By Brenda Cannon Henley
Most of you are aware that Sharon Duke and I were blessed to take care of one of our own, Ed Snyder, during the last weeks of his life here on earth. We were on either side of his bed, each holding a hand, and positioned so that either way he turned his head, he would see one of us and know he wasn’t alone. Ed was in a serious critical care unit, and by the time we had reached that fateful Saturday, after having taken part in an ethics board meeting that morning, we were all very aware that Ed was transitioning from what we call home here on earth and was on his way to Heaven. At this point in critical and comfort care, the hospital assigns one nurse to each patient. One gets to know your nurse and he or she gets to know the patient and family (if any), and the caregivers very well.

Our nurse for that Saturday was Nick and my heart swelled with pride when I learned he was not only a veteran himself, but received his medical training in the US Navy.

Sharon and I wasted no time telling Nick all about our Ed, his Marine service, his love of nature, and his rare skill behind a camera. Like the proud grandmother I am, I whipped out my trusty phone and shared with Nick photos Ed had captured. Nick oohed and aahed appropriately and even showed some of the other nurses Ed’s work.

Baylor College of Medicine/St. Luke is remarkable in all of their skill and care, but especially so in end of life comfort care. Sharon and I saw the charge nurse come up to Ed’s glass door and quickly and quietly place something on the surface and hokding it in place with tape. It was a beautiful lilly. We later learned that once a patient has begun the death process, this is their signal to give privacy and respect unless medical attention is needed.

In other rooms in the CCU, families would come in and one by one tell their person goodbye. Some would leave huddled over, shaking, being supported by others, and crying loudly. My heart went out to each of them. It seemed hardest on children and mothers.

Nick seemed to have determined that Sharon and I understood what was happening and were capable and composed enough to keep our vigil. Nick, and every other nurse said, “Keep talking. We believe hearing is the last sense to go,” so talk we did. We each told Ed stories, remarked about certain photographs, laughed about our big strong Marine, and told him over and over that we loved him. I assured him I would keep every promise I had made to him in those last weeks and honor every wish he had made known to me.

From time to time, we would get a tighter squeeze of the hand or a tap of one finger. And even though Ed had been given medicine, there were times I believe he heard and tried to respond. One by one, the noisy machines were disconnected and tubes and wires removed. The breathing tube was taken out and none of us expected Ed to live very long because he had not been able to breathe on his own in a while.

But, guess what? Our sturdy old Marine lived on five and one half hours. There were times the lines would go straight or would seem to simply stop, but then Ed would breathe again. And they would start back.

Nick realized that as short as I am, I wasn’t able to reach Ed very well and he came and literally removed the side rails. We could touch him more easily and Ed seemed comforted. As the hours wore on, the outer extremities became cooler and cooler and we knew our time was growing shorter, but Ed was holding on to life as we know it.

I remembered something my mother’s hospice nurse had told me some years ago, and with Sharon’s and Nick’s encouragement, I got as close as I could to our rugged old battered Marine and told him I loved him very much, and that we would miss him like crazy, but that the medical team had said he could not get well and I knew he would hate living as he would have to, and that he could rest and go on Home when he needed to do so.

Sharon later said she believed that was when Ed turned loose, let go, or whatever term you would use. Nick checked his vital signs and we all agreed it would not be long. We were all right. Sharon and I reached down and kissed him and told him we loved him and our handsome Nick looked up at the clock. It was 6:00 PM straight up and down. He died just like the proud Marine he was right at change of duty. The doctor came in and certified that Ed’s life in earth was over, but we stayed with his body until the funeral home plan was in place.

I share these details with three goals in mind. The first is to assure those who care that Ed went from us to Heaven. He wasn’t frightened. He did not struggle or fight and he was ready. I ask you today, “How will you die?”

Two, if you think I have a passion for seeing that Ed Snyder has a proper homegoing. You are right. I will fight you tooth and nail to see that his every wish is honored. If you treat Ed’s death, or any other, casually and flippantly, my heart hurts for you. We don’t get a do over in this. Put aside your petty differences, your dislike of a person or a group of people, and act like people of character.

And the third is where this story started. I think we’ve been doing it all wrong. Ed is more alive now than he has ever been. We have no earthly idea of what he is seeing and doing. I am never going to write “was” again about Ed. I will write “is.” He is in Heaven, living, and waiting on us. Till then…

Brenda Cannon Henley can be reached at 409-781-8788, or
[email protected]

[2-26-2018]