Husband’s death results in lessons about loss, love during COVID pandemic
%20sent.jpg "Columnist Kathe Tanner shares lessons she’s learned since her husband, Richard, died on Dec. 5, during the holiday season and the coronavirus pandemic.")
The holiday season will never be quite the same for the Tanner family.
On Dec. 5, Husband Richard died peacefully at home of natural causes unrelated to COVID-19, surrounded by three family members and two caregivers. He died after having triumphed over health battles that spanned 22 years, a fight that got much more intense in the past seven years and especially the past eight months.
It’s never easy to lose a loved one, or to become a widow. But during the holiday season, with coronavirus restrictions keeping family and friends away, it became even harder.
The COVID-19 pandemic has made the grieving process a much lonelier one, I think. The world feels hollow, somehow, and empty.
Aloneness is different now. Poignant and permanent.
People who are sequestering can’t visit, can’t bring food or provide long, warm, healing hugs. Their virtual embraces and heartfelt, supportive written words are very much appreciated, but they can’t be as curative as the in-person ones are.
And these days, more people send condolences via social media and cards than they do through phone calls. Of course, each message and card or letter will be treasured forever. But I’d never before realized how much a loss can be magnified by silence.
The sad news spread rapidly, but few people called at first, probably not wanting to intrude into our “family time.” But this is a COVID-19 era, and other relatives couldn’t join the three of us who’d been with Richard at the end.
It was painfully quiet.
So, I will never again not call during a time of bereavement, tragedy or loss. No excuses. If they can’t talk when I call, they can call me back when they can. Or I’ll try again later, and often. And if I don’t know what to say, I’ll simply say, “I care.”
So many lessons learned, and now shared.
Richard
Richard’s smile lit up the universe, and his eyes radiated such warmth, humor and intense love.
He was an incredible Renaissance man, a World War II veteran (radio officer), Southern Pacific Railroad train dispatcher, Harrah’s Club pit boss, master baker at our Upper Crust Bakery in Cambria, truffle maker, opal cutter, photographer, devoted father/”Gpa”/sibling/uncle, wearer of his trademark black cowboy hat and vivid Western shirts and inveterate teller of wonderful stories and extraordinarily bad jokes.
Ours was a miraculous love affair. We never should have found each other, especially with the difference in our ages, but we did. My wildly romantic, gentle giant was a foot taller than I am, but, as I tucked myself under his outstretched arm, Richard told me I’d grown “until you were perfect, right up to my heart.”
It was such a blessing for Richard, me and our resident Son Brian that Son Sean was here before, during and after their dad’s death, as Sean had been so often during this siege and before.
So, we three were with Richard at the end, and we were able to tell him that, as much as we will adore and miss him forever, it was time for him to go. We’d be OK, somehow.
He died 20 minutes later.
The caregivers who were there were convinced he’d held on for us to there that morning, for one more hug, one more kiss.
Watching him die was a gut-wrenchingly emotional experience like no other, seeing his body struggle to take that last breath. But he did it as he’d lived his life, with grace.
In the past 22 years, Richard had used humor and determination to fight through recoveries from heart bypass and knee replacement surgery, as well as a massive stroke, chronic obstructive pulmonary disease and a foot infection that left him, for the last four months of his life, with gangrene, weakness and confinement to a hospital bed in our living room.
He would have been nonplussed at the huge outpouring of caring and grief expressed so beautifully by so many on social media after his death … as he had been amazed by that same intensity of caring shared during his most recent attempt to recover.
No, it was more than an attempt. He succeeded every day, not just by surviving, but by persevering and advancing.
How he did it
In mid-August, some hospitalists had insisted that Richard should transfer into a skilled nursing facility, where family and visitors were not allowed to be.
That’s perfect for some people, but not for our gregarious Richard, who would have declined quickly without that emotional support and family cheerleading.
We live in a small town in a close-knit county, especially in times of need. We knew we could do better, and owed Richard no less than our best. We brought him home in what the docs called a “safe release,” but it took some doing.
How? Through a caregiver agency? Hospice? Nope. Again, some patients flourish that way, but it wasn’t right for him or us.
We were able — through social media, friends, word of mouth, unbelievable luck and an amazing chain of Central Coast links we didn’t know we had — to eventually cobble together our own, perfect team of five independent caregivers who are family now. Brenda, Lizette, Alice, Mary and Nicole bonded into Team Richard, a steadfast, steady group devoted to him and his care.
Our solution isn’t for every patient, every situation. But if it fits, it is possible. You can do it.
His “helpers” loved him, they laughed with him and each of them spent hours sitting beside him, listening to him retell his incredible life history — and, yes, a lot of his bad jokes. What a gift.
The team included others who loved and had full faith in Richard: Our beloved longtime nurse practitioner Cece Lomeli; boutique doctor David Griffith, who makes house calls; foot doctors Chris Byrne and Gerit Mulder, and a Wilshire Home Health team of nurses Diana and Zoe, two physical therapists and a speech therapist.
Thank you all. You gave him so much.
With their help, we were able to give Richard goals, achievements to aim for each day, to the very end.
And achieve he did, becoming able to sit unassisted at the side of the hospital bed, even standing up several times, always, always surrounded by love, cheerleading and 24/7 care focused just on him.
The fragile future
As we head toward one goal Richard didn’t quite make, his 95th birthday, our hearts are broken. But slowly, bit by bit, as we get through that date, Christmas, New Year’s and what would have been Richard’s and my 44th anniversary on Jan. 2, we’ll slowly begin to heal.
All of you will play a part in that, and for that, we thank you.
