Monday 24th November – the day Sam began to leave us. These last 2 posts are going to be pretty hard to write… Over the last week the blogging process has done its work in me, uncovered buried anger and enabled those suppressed tears to flow. Looking back at my lovely, infuriating son has been both a pleasure and a pain – but now I must say goodbye to him once more. The end of Sam’s story is unavoidable – none of us can escape death no matter how long we defy it.
I think that is partly why I want to write about it – to force other people to look it in the face, accept reality and their mortality. We live in the one part of the world and the one time in history where we do not have to face it regularly so we almost forget it is there – something to be considered and planned for – until someone close to us or perhaps someone famous dies. Death horrifies us and we fear it – even those with faith in life beyond seem to avoid it at all costs. Sam was not afraid, though part of him was still defiant and in denial – he was ready to go into Spirit, as he would have put it – or even just to go to sleep if that was all there was. Of course he wanted to live, to follow his dreams and fulfil his potential… isn’t the loss of all that the problem, isn’t that what dying is all about – letting go?
We had to let go as well. On Saturday we had committed his spirit into God’s hands and now we had to go through the process… It was the last night of the nurse watch-women – they only cover the first 5 out of hospital. I don’t think they reported anything different when I arrived, but I soon found that Sam had a bad headache and felt sick again. He was really suffering and I knew it was time to call the emergency number for hospice at home…
The nurse arrived quickly and set up her station in the kitchen. She was kind and efficient: it was a relief. I was sent to a local chemist in a backstreet somewhere to collect a pile of controlled drugs while Martin sat with Sam. He wasn’t talking much, but that must have been when he said “I wanted to show you a man who defied death” They were, appropriately enough, his last words to his father.
Martin phoned to call his own father, brother and Becca back to Loughborough but it would take them 4 hours to arrive. When I got back with the medicines the hospice consultant had arrived as well – the little house felt very full. I sat down next to Sam and held his hand as he waited for relief. They were drawing up morphine and an antiemetic to give him when Dr Feathers called through: “We can give some steroids as well if Sam wants it” Sam heard that, looked at me and forcefully delivered his last words to me: “No Dex!”
I went into the kitchen as the syringe was administered, into his left arm. He could obviously still feel on that side because he complained loudly when the needle went in! The morphine quickly had an effect and he seemed to go to sleep. I sat down with him again. It wasn’t long before I thought I would check his pupils – I don’t really know why. He was peaceful, breathing, looked comfortable. But I found his right pupil fixed and dilated while the left one was small. Immediately we knew the tumour had bled once more and this time fatally: his brain had given up – he would not wake from this sleep again.
The saddest part was that Rebecca had not been able to say goodbye. He had called her on the previous evening but she had missed the call and Sam was already unconscious when the family finally arrived. Not that any of us actually said goodbye: Sam did not know what was happening and simply slipped into a sleep that took him all the way down into darkness… or light?
When is the moment of death? He was still breathing, his heart was strong. We had to wait for final breath and heartbeat: our vigil had begun. Of course it all seemed unreal. Dad and Richard were in the kitchen with the cats and newspapers. The nurse called a colleague to lift him and turn on his side. Becca called a friend to come and we called our lodgers. Young Ben came to join us and wouldn’t leave… So much love and support, texts and prayers, grace and peace. Scamp sat on Sam’s bed and went to sleep next to his master’s legs.
I can’t remember the hours of that afternoon and evening. We must have eaten, talked together, sat and drunk endless cups of tea around the prone shape of our son. We talked to him, not knowing whether he could hear. The nurses were endlessly comforting as they cared for him. Eventually Dad and Richard went off to stay in a B&B and the 3 of us were left – with Ben, who refused to go home to Burton St. He slept on one of the sofas and we 3 squeezed into Sam’s bed upstairs. I prayed we wouldn’t be in limbo for too long.