Noise in the Attic

Few people outside Central Georgia would recognize her name. She never made the news. She never made a lot of money. No one will ever name a building for her; her face will never be on a postage stamp. Fame and fortune were not her lot in life. She never wanted them. Nonetheless, she touched hundreds, even thousands, of lives in a deep, personal way, and those people remember her and honor her.

For nearly 45 years, she worked as a Registered Nurse, 33 years with the same hospital. Most of those years, she worked the graveyard shift, so she could have time to spend with her family after school. From the first day of her career, she developed a reputation as a vocal advocate for her patients, not just providing but demanding the very best care possible. In a time when doctors reigned supreme and nurses were regarded as little more than hired help, few doctors crossed her more than once, though there were a few who took on the challenge as a way of crosschecking their decisions. Charge Nurses and Nursing Supervisors quickly learned to tread lightly and think carefully before speaking. The nurses she worked with and the patients she cared for so deeply gave her their respect and love wholeheartedly.

Through 54 years as a minister’s wife, she never put herself forward as better than anyone else. She did not take and did not want a leadership position in the church. She always said that there were others better suited for the job and gladly yielded that place. She preferred to work behind the scenes, giving her skills in sewing and cooking and whatever time she could make for the church’s benefit.

She was born into a family that would have had to rise several rungs on the social ladder to be considered even poor. Though clothes were scarce and luxuries unreachable, she learned to value of love, hard work, and self-reliance. Marrying a preacher was not a path to fortune, and they lived in abject poverty through the early years of their marriage, gradually working their way up to a degree of security. She never preached her values to others, but her actions and example said more than words ever could. Though she was small in stature, her spirit stood tall and strong. She dared life to do its worst and took on and triumphed over the challenges thrown before her.

Their was only one enemy she could never defeat: diabetes. After a pancreatectomy in 1962, she was insulin-dependent for life. She determined early on that diabetes would not rule her life. For 43 years, she fought the unconquerable disease to a draw, giving ground only grudgingly. But diabetes is a devious and ultimately unbeatable disease. First, it nibbled away at her sight, slowly leaching away her ability to drive at night and to read without magnification. After a sextuple cardiac bypass, followed shortly by an aortal aneurism that was found and repaired just in time, she knew her active life was over.

After her retirement, she threw herself into sewing and church work, but her time was now running out. In 1997, her first serious stroke took half the strength from the right side of her body. Only 2 years later, a second stroke took her left side and condemned her to life in a wheelchair. Although being an invalid was hard enough, the stroke also stole her eyesight to the point that she could no longer read. For an active, self-reliant woman, this condition was close to unbearable, but still she would not give up. For 8 years, she fought against a slowly decaying body, keeping her mind alert and defying the doctors that gave up on her.

Not even the strongest live forever. On December 24, 2005, Christmas Eve, at 5:30pm, she drew her last breath. She died in her living room, with her devoted husband of 54 years, who had been her caregiver for the last 8 years of her life, holding her hand. It was what she wanted. No resuscitation, no mechanical life support besides an oxygen tube and a feeding tube. No fuss, no heroics, no hysterics. She was not afraid to live, and she was not afraid to die.

As her youngest son, I am proud of the lessons she taught me. I am proud of the life she lived. Though her death has left an enormous void in all our lives, we harbor a relief that her long struggle is finally over and a satisfaction in remembering a life well lived. I think the scripture chosen by her minister for her funeral is an accurate summing up of her life:

I have run the great race, I have finished the course, I have kept the faith. And now the prize awaits me, the garland of righteousness which the Lord, the all-just Judge, will award me on that great Day; and it is not for me alone, but for all who have set their hearts on his coming appearance.
–2 Timothy 4:7-8

The doctors determined that Mama was too weak to undergo a catheterization, much less any exploratory or reconstructive surgery. So. She’s coming home this afternoon. Now we wait. Days, weeks, even years. I already cringe at the sound of the telephone, a leftover neurosis from the anxiety-based psychosis that put me in the loony bin a few years back. Now, I live in dread of that 3am phone call that I know will come, I just don’t know when.

Suspense is great in novels. It’s what pulls the readers in and keeps them attached to the story. In real life, it really sucks. My life needs a TiVo.

And now, a few words the Grinch:

Anybody out there who fancies themselves a singer, I have a Christmas request. Actually, 2 requests. Actually demands.

1. When you sing “O Holy Night”, just sing the song. Your trills and filigress and warbles do not add anything to it. They only mean that either you wouldn’t recognize real beauty if it beat you up and stole your lunch money or you can’t carry a tune in a galvanized bucket. Or both. This song does not need your help. It is one of the most beautiful songs ever written just as it stands. Pleas, please, don’t torture it and us with your egotistical efforts.

2. If your voice does not have the power to pull the listeners up out of their seats when you hit “Fall on your knees…”, don’t even start. You cannot sing this song. All you can do is embarrass yourself. Those people who recognize their limitations are the most successful in life. Learn from them.

