Yet, I wouldn’t understand the significance of those words until months later. She was always a private person who never talked about God, or ever shared prayers or her thoughts with anyone, including myself. After hearing those words I realized, for the first time, she had a close relationship with the Almighty. Yet, at that particular moment, I couldn’t understand the significance of what would make her say that. But a month later, after she died, I discovered a small testament book in her purse that she had begun carrying around in December. Perhaps she sensed her own death approaching and was preparing for it.

      She was admitted to the hospital that evening, about three hours after w arrived. She never finished the Christmas shopping that day.

      Her hospital stay lasted ten days. I was quite surprised on December 12^th when she called for me to peck her up because she was being discharged. Somehow, I feared that it was premature. But later I learned that it is always the objective of the hospital to keep a liver transplant candidate out of the hospital in the weeks prior to surgery. Their exposure to germs and viruses would cause a definite problem prior to transplant surgery. Thus, I discovered they were releasing her as soon as she was well enough to manage. A constant supply of blood products, bed rest, and antibodies brought her back to strength. She had to endure several painful tests such as internal scopes. I felt so proud of her, yes so painfully sorry for what she was going through. Several times on different days, they would ask me to leave the room to prevent my witnessing such a painful examination. As I sat in a nearby waiting room, I tried to erase my mind of what was going on inside,

knowing it would be too painful to wonder about the pain and discomfort she was going through. It seemed so unfair that she had worked so hard and hoped so much for a good Christmas this year only to end up sick and in the hospital for an indefinite period.

      Though travel weary, and still in pain over my own guardian mother’s death two month earlier, I struggled to focus my complete concentration on cheering her up during my visit. I drove to the hospital each day. It was a tiring and stressful 30-minute trip along the northbound interstate from Petersburg to Richmond, Virginia. Many days I drove up again in the evening. Although I nearly worried to death during those visits to the hospital, I was continually convinced by medical attendants and doctors that there was no immediate danger from this sudden illness and the hospital stay would get her back to health. They didn’t know why she was becoming so ill after doing so well all those years. The only thing they could determine was that her liver condition was worsening, to the extent that a liver failure was a possibility. Although she was released on December 12^th, to both our delight, it was to be only temporary. The problem of degradation had not gone away.

      Within the next eight days, her physical condition weakened again. Despite her return home to altered medication, a special diet, and an easier work schedule, her condition worsened. She began to experience increasing pain in her abdomen and fatigue day by day. Each day as I returned from work, I found her trying to hide her illness from me, and trying to enjoy our evenings together. She would even continue to cook and clean to try and mentally beat the awful feelings overtaking her. It proved to be of no avail.

      In the afternoon on December 20^th, she got sick at home while I was at a military social. I called several times from the Officer’s club. Each time, she would answer my inquiries about her condition honestly, but continued to deny the need to go to the hospital. I too seemed to have a desire for denial as I tried to see the most optimistic view of her growing pain and discomfort.

Finally, at about 4p.m, the fourth call came and I knew I couldn’t chance it any longer. I knew she was having problems.

      I immediately left the event and rushed her to Richmond to the emergency room. There was silence in the vehicle along the ride down the interstate. I could only muster enough strength to hide my own sense of frustration and disappointment that she had taken sick again. I think she sensed it also.

      My son and I waited patiently for four hours that night as they took tests and started administering antibodies. Soon we discovered that she was experiencing problems similar to what she had experienced before, only this time they were slightly worse. At about 10:30 p.m., she was again taken to the ward and admitted to the hospital. She was experiencing so much pain in the abdomen that she could barely walk.

      During the first trip, she had walked into the emergency on her own power. This time, I had to assist her. It was dreadful and devastating for me to see her in this condition so close to Christmas. Yet, I knew I had to dismiss my own sorrow to show an enthusiastic optimism.

      There was also visible swelling in her stomach area from fluid buildup. These were obvious symptoms of a liver problem that had become more frequent since she had developed cirrhosis two years ago.

      I will never forget the experiences between December 25^th and her birthday, December 27^th. It has affected my way of thinking and my perspective on living forever. There were things that my son Tyrell was summoned to do that took the utmost sacrifice, courage, and maturity despite some extremely painful feelings.

