Judy was one of the ones I lost last year. More than a friend, she was like an aunt or a surrogate parent. I spent weeks at her family’s house in the summers when both my mother and I needed a break from each other. Her husband was my dad’s best friend, and her boys are like the older brothers I never had.
She was loving, generous to a fault, down-to-earth, and practical.
So, she knew. That day her oxygen dropped to catastrophic levels when the BiPAP was obscured for just a moment or two, she knew that there was no coming back. No going home, no moving it even to sip a Pepsi. It was such a little thing, but it meant everything.
It meant that she got to do what very few of us will ever get to -- set the terms for her own death.
I don’t know how hard it was for her to accept that there were no options left to her that would reach any quality of life. But I do know that, once she did accept it, her still-sharp mind started making plans.
She considered the timing. She was just that kind of person. How long would it take to say her goodbyes? To give others what they needed? What dates to avoid so association wouldn’t be painful for anyone on a special day? Then she chose.
On her chosen date, she gave friends a window to come to the ICU. She texted or called everyone on her contacts list to let them know what was coming and give them a chance to say what they needed to. Then she sent away everyone but family and the closest of friends. I feel incredibly privileged to have been included in that group.
Judy was devout. Sometimes, I was jealous of her faith. It provided a foundation and a bulwark that helped her weather the difficult things in life. This was no different. When I went to see her on her last day the ICU white board said, “meet up with David (the husband she had lost six months before) and Jesus”. When it was down to just us, a family member performed a bedside service, including communion.
Then a doctor came in and stopped all medication except pain and anxiety medication, to keep her comfortable and ease the instinct to fight death. She asked the doctor things like how long it would take and what it would feel like. But the doctor was stumped. No one before her had been alert enough to ask.
Once her wishes had been completed, we closed in on the bed and held her hand or touched a leg so she knew we were there. For a while, they sang hymns and songs. A couple of the ICU staff stayed with us for a while beyond administering meds, but it took a couple of hours. We joked that it might be the longest period of time Judy stayed quiet. She was a talker.
It was beautiful and extraordinary, perhaps the best medical thing I have ever seen.
And then it was done.
We were all so sad. Deeply grieving the fact that she wouldn’t be present in our lives the same way she had been. But she was where she wanted to be -- at rest. We couldn’t be sad about that.
Judy was the best of us, and I am so glad I got to tell her that. The thought has crossed my mind that the manner of her death was a reward for who she was all she was, in life.
Since that day, the idea that I should be so lucky sits in the back of my head. Because if it’s true, it certainly gives me a standard to strive for. But boy, I have a long way to go.