Kevin M. Guthrie

“General!!  General!!  Can you hear me?”

His eyes' lids lifted, ever so slightly. Not the snappy, clicking shutter – the second half of a blink – that we all take for granted. It was really more like a gentle and subtle unfolding of skin. The eyelids did not open; you couldn’t see eyes, but there was acknowledgement. And there was great effort behind it.

“General!” the doctor said again. It was loud. Not a shout. But firm. And leaning in, close to the right ear.  The colonel, the lead doctor on Dad’s care that morning, grabbed my father’s right hand in his and put his left hand gently on my dad’s left shoulder.

“You don’t like this breathing tube, do you?!” A shake of the head. Probably not more than a few millimeters of movement, but there was no doubt about the message.

“General, we have been trying to fight these things, but it looks like you’re now having kidney failure, sir. Here’s what we can do. Sir, we can keep this tube in, continue the medications you have been taking and keep you going like this. We’ll have to start dialysis. Or we can take the tube out and put this in God’s hands. Sir?  Sir? Do you understand?” 

What?  What did he just say?  I looked over to my sister-in-law, standing in the corner of the room. “Did he just say that?”  Where were my brothers?  My sisters?  Did the doctor consult with anyone? Uh-oh, my sister’s going to be mad! What is our role in this?  Do I need to go find them?  Do I stay here and witness what is happening here?  There was no time to make a decision, and my feet were heavy.

“General!  Do you want to put this in God’s hands?” A nod. Affirmative. “We are going to take out this breathing tube?” A nod.

The Colonel pulled back gently and smoothly. You could see he squeezed my father’s hand as he laid it down on the bed and released it.  It was done. He turned to walk out of the room and I went to my father’s side.

It was Monday morning, May 25, 2009.

I could hear conversations in the hall as the word spread and the Colonel told my family of the situation and the condition. I don’t recall anyone questioning the decision, or even the assertive approach taken without consultation with any of us. We were all pretty much just resigned to it. We didn’t like seeing our father there with the tube in, grossly swollen from too many fluids, on a bunch of medications that all were fighting with one another. We had just learned that the battle going on inside his body was a different one from the one that was going on in his head; that one was done and he had laid down arms.  As much as no one wanted to give up on him, or let him go; who could argue with that?

* * * *

I had spent a fair amount of time visiting dad in the intensive care unit of Walter Read Army Medical Center. It was a strange kind of homecoming for me. I had not lived on post, or inside the Army community, since 1981, when my father retired. 28 years?  Really? Visiting the hospital and walking through the corridors, I felt sentimental for the time when I was part of that community. The motivational placards on the walls. The sharp step and the respectful greetings regardless of your station.  The amazing corpsmen, nurses and doctors who worked the ICU and the wards.  They had all been to Iraq and/or Afghanistan, some of them multiple times. And they expressed eagerness to get back and to serve.  Not dread or foreboding.  Eagerness.

Some like to say that people join the Army because they have to, or because it is just another profession. None of that applied to this group. You could not help but feel fortunate to live in a country with these people on your side. These were dedicated servicemen and women, in every sense of the word. Their mission is to care for the most severely wounded. And here in the ICU, in addition to my father, they were caring for virile young men with terrible injuries and lost limbs, clinging to a life that had been forever altered. And they minister also to their parents and girlfriends, their brothers and sisters. I could not help but feel the sharp contrast between our situation, terribly sad for us, but focused on an 87-year old man who had lived a full life, and that of the families of these young men wounded in the prime of their lives. The honor and respect shown by these nurses and doctors was inspiring. Mixed with the emotions of losing my father, a pining for younger and simpler days, I wondered if I should have finished ROTC after all.

* * * *

It was decided that after the tube was removed -- and my father would be given medication only for his comfort -- that he would be moved to Ward 72.  Ward 72.  That was where President Dwight Eisenhower died in 1969.  Let’s just say it had the stateliness of a presidential suite. It was truly a dignified penultimate resting place. With four stars and forty years of service, the U.S. Army will treat you with great respect.  

Without the tube in, my father looked more comfortable, like he was finally resting. As they wheeled him from ICU, the family trailed behind.  A motley parade. Me and my five bothers and sisters.  Wives and husbands. Grandchildren ranging in age from 5 to nearly 30. Walking through the corridors of the hospital, trailing a single bed. A corpsman pulled the bed from the front, while a nurse helped from behind.

Two steps behind was Colonel Scott Rehrig, another of the doctors who had been on my dad’s case but who we had not seen that morning. Where did he come from? He was dressed crisply in uniform. He was walking with purpose, sharply, with military discipline. It was a march, really. It commanded respect as it offered it. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him.