      What we accomplished together, despite a painful situation, will forever make us proud of the devotion we gave to Linda. Often I drove around town and found myself fighting back an emotional outburst when I thought out those three days. It is the only period in that darkest month that I can shed tears of joy at remembering. I am nearly overcome every time I think of the actions by my son, Tyrell that showed his love for her.

      It all started about December 23rd, during her second trip to the hospital that month. She had already been on the ward a few days and was looking forward to going home and being with us for Christmas. Somehow, she had managed to dismiss her disappointment in not being able to do Christmas shopping again. The unfortunate circumstances of her health had again put her Christmas spirit to the test. But, as always, the strong-hearted

Linda met the challenge.

      She was taking this particular setback a lot better than I ever could which was a tribute to her courage and continual positive outlook. However, in this particular day, I could sense she was facing the greatest challenge to her faith and spirit yet. I knew I had to act with strength. I saw the actions of a young seven year old boy do nothing but uplift my spirit. Little Tyrell would always be deathly quiet as we rode along the 30 minute route to the hospital each day of that bitterly cold, late December. At first, I couldn’t tell whether there were things on his mind or whether he was just feeling depressed from having to ride with me to the hospital each day. I would talk to him each day and remind him of how important it was to show our love by being there for loved ones who were sick. Although he wouldn’t respond, his actions proved that he understood and was receptive to my request.

      Central Virginia was experiencing record low temperatures. Although we drove comfortably inside the car, the long drive had brought depressing feelings that I fought to dismiss. I knew I couldn’t let her see me in any kind of melancholy state. Tyrell would instantly begin a “stage act” each time he entered the room. He would laugh and dance and do anything to see Linda laugh. It kept me cheerful. I was so proud of him. It was one of the only times I was tolerant of his hyperactivity.

      Yet, what struck me the most was the kind words he would express each evening as we left her room. It brings me to tears each time I think of it.

      As we sadly gathered our coats and prepared to leave her bedside, Tyrell would climb up on her bed, hug her neck tightly, and say, “I love you! I hope you feel better!” I had never heard him say anything in such a kind – hearted manner the entire five years we had been his guardians. I was so overcome that I would hug his neck and shed a tear of joy in the hallway each day before we departed the floor.

      He would keep repeating those words as he walked into the hall until she was out of sight. I will always be touched by the memory of that. I had never before heard the shy little boy say, “I love you,” so many times like that. It was a great display of emotions. It was quite ironic because he had refused to carry around pain of enduring the abandonment by his natural mother at age two, and death of his guardian grandmother at age three.

      The greatest challenge to our optimism came on the after noon of December 23^rd. The physician told us that Linda would have to remain in the hospital for a few more days. This meant remaining hospitalized through Christmas Day. After what she already went through during the month, I couldn’t blame her for the dejection and disappointment she was now exhibiting.

      I tried to console her as I struggled to sound optimistic. I was able to convince her that we would have a great Christmas Day even though she was hospitalized. I insisted that she keep focusing on the big picture. I was sure that by this time next month, she would have had the successful transplant and would be on the way to recovery. The doctors from Internal Medicine and the chief surgeon had anticipated everything going smoothly. We were so convinced that we had nothing to worry about that we wanted to

remain focused on that day.

      I remember Linda saying, as she finally responded, “I know what you’re saying. I’m not gonna’ be depressed. I know when I have this surgery, it’ll be all over.”

      Hearing her say those words brought so much joy that I almost cried. I wanted so badly for her to keep up her mental strength. We were told it was crucial to her chances of success. She had somehow gained hope in our verbal exchanges and I could see a renewed sense of optimism and cheerfulness. It was much different than the depressed state she was in when I first entered the room. Her elevated spirits helped our Christmas Eve go much better. My moods were definitely driven by hers at this point.

      Again, Lynn had mustered the joyfulness which had made me love her so much over the years. Often, I would feel ashamed when she’d fuss at me for getting angry or depressed about her illness. Indeed I had suffered during the eight years of her liver problem. I often took bad news much worse than she did. Despite her personal setbacks, she would be the one with words of hope. Her words would always make me realize just how tough a person she was.

      I knew it was now my time to release any selfish anger I possessed. I had to show unyielding strength until she would be discharged. Thus, as we conversed throughout the early evening, with little Tyrell would not fully understand our misery and would quickly get depressed. By days end, we had somehow convinced ourselves that w could make the most of Christmas Day.

