Never underestimate the value of friends

On Jenni's first day in the hospital, her dear friend Alma Mitchell showed up and took charge. "You have to keep after the nurses," she said. "Otherwise, they tend to ignore the patient."

We had very good nursing care, but Alma made sure it was excellent. She and I learned how to operate the IV pump, mainly to keep it quiet. If Jenni laid on a tube, it sounded the alarm. If the fluid got low, or if the injection site wasn't just right, or sometimes for no reason at all, it raised its annoying voice loud enough for nurses outside the room to hear. They didn't respond immediately because pumps and monitors in other rooms were constantly wailing too. Alma and I learned to push a certain button to silence the beast.

Alma came and spent hours at Jenni's bedside making sure she was comfortable, giving her something to drink, reading to her, chatting, laughing, and allowing her to sleep without interruption. I was able to work while Alma was there. How do you thank a friend like that?

I spent my mornings and evenings with Jenni, following Alma's lead, giving her the extra attention the nurses couldn't give. About 9 p.m. on her second day in the hospital, my friends Don McGee and Chad Lyman showed up. Jenni was sleeping so I chatted with them outside the room. Don scolded me for not telling them about our crisis. He has a way of taking you to task and leaving you feeling loved rather than chastened. He and Chad wanted to know everything, so I rehearsed the tale for them, and they gave me their encouragement.

We have a lot of good friends, and their good wishes gave us strength. We know a lot of people were praying for Jenni. I learned something, though. It can get to be too much. I rehearsed Jenni's story over and over again during the first couple of days. In addition to the time it took away from being with her, the story-telling took an emotional toll. I was reliving the initial shock of her diagnosis each time I recounted what had happened. In order to avoid that, I designated one neighbor, Greg Ferguson, as the story teller. I updated him occasionally on what was happening and he told everyone else. What a relief! Some of our friends sent cards expressing their love and support. Those expressions were treasured.

How dreadful it would be to walk through the Valley of Death alone. With friends, it becomes possible to notice that there are tulips in the valley.

Know the bitter; savor the sweet

My mother died suddenly at 69. Jenni and our family happened to be staying with my parents during a summer trip to Canada. We had returned to the house from a community pancake breakfast when Dad met us at the door in terrible distress.

"Brent! What am I going to do without her?"

I hugged him and it took a few seconds for me to realize what he was saying. When it hit home, the realization felt like being carried over a waterfall. I went to her room and saw the body that she had left during the night. She was gone.

During the next few days we prepared for a funeral and helped Dad settle her affairs. I picked up a pair of shoes she had worn just the day before she died. They looked so small. I sat on her deck with my brother Grant and reminisced about this remarkable woman who had grown up during the Great Depression on the harsh prairie of Alberta. As we talked, I began to sob. The groaning came unbidden and irrepressible.

Now my own dear Jenni lay near death. I understood how my father felt. The prospect of living without my life partner hit me in the gut and strangled my breath. My own feelings were irrelevant, though. Jenni was struggling to survive, and she needed my strength. I gathered what grit I had and went to the hospital.

She needed a transfusion to replace the water in her veins with blood. Her kidneys had failed, so dialysis was necessary. And doctors needed to flood her system with various medications. An IV in the arm would not do. She had to have a central venous catheter inserted in her chest.

I was allowed to watch as a surgeon did the insertion. He was alone in the room with Jenni and me, and though she was anesthetized and unconscious she moaned when he pushed the CVC into the vein.

Back in her hospital room, Jenni was tethered in so many different ways I didn't know how she would move, but move she did. The transfusions, dialysis, and IV saline solution got her kidneys going again and every hour or so she had to leave her bed and fight through the tubes and wires to get to the bathroom. One of our sensitive sons drew a little cartoon on the white board in her room depicting Jenni in her hospital gown straining against the tethers to get to the toilet, which was just out of her reach. All of our sons are talented cartoonists, so I don't know which one it was. It made her laugh, though, so it was much appreciated.