I’m told that today is Sunday.
That would make Thanksgiving about 3 days ago– a day for which, I have to admit, I’m not thankful. It has been a very blurry few days, but I want to share what happened on Thanksgiving and share about an amazing woman who loved and was loved so tremendously.
The day started out happily enough: I woke up early to prepare for the invasion of 20 family members. I took a risk and tried new, un-tested recipes for both the 2 turkeys and stuffing, so I was in my own little joyful world—crossing my fingers as I experimented.
The family started arriving around noon-ish, the turkey we were roasting was in the oven—cooking a little faster than expected, but all was going well. Nate’s sister and her family came first and—with the addition of 3 kids along with Zack, the energy level escalated about 20 times.
Nate’s parents showed up next. With a quick peck on the cheek, a hug, and a “Happy Thanksgiving,” we all got to work on the various side dishes and appetizers we were each in charge of. Nate’s mom, Susan, hugged and cuddled with all her grandkids, and Nate’s dad, Mike, was assembling some munchies.
The next few minutes are still very blurry. We were all working on our various tasks, when Mike asked, “Where’s Susan?” We thought she was outside with the grandkids, so we kept on working.
A few minutes later someone else asked, “Where’s Susan?” It did seem a bit odd that none of us had seen her. Someone else said, “Maybe she went to make a phone call.” Again, that answer seemed sufficient.
The third time was not the charm.
A few minutes later, we noticed, she wasn’t outside, and something was off. Mike asked, “Really, where is Susan?” I can only share my perspective of course, but there was this sudden feeling of dread; something wasn’t right, and we knew it.
Someone noticed the light was on in the bathroom. *Knock knock knock* Susan? No answer. *knock knock knock* Susan?! No answer.
Mike grabbed the bathroom key, opened the door, and Susan fell out, unresponsive.
I ran outside yelling for Nate, who was just lighting the gas for the turkey we were going to deep-fry. “Nate! Your mom collapsed. Get in here!”
Nate ran in and got his mom to the floor. Over the next 7 minutes, I called 911, talked them through what was happening, while Nate performed CPR in the hopes that she’d be one of the small percentage of people for whom CPR actually works.
Only a moment or two after Nate started, his older brother and family showed up. We quickly told them what was happening and shuttled their kids outside with the other cousins who were blissfully unaware of what was going on inside; they were, thankfully, enjoying the gorgeous sunny day and playing on the playground.
The medics showed up and took over. Nate was amazing: a calm force in the midst of a horrendous storm. He knew exactly what to do, what to say, and what to delegate. When the medics showed up, he told them what they needed to know, immediately, then stepped back and let them do their job. In the mean time he calmly explained to his dad what they were doing, what they would try, and what the next steps would be.
In all his training, he never expected to be an emergency responder to his own mom.
It may sound cliché, but time really did stand still. I have no concept of how long the medics were actually at our house, but eventually they left, and Susan was taken to the hospital. Mike, Nate, his brother, sister, and Susan’s two sisters went with them. A few of us stayed back to watch the kids and wait for the rest of the family to arrive.
At some point, I realized the turkey was done. At some point, I realized the potatoes were still boiling. At some point, I realized I should probably turn the gas off from under the turkey stock. At some point, the last 4 family members arrived, including Susan’s parents, and we filled them in.
Then we waited.
Every phone call made us jump. The first several were “We don’t know. She’s in the ER operating room.” I received a text from a neighbor down the road saying she noticed the ambulance, and was everything ok. Another call, “We still don’t know anything.”
Eventually, we decided that we should probably feed the kids, so we carved the turkey to make some sandwiches when the call we all dreaded came in.
Nate called me. He told me the news. I hung up, looked at Susan’s mom, and just shook my head with tears streaming down my face. My voice could barely squeak out the words, “She didn’t make it.”
Nate’s brother-in-law came upstairs with a table: “She didn’t make it.”
Other family members rounded the corner: “She didn’t make it.”
I went outside to find Nate’s sister in-law: “She didn’t make it.”
I wish I knew stronger words than shock, grief, anger, dismay, and confusion, but those are only ones I have in my vocabulary to even attempt to convey what we all felt. We prayed. We hugged. We cried. We tried to figure out how to tell the kids. We had to figure out what to do next.
We ended up getting all the kids in one room, ages 2 – 7, and told them all at once, “Nana got sick, and she went to the hospital. The doctors did the best they could, but they couldn’t help her. She’s in heaven with Jesus now.” The oldest one got it, and she didn’t want to hear it. As the ages decreased, so did the understanding, but kids are still smart – all of them seemed to know that something was very very wrong.
We told them we were all going to the hospital so we packed up some of the food, printed off directions, and headed out. (In hindsight, I’m not sure why we packed food, but it made sense at the time – thinking maybe the other family members might be hungry? I don’t know. Logic was not my strong suit at the moment.)
Once at the hospital, some family members went to say their good-byes, and others of us stayed with the kids in the hospital lobby. The juxtaposition of adults and kids was pretty stark. None of the adults had eaten much during the day and had a full understanding of what was going on. We were in a daze just trying to take one moment at a time. The kids, however, were running on no-naps, and the only food they’d eaten was licorice, fruit snacks, and juice, so they were wired!
After there was nothing more to do, we all headed back to our house. Even though none of us felt like eating, we knew that our bodies needed some sustenance, and there was certainly plenty to be had back at the house.
During the whole process, we tried repeatedly to get a hold of Nate’s youngest brother who is in China, teaching at a university. After many emails, calls, and attempts to contact him, he finally got a hold of the family about 6 hours after his mom had passed. Although it was obviously a shock to all of us, we had been here, been together, and been a part of it. He heard it for the first time with no processing time, and no family around, 1/2 way across the world, through a choppy Skype connection.
He’s on his way home today; he’ll arrive tonight. I think we all look forward to him being here as well so we can continue to process, mourn, and celebrate her life, together.
Although there are some clearly less than stellar memories from that day, my last memory of Susan was not of her falling out of the bathroom or of the medics and the defibrillator. Although I certainly remember those things, my mind’s freeze-frame of Susan on that day is of her saying hello to her youngest grandson, 4-month-old Eli.
She was cuddling and rocking him with the biggest smile on her face! I remember seeing her taking such joy in Eli and thinking, “It’s so funny; it’s almost as if she hasn’t seen him in a year, when she probably sees him a few times a week.” But that’s who Susan was: she loved. She adored her grandchildren and took such pleasure in all of them. She loved her kids and their spouses. She loved her family. She loved and adored her husband and took care of him through thick and thin, richer and poorer, and sickness and health.
She devoted her life to helping others—her family, her colleagues, and the many many people who came through the Life Network pregnancy center.
I had the honor of knowing Susan for 5 years, and since the day I first stepped foot in her door to “meet the parents” while Nate and I were dating in August 2006, she welcomed me in. She welcomes everyone in. She loves without judgment. She supports without criticism. No one is perfect, I know, but she came awfully close.
I just realized that my past tense turned to present tense, but I’m ok with that. In fact, I think it’s pretty accurate. Susan still lives. I am truly confident that she is now experiencing a joy in heaven that is unlike anything any of us can fathom. Selfishly, I feel she just left her human shell 40 years too early.
But honestly, I don’t relish the first person to be rude or dismissive; in my current state, that could be crushing.