      As I departed that evening, I left the building and faced a cold, bitter, brisk wind. It was 5:15 p.m. I sheltered my face and Tyrell’s body from the onrushing chilling winds. The temperature was about 10 degrees but I was sure the wind chill factor was below zero. This did not help my struggle for determination to go on with the business at hand.

      I asked myself in anger, “What in the hell are we having to go through this for?”

      I looked down and saw Tyrell looking straight into my eyes. I knew then I had to compose myself for what could be an indefinite period of time. I could have never imagined how long that time would prove to be.

      As I drove away from the hospital, I tried to ignore the misery of the effect of the weather conditions. I only wanted to think of her. It was a crushing feeling to think of her lying in that bed alone on Christmas Eve. Yet, she had assured me she had grown tired and would fall asleep early. She had insisted that we return home before it became too late. Even on Christmas Eve, she thought only of the safety of her loved ones.

      I felt comforted in knowing that she would rest easy this evening. We had both had the sense that this setback was just a test of our faith, a small price to pay to ensure that glorious day of restoration of good health and happiness was somewhere in the near future.

      The vitality that she showed as we departed had given me renewed enthusiasm, a level of enthusiasm I had not felt at the beginning. I left the hospital at about 5 p.m. and drove down the interstate at a rapid rate, flirting with disaster as my mind continued to wander. I wanted desperately to beat what I felt would be the 6:00 p.m. rush hour. There was a shopping mall located off the interstate about seven miles from the military base. As I stopped and rushed in, I was determined to find every conceivable gift that would brighten her day. Tyrell and I passed through several stores very quickly. I was no stranger to shopping hurriedly. It was my normal method when I’d shop by myself. I never was one for taking along time in shopping malls. We talked together as we thought of all her wishes for gifts from the last few years. It was time to fulfill her dreams by giving her all the gifts I could remember her wanting to have.

      Within two hours, my shopping was completed. I had purchased several items without the benefit of comparative shopping.

      The next morning, we left home early to get to her bedside before she awoke. Though she was still groggy upon our arrival, she quickly gained her faculties as she saw us bring in several gift-wrapped boxes, much to her surprise. I had suffered a terrible back pain from hauling those gifts up the long cold corridor and through the hospital. I will never forget the look on her face. I can recall many moments of happiness that day. The painful back was worth it. Her eyes lit up as she opened the box containing a microwave oven. It was a gift I was sure would make her cooking chores a lot easier once she returned home from surgery. I knew there would be no way to keep her out of the kitchen. She would be determined to frustrate me by trying to get back on her feet to quickly.

      “Y’all brought it all the way here? You didn’t have to do that” she replied in her usual soft and humble voice.  There were several other gifts that brought her delight, but none more than the diamond ring. She gave me the biggest hug she could muster. She didn’t know whether she was more surprised than happy. I was never good at giving surprised gifts. But somehow I had remembered her talking about wanting a diamond ring about seven month before.

      I had purchased the ring to be a birthday present for her two days later on December 27^th. Yet, I decided to give it to her today since I knew if she was discharged, I would have an even bigger welcome home gift for her.

      She was truly surprised by the gift much to my delight. She couldn’t recall telling me about it. She had always been so shy and subtle about her wishes that I’d always be accused by her of not paying attention. This time it was like a victory for me. I hadn’t even been sure that she was serious about a diamond ring when she mentioned it several months before. This time, my intuition had paid off. I felt nearly as delighted in giving it as she was in receiving it.

      I would find out later that she would call her closest sister and aunt and tell them about the ring. She would tell them that she was the happiest that she had ever been in her life, and in our ten year marriage.

      We had struggled, getting to know and understand each other. It was much like most couples who married early after a relatively short engagement. But we had endured the hard times and stayed together. There were times in the early part of our marriage that we wanted to be far, far apart. We just couldn’t communicate. Yet, it was never as powerful as the many times we couldn’t get close enough. That’s what had kept us together, getting through the bad times and making the most of the good times.

