Raymond McDade, Valentines Dinner 2012. Sunday, November 2, 2014
The last time I wrote about Raymond McDade, he had been admitted to the hospital, possibly technically dead at one point and certainly near death by any standard. What standards fail to consider, however, is the inexplicable resilience of the human spirit—and the near-miraculous resilience of one human in particular.
Ray had collapsed at the Soldiers Home on Oct. 9. I visited him on Oct. 10, during what should have been a regular Bingo Friday, and I said goodbye to him on Oct. 11, when I had more than two hours alone with him in the hospital.
At the request of his family, Ray received only “comfort care” since his admittance—no nourishment, no medical treatment, no extraordinary measures to sustain his life.
He did that, on his own, for 22 days.
Raymond McDade, 91, died on Friday, Oct. 31.
When I walked into Ray’s hospital room on Oct. 10, his priest, Tony, was with him. Tony promised he would call me when there was a change in Ray’s condition.
I called the hospital daily, and when I talked to a nurse on Oct. 16, she said Ray was stable, sometimes responsive and alone.
So I went to the hospital again that night. When I walked into Ray’s room, I thought I was in the wrong place. The man in the bed had no hair and frighteningly sunken cheeks. The body in the bed was not moving at all. The setting on the morphine drip was five times greater than it had been a week earlier.
I had to sit. I leaned into Ray’s ear and said, “Hello, Raymond.” His eyes fluttered, but I saw no sign of recognition—or, honestly, of life—in the watery little beads that struggled to open and focus. I turned Ray’s TV to the “soothing music” channel and sat—mostly quietly, decidedly in shock.
This time, when I left, I did not say goodbye. I kissed Ray and told him I loved him and said goodnight.
The next morning, Ray’s family had him transferred to a private hospice a couple hours away. I harassed Tony for news, wondering why he hadn’t called about a funeral service.
He hadn’t called because Ray just kept on living.
I called Tony on Oct. 30. “He’s still with us,” Tony said.
“How can that possibly be?” I asked him.
“That’s what everyone else is asking, too,” Tony said.
Ray served on a Navy ship as Kamikaze planes dive-bombed around him in World War II. At the Soldiers Home, he took advantage of every opportunity to remain engaged and active. He prayed. He beat lymphoma. He beat infections. He had stopped breathing once before at the Soldiers Home but popped right back to Bingo within days.
Ray was a survivor. And he was one of my best friends in the world.
With Ray’s death, I have lost all three of my best friends at the Soldiers Home—three men who were alone and sick and could have been forgiven for giving up at any point. But they never, ever did. Instead, they welcomed my friendship—and my family, and even my puppy—and generously shared their lives and their wisdom and their time and their hearts with me.
To my life-changing friends Raymond McDade, Michael Marquie and Gary Walling: Thank you. I miss you. Please send resilience.
The last time I wrote about Raymond McDade, he had been admitted to the hospital, possibly technically dead at one point and certainly near death by any standard. What standards fail to consider, however, is the inexplicable resilience of the human spirit—and the near-miraculous resilience of one human in particular.
Ray had collapsed at the Soldiers Home on Oct. 9. I visited him on Oct. 10, during what should have been a regular Bingo Friday, and I said goodbye to him on Oct. 11, when I had more than two hours alone with him in the hospital.
At the request of his family, Ray received only “comfort care” since his admittance—no nourishment, no medical treatment, no extraordinary measures to sustain his life.
He did that, on his own, for 22 days.
Raymond McDade, 91, died on Friday, Oct. 31.
When I walked into Ray’s hospital room on Oct. 10, his priest, Tony, was with him. Tony promised he would call me when there was a change in Ray’s condition.
I called the hospital daily, and when I talked to a nurse on Oct. 16, she said Ray was stable, sometimes responsive and alone.
So I went to the hospital again that night. When I walked into Ray’s room, I thought I was in the wrong place. The man in the bed had no hair and frighteningly sunken cheeks. The body in the bed was not moving at all. The setting on the morphine drip was five times greater than it had been a week earlier.
I had to sit. I leaned into Ray’s ear and said, “Hello, Raymond.” His eyes fluttered, but I saw no sign of recognition—or, honestly, of life—in the watery little beads that struggled to open and focus. I turned Ray’s TV to the “soothing music” channel and sat—mostly quietly, decidedly in shock.
This time, when I left, I did not say goodbye. I kissed Ray and told him I loved him and said goodnight.
The next morning, Ray’s family had him transferred to a private hospice a couple hours away. I harassed Tony for news, wondering why he hadn’t called about a funeral service.
He hadn’t called because Ray just kept on living.
I called Tony on Oct. 30. “He’s still with us,” Tony said.
“How can that possibly be?” I asked him.
“That’s what everyone else is asking, too,” Tony said.
Ray served on a Navy ship as Kamikaze planes dive-bombed around him in World War II. At the Soldiers Home, he took advantage of every opportunity to remain engaged and active. He prayed. He beat lymphoma. He beat infections. He had stopped breathing once before at the Soldiers Home but popped right back to Bingo within days.
Ray was a survivor. And he was one of my best friends in the world.
With Ray’s death, I have lost all three of my best friends at the Soldiers Home—three men who were alone and sick and could have been forgiven for giving up at any point. But they never, ever did. Instead, they welcomed my friendship—and my family, and even my puppy—and generously shared their lives and their wisdom and their time and their hearts with me.
To my life-changing friends Raymond McDade, Michael Marquie and Gary Walling: Thank you. I miss you. Please send resilience.
RSS Feed