Thank you. We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming, already in progress.

This past Monday, my mother had a heart attack. Long-time readers of NITA will remember that she is wheel-chair-bound after a major stroke in 1999, and was already fading. She was admitted to the ICU and faltered all through Tuesday and Wednesday. On Thursday morning, her doctor told my father to start calling the family, because she probably would not live through the day, and certainly not through the night.

When I got there Thursday morning, her blood pressure was wavering around 65 over 45. A Bi-PAP machine with supplemental oxygen was helping her breathe, but she was still gasping and struggling. At this point, we ran up against the hardest decisions we had ever faced. Mama left strict Do Not Rescucitate and no artificial life support orders. It was up to us to decide what that meant. A ventilator was definitely out, but what about the Bi-PAP? It was not forcing her to breathe, just giving an assist. Should we let them try dopamine to bring her blood pressure up? That is strictly a crisis-intervention measure for her, given the state of her circulatory system. Tough time, tough decisions. We decided to leave the Bi-PAP on and try the dopamine. Were we right? Who can tell. We did what we thought best.

A potential side-effect of dopamine is tachycardia, or accelerated heart beat. Unfortunately, we did not know this until Mama’s heart rate went up to almost 150 beats per minute. For someone already weak and with a damaged heart, this was definitely a really bad turn of events. The ICU nurses kept adjusting dosages and got her heart rate down and blood pressure up, but she was in definite respiratory distress.

By 11 o’clock Thursday night, Mama’s condition had actually stabilized. Her breathing was better, and her heart rate and blood pressure stayed at something at least resembling normal levels. The fact that she lived through the night was amazing in and of itself. The fact that she regained consciousness Friday morning and was able to respond to questions with head shakes or nods is nothing short of a miracle. I don’t know what to think about her continuing improvement since then. Some things cannot be explained by science.

Anyone who witnesses the power of the human spirit cannot come away unchanged. To see a person challenge all odds and beat them, to see a person stand face to face with Death, spit in it’s face, and dare it to do something about it, is one of life’s most inspirational and wonder-ful moments. Anything is possible. Miracles actually happen. Almost any doctor or nurse can tell you about impossible things that happened, and people that lived in spite of, or perhaps to spite, their condition.

What happens from here, we don’t know. She will probably go to the Medical Center of middle Georgia tomorrow for a heart catheterization so the doctor can evaluate the damage and start to make treatment plans. Right now, all I can do is walk in awe and wonder.

Friday night: found out Granny had died. Began logistical negotiations for trip to Knoxville.

Saturday: Worked until 1:00, went to gym. Back home to continue frantic preparations and plans. Threw clothes into overnight bag. Spent 2 hours gathering up all the small essentials I forgot the first time.

Sunday: Up at 4:30am. Rendezvous with my brothers. Head to Atlanta. Drop off brother’s truck in downtown Atlanta (he is in training this week) at his hotel. High-speed run toward Tennessee. Arrived in Knoxville around 2:30. Quick rest. To funeral home for visitation from 4-6. Got lost. Got found. Got there about 4:30. Dinner afterward with family.

Sunday night: unfamiliar bed + stress = not much sleep + bad dreams

Monday: Head to cemetary for funeral. Got lost again. Got found again. Got there on time. 11:30 - funeral over, torrential deluge follows. Lunch for family provided by church. Good food. Good visiting. Many photographs. Back on Interstate around 1:30. Arrived downtown Atlanta at 5:00. Really bad idea. Dropped brother off at hotel. Sat in traffic. Sat in traffic. Sat in traffic. Sat in traffic. Got home about 8:30. Collapsed into bed.

I’ve been discombobulated and out of sorts ever since. I used to be able to bounce back after this kind of thing. These days, I don’t bounce–I splat. Slowly scraping myself back into a reasonably compact pile.

Thank you, everyone, for the sympathy and support. It really does mean a lot.

Michelle said that Granny “must have been quite a woman”. You might say that.

Ruth Ellison was born and raised in poverty so profound her family literally lived under the specter of starvation. This was way before there were any organized welfare programs or “safety nets”. They scrabbled and scratched and survived by their wits and their work ethic. When she was 14, Ruth moved from Louisiana to Knoxville, Tennessee, with only what she could wear and carry. There she eventually met and married Omer Lee Nipper. They worked their way up into lower middle-class comfort while they raised their 5 children.

Grandaddy died in 1969 of a massive cerebral hemorrhage while he was mowing the lawn. He was dead before he hit the ground. Over the years since then, Granny buried 2 of her sons, the oldest and youngest of her children.

Some of us let life push us around. We let it knock us down and kick us in the ribs. We let it spit in our faces and laugh at us. Granny never did that. She was a tall woman, strong, bull-headed, and opinionated (Hmmm…sounds vaguely familiar). She was, and is, a lighthouse standing tall and strong, blazing her beacon against the hurricane, daring it to knock her down if it can. Granny set a high standard. It’s a good one to strive for.

I’m off to Knoxville now. See you Tuesday.