A Lifetime in Minutes

“His chances of surviving the operation are three percent or less, he will probably lose one or both legs, he will be on dialysis for the rest of life, and he could suffer multiple brain traumas. Do you want to proceed or let him go? There is very little time left, he is critical.” The thoracic surgeon was a woman who was on call that Sunday in the emergency room. She appeared brusque, but not impatient. My husband, Carl, was screaming in pain, grabbing his left leg and crying, “Make it stop, please make it stop!” Carl and I had been married for close to forty years. Whenever the hard questions of getting older and dying came up, he made me promise with my hand over my heart to let him go if he became a vegetable as he put it. He told me and made me promise a hundred times. I looked at him and thought, how am I going to do this? Promises were easy when all was well. “I need your answer right now.” The doctor said as she looked me in the eye. “I should let him go because he would hate me, despise me if all went wrong and a vegetative state occurred.” What a horrible choice to make, and I told the surgeon that. She said she understood but time was not on our side. A small voice from across the bed came from someone who I had not noticed. She was not a doctor or nurse, but her voice cut through the ER clatter. “Excuse me, but why don’t you wait and make that decision of life or death after the operation. If he is in terrible shape then you can take him off life support.” I felt time squeezing in on me. I looked at Carl, who was holding onto his leg moaning. A very large and burly emergency nurse had a grip on him so he would not throw himself out of the bed. I called to the burly nurse, “Would you ask Carl if he wants to live or die in your loudest voice?”

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