We walked through the hospital to Ward 72. A man. A bed. A trailing gaggle of sad adults and mixed up kids. And a colonel in full salute.

When we got to Ward 72 I thanked Colonel Rehrig and asked him why he was here.  He said that he got word about the decision my father had made, and that it was a special day. He was at home; it was Memorial Day, you see, so he was on leave. I thanked him again, and told him how meaningful it was for him to walk with us. And I asked him why he was here on a holiday – my father had retired many years ago. He had lived a full life and was not dying on the battlefield. “It is true what you say,” he said, “but it is the soldiers who have come before us who have defended our freedom. HE is our heritage. That is Memorial Day for me. And that is why I am here.”

It was a beautiful suite. The room was not like any hospital room I had ever seen. Paneling on the walls. Antique furniture. Decorative objects of various kinds from around the world. Just a lovely room, with a large bed and my father in it, resting in the haze of pain relieving narcotics. Outside of his room was a larger living room-like area. Our family took over the place as we began the vigil.

It is a strange and surreal experience when you wait for someone to die. In this case, my father was unresponsive. Of course, first and foremost you want to turn back time or in some way enable him to stand up and walk out of there and back into an earlier time of your life. You first come to grips with that.  Then you want to spend time with him, to express your love and say something that might matter, even if you can’t know if he is hearing you.  And then there is just the waiting, and the wondering.

How long will it be? We were told that his body was in very bad shape, with congestive heart failure, and general organ overload. We were told it would not be long. The time initially is counted in seconds, such are the intensity of your feelings. Is he breathing?  I think so. Wait, no he’s not.  But as the minutes turn into hours, emotions reel. Somber turns to impatience. Nerves fray. Shouldn’t this be a celebration; let’s try to tell funny stories. There is genuine laughter as well as hollow laughter and gallows humor. What are you supposed to wish for?  If you know you are not getting him back – you’re not turning back time – do you want it to happen fast?  Should you feel guilty if you have such a thought? 

Hey, he looks kind of ragged.  He hasn’t had a shave in a week.  I’ll shave him! I got his electric shaver and gave him a shave and cleaned him up. Obviously mundane. Nothing to it. But I was doing something. And I convinced myself that I was making him more comfortable, since the itch and poke of a week old growth feels great when it’s gone. I wiped his smooth face with a hot towel.

As word got out, people came to visit. Old friends and extended family. They said their farewells and shook his hand.  Gave him a pat. Gave that look of sympathy, respect and sadness, when you can see in their eyes the backside of a video playing a special memory. And the image of the man casts a shadow on their own sense of life and love and mortality. And they look at you and say how much they respected him or how amazing he was or how sorry they are for you. And then they are replaced by someone new. 

Is he still breathing?  What time is it?  What day is it? 

The light lowered outside with sunset. We took turns at his bedside, holding his hand, talking to him.  Talking about him. In fact, people start to have conversations about normal everyday things. He is just kind of in the room. You go on, because there is really nothing else you can do. And for some reason spirits in the room had seemed to lift. There was lots of laughter, and just that feeling of family when people are leaning and loving on each other. It was one of those moments on another day when you would have glanced over to see my father with that contented look, arms crossed on his opu, with smiles in the eyes, master of the brood.

It was getting late now, it had to be 11:30pm or so and it was again my turn to hold his hand.  I was at his left and my sister-in-law Dottie was on his right.  We were talking and watching him. His breathing had grown a bit more labored and we were both more attentive. We were chatting about nothing in particular with the laughter in the background, but occasionally our conversation would break as we looked intently to him. Hey, is he breathing? It happened a couple of times.  Now it seemed that he really had stopped breathing.  I felt for a pulse and didn’t feel anything.  Dottie looked at me and said in the sweetest sounding voice: “he’s gone.”  I didn’t believe it at first, and looked at him. I put my fingers to his wrist.  “No,” I said, “I feel a heartbeat.” I wasn’t in denial or anything like that. I just truly thought I felt a heartbeat.  She looked at me with a kindness but with resolution.

I tried again. I know I felt something. Then I realized it. My own heart was pounding so hard. It was my heartbeat I was feeling in my fingers as I pressed firmly into his wrist. It was my heartbeat in him. Or his heartbeat in me.

We called out to the group and everyone gathered around, only to part momentarily for the young resident who was called to the room.  He felt for a pulse, and put on his stethoscope and listened intently.  He looked into our father’s eyes.  He was gentle and absolutely respectful. He waited for what seemed like many moments, and he turned to us and said solemnly, “I am very sorry to inform you…”  

It was ten minutes to midnight, Memorial Day, 2009.