      Just two months prior to this episode, we were out playing tennis with Tyrell. Lynn was as energetic and full of vitality as anyone. Although my sills were quite above hers, she equaled me in endurance. She was even rather mobile on her feet. One wouldn’t think so with the quiet and unassuming way she went about life. I would daydream many days along the route home about those times on the tennis courts, which made it seem so odd that her health would slip so fast after seeming to be the strongest and fittest she had been during the eight year course of her disease.

I marveled at how she could hit the ball so hard and play so competitively. She even hit the ball hard for a female when we’d play racquetball together. In fact, I couldn’t remember a time where we did so many things athletically.

      She had been just as energetic with work. I couldn’t understand how someone with a liver disease could do what she did. One of the symptoms of liver disease is extreme fatigue.

      I often questioned whether she really had a liver disease or a prolonged misdiagnosis. I knew that wasn’t true, but I was curious as to why she had so much energy during those months.

      She began the job in Richmond in August, only two months prior to completing a year-long technical training in computer data entry. She had studied hard and graduated with honors from Dominion Institute, a data entry training school. I was amazed how a person with a disease that affects mental alertness could graduate will all “A’s.” It was, again, her determination.

      In late August she was hired as a data entry clerk with a U-haul agency in a subdivision just south of Richmond. It was a forty minute drive one-way, six days a week. I couldn’t imagine myself driving for nearly two hours a day, six days a week, and then coming home to cook and be refreshingly jovial each evening with the family. Thus, I continually discouraged her from driving six days. She, however, reassured me that she didn’t have any ill effects from the long days. Indeed she showed no signs of fatigue until two days before her first hospitalization. Then she was convinced that she’d better ask for reduced hours before something happened.

      It was too late however. I will always wonder whether her work activities contributed to the ugly episode that would transpire later. There were several young physicians that attended her during this second stay. I probably asked each of them whether or not her physical activities had caused this problem. None of the attending physicians would say for sure whether physical stress had affected her deteriorating liver. They seemed more focused on trying to rehabilitate her condition and get her out of the hospital. It was the general consensus that her liver illness would progress at a rate independent of her physical lifestyle. Each time I asked, one of the Doctors would indicate that they didn’t see her lifestyle of the past few months being a contributing factor in her sudden illnesses.

      We were happy that we had made Christmas Day a special one. Yet, it hadn’t been the best times for us. It was a very lonely feeling to be going through all this, just me and my son. I got one offer of assistance from close friends. I assumed others were too busy with their own Christmas plans to think about us. I spent no time thinking of that matter. It was very cold and tiring, hauling all the gifts up the corridor and through the hospital.

      I asked myself, “Why is life making us have to do this just to enjoy a Christmas together?”

     On the morning of December 27^th, Lynn telephoned me at the office and informed me she was being discharged. I couldn’t react with the immediate sense of joy and relief I had anticipated for ten days. There was a sudden sense of curiosity and disbelief.  We had just left her bedside at eight o’clock the previous night, she seemed weak and tired. I was almost certain she’d been another three to four days there.

      Indeed, when I picked her up later that afternoon, she was still weak and was not walking well. She lost energy very quickly and didn’t seem to be much better than when she was admitted. We purposely took our time. I hoped to speak to one of the physicians about her condition, yet she assured me that with her prescription forms in hand and a diet table, that she would be back to normal soon. I still wasn’t comfortable with not speaking to the physician. Though she looked peaked and tired, I could see a glimmer of enthusiasm and relief upon her face. I felt proud of her for keeping her spirits up throughout the ordeal. I wasn’t about to complain in front of her at this time. We proceeded to depart the hospital in a slow and methodical fashion.

      The ride home was very delightful. We were relieved to be a family again. It appeared to not be a total loss. We could now put the Christmas behind us and look forward to beginning the year together. January and the transplant was ahead. We both became focused on being careful and getting ready for the upcoming surgery. Lynn had no fears of going back to the hospital if necessary. It was now less than a month before we expected to

get that call on the beeper we carried. We were sure we could now endure any sacrifice to make sure she got that chance.

      We felt it would be nice to ring in the next year together. Lynn talked about being almost certain she’d have her strength back to cook a big dinner for New Year’s Day. Her optimism seemed to spur my enthusiasm.

      Over the next two days, as we enjoyed being home together again, it seemed like life was like a bright rose bush. Little did we know that behind that rose bush hid an ugly black bear, waiting to lunge upon us and change our lives forever.