We Never Said Goodbye

As we get older, we lose friends and family along the way. There is no avoiding it.

I lost Marsha, my wife of 43, years in March of 2017.

I think I’m now ready to share with you a few thoughts about what our family has been through.

It’s my hope that, if you are dealing with the loss of a loved one, maybe these words will help you in some small way.

I’ll never forget the first time I saw Marsha Leak as she walked into the student union building at Olney Central College. My jaw dropped, and my eyes nearly popped out of my head.

She was easily the most beautiful girl on campus, and to this day, the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen in my entire life. She was way out of my league, the kind of girl I’d never find the courage to approach.

And yet … somehow I did!

I overcame my shyness … I think it was because, besides her obvious physical attractiveness, I noticed something more. There was kindness in her eyes.

I started up a conversation with her. Then we started dating … and before we knew it, a few months later, I persuaded her to spend the rest of her life with me!

Through good times and bad, we stuck together. In time, we became parents, and then later, grandparents. Through it all, for 43 years, she was the wind beneath my wings. I would have been nothing without her.

Marsha worked as a teacher at a preschool. She was really good at her job. She loved the kids, and they loved her. She was always coming up with new craft projects for them to make in class, for the kids to play with and take home to show their parents. She never ran out of ideas.

Then, in the summer of 2016, Marsha started having headaches. At first, we attributed them to stress and anxiety. We were going through some family issues at the time. Although she and I were pulling together, we were both under a lot of stress. So it only made sense that she would have headaches. I’m surprised I didn’t, too.

Marsha’s doctor didn’t seem too concerned. In fact, he even said it was probably stress. Then later, he said maybe it was her vision. She went to an eye doctor, who suggested she see a neurologist, but her primary care physician still would not refer her.

The headaches just wouldn’t stop … and they kept getting worse and worse.

Eventually, the headaches got so bad she couldn’t keep working. She gave 2 weeks’ notice at the preschool. It broke her heart to do it, but by then, the headaches were all consuming. Her only relief from the pain was to sleep.

On her last day at work, a little boy got under Marsha’s feet. She didn’t see him, and when she began to move, she tripped over him and hit her head on a window ledge.

She was taken to the Emergency Room by ambulance.

In the Emergency Room, they did an MRI and discovered that she had a brain tumor. Then, finally, she was able to get in to a neurologist. But it was too late.

Marsha’s official diagnosis was craniopharyngioma. Basically, it’s a rare type of brain tumor that mostly affects children, but adults get them sometimes, too. In Marsha’s case, it was not only causing her headaches, but it was damaging her optical nerves.

Over the next few months she became blind in her left eye, and was beginning to lose sight in her right eye. And the headaches were getting worse. Marsha told me, “Wayne, I don’t want to live like this.”

We made several trips to the Mayo Clinic in Jacksonville. The surgeons there determined that they could get the tumor out … and we … well, we were so hopeful … If the headaches would just stop … if she could maintain what vision she still had … that would have been wonderful. Of course we were hoping for more. We were hoping her vision would come back. Hoping she could resume a normal life …

There were no guarantees, of course. And with every surgery there is risk. I think we were told there was something like a 2% chance that there could be excessive bleeding, and that could cause more problems. But a 2% risk means a 98% chance things will go right! So, we scheduled the surgery.

February 24^th, 2017, I, along with our granddaughter Annika, took Marsha to check in for surgery. I don’t remember what we talked about during the last minutes we were together. That part of my memory is blocked out. I don’t remember kissing her, although I know I did. And I don’t remember the last words we said to one another.

At the time, I’m sure I wasn’t thinking in terms of her never coming back to us. I do know that whatever we said to one another, we never said goodbye.

I Knew What I Had To Do

February 24^th  2017  my wife Marsha went in for surgery to remove a brain tumor at Mayo Clinic in Jacksonville Florida. They did get the tumor out, but she never woke up.

While in a coma in the Intensive Care Unit  she suffered a series of strokes due to bleeding in the brain. Days went by with no response to any stimulus.

I even tried reading Junie B. Jones books to her,  hoping to connect with her in the process. For those of you who don’t know … Junie B. Jones books are written for young children. I used to read them to our granddaughter, Annika. Marsha would listen, and she always laughed at the misadventures of Junie B. So  I thought maybe that would help. Still no response.

Marsha and I had prepared living wills that spelled out our wishes under such circumstances as we were facing at that time. It was clear what she wanted me to do. All spelled out in the living will. I would have wanted the same thing if it were me in the coma instead of her.

It would be hard. And even though it broke my heart … I knew what I had to do.

Now Or Never

The time to make a decision was at hand. I knew that Marsha would want me to advocate for her, tell them to remove life support. But I needed to make sure I was making an informed decision.

One doctor on the ICU staff spoke with me, suggesting that the right thing to do would be to remove life support. It was hard to hear, even though it was exactly what I was thinking.

Then later, her neurosurgeon indicated to me that he was not yet ready to give up on my wife. He was somewhat upset that the ICU doctor had taken it upon herself to speak with me. I personally appreciated the fact that she had.

I asked for a meeting with the surgical team and those involved with caring for Marsha in ICU.

There are parts of the story, and this is one of them, where my memory isn’t clear. I was walking around in a fog much of the time. The things I do remember are of little importance, and out of sequence, meaning I don’t know in what order they happened.

After all this time, it is still painful to recall what we went through. Even while preparing this script, I had to stop and break down a little bit. It just goes to show, you never really “get over it.”

So … what I remember about our meeting was there were several of us, maybe six, maybe a dozen … that part is shrouded in fog. I do remember Marsha’s neurosurgeon, Dr. Q, was there.

I asked what was the best case scenario if we kept Marsha on life support and waited to see what happened.

The answer sounded to me like a hellish nightmare. Bottom line was, after having a series of strokes following her surgery, she would not be able to do anything for herself. She would be bedridden, blind, unable to communicate, and most likely would not know who she was, or who anyone attending to her was.

There was of course the possibility that she would continue to survive in her coma state even without life support. And her existence would be pretty much the same.

Either way it was as I said, a hellish nightmare. For Marsha. For me. For the family.

I couldn’t do that to her. To any of us. I can’t say I felt Marsha’s presence at that moment, but in my mind, I knew what she would say.

Other factors were also in play. Our daughter was flying in from Colorado. She would be leaving in a couple of days, and taking our granddaughter back to live with her. I wanted them both to have a chance to say goodbye. And I didn’t want our granddaughter, who loved Grandma Marsha so much, to know we were removing life support. She wouldn’t understand.

So, at the close of our meeting, I told the staff my decision was to remove life support, but to wait a couple days until after my daughter and granddaughter had a chance to say their goodbyes and leave for Colorado.

After the conference, I went back to Marsha’s room in ICU. I pulled a chair up next to her bed, and took her hand in mine. I told her we would be removing life support soon. “If you and God have a miracle in the works, now is the time to make it happen.” I had to tell her. Had to give her and God a chance to sort it all out and decide what was best. And I had to give myself some time as well. Time to accept the reality of what was going to happen. Time to cling to hope.

But time was running out for a miracle. It was now or never.