Sunday, April 3, 2011
Maurice Michael Marquie passed away late Wednesday, March 30, 2011.
Sunday, March 27: I had talked to Mike on the phone throughout the week, and he sounded stronger and in excellent spirits—he was really looking forward to seeing my mom. On Friday, he had gotten up and gone to Trivia, which seemed like encouraging progress. But when my mom and I saw him Sunday, any signs of progress were long gone. Mike’s hair was standing on end. His eyes looked panicked and exhausted at the same time. His voice was merely a sick whisper, and when I took his hand, he winced. “Does that hurt?” I asked. I had to get right up by his mouth to understand him. “A little,” he breathed through cracked lips.
We were stunned. My mom asked Mike whether he knew who we were. He nodded.
“Are you drugged to the gills?” I asked. He smiled.
We made small talk, telling him about our upcoming Spring Break trip to Las Vegas, and then Mike kind of said he was tired. We said goodbye, but he wouldn’t let go of my hand.
“He’s got a death grip on me,” I told my mom—and then instantly regretted that poor choice of words.
Monday, March 28: I called the nurses’ station to talk about Mike’s condition. “Is he really drugged, or is he really losing ground?” I asked. “A little of both,” the nurse said. I asked to talk to Mike, but she said he was resting. She promised to tell him we’d called.
Tuesday, March 29: My mom, my son, his friend and I arrived in Lake Las Vegas. When we got to the pool, I had a message from the Soldiers Home. It was Mike’s favorite nurse, asking me to call her. She told me his condition was deteriorating quickly, and he likely would not live through our Spring Break. She put the phone to Mike’s ear, and I carried on a one-sided conversation met only by heavy, heaving gasps. One of Mike’s dearest friends was with him, and when she came on the phone, she said that was the most animated she’d seen him in a couple of days. I was so thankful she was with him.
Mike’s son called later. He had spent Monday night with Mike and thought he still had the power and the strength and the will to bounce back.
I was now expecting “the call” at any time.
Wednesday, March 30: I kept in touch with the Soldiers Home and Mike’s son through the day. We were trying to sound hopeful, but I don’t think anyone really believed it.
That night, as we were driving back to our hotel along a dark desert highway, my mom noticed an unusually bright light in the sky. It was just a low-flying plane, but when we looked up, at that exact second, a shooting star fell.
When we got to our room, I thought I had turned off my cellphone to charge it, but it rang after we’d gone to bed.
It was Mike’s friend. Mike had died less than half an hour earlier—precisely when we saw the shooting star.
Saturday, April 2: Back from Break, we headed out to the Soldiers Home after dropping off my son's friend. My mom and son sat in the car while I went in to talk to the nurses, and to look for closure. From the distance of the warm, sunny desert, Mike’s death seemed unreal and far away, but when I walked past his room and noticed someone else already had moved in, it was almost too real to process.
I talked to two of Mike’s nurses. They told me Mike died peacefully.
“Was he sent home from the hospital to die?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah,” they said. I’d suspected that, and I suspect Mike knew that, but he never told me, and I never asked.
I told them the story of the shooting star, and we all got goosebumps.
“You should walk down to the pond,” one nurse said.
Now I had tears and goosebumps. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of that.
I had cried on vacation, partly because I hadn’t been there for Mike’s last moments, and now I cried on the way to the car, but this time just for Mike. These tears felt much more pure, and much less selfish.
My mom, my son and I walked to the pond and had a moment for Mike on the dock. The sun came out; the pond was shimmering; and it was totally, completely peaceful.
On the way back to the car, the sky clouded.
Maurice Michael Marquie passed away late Wednesday, March 30, 2011.
Sunday, March 27: I had talked to Mike on the phone throughout the week, and he sounded stronger and in excellent spirits—he was really looking forward to seeing my mom. On Friday, he had gotten up and gone to Trivia, which seemed like encouraging progress. But when my mom and I saw him Sunday, any signs of progress were long gone. Mike’s hair was standing on end. His eyes looked panicked and exhausted at the same time. His voice was merely a sick whisper, and when I took his hand, he winced. “Does that hurt?” I asked. I had to get right up by his mouth to understand him. “A little,” he breathed through cracked lips.
We were stunned. My mom asked Mike whether he knew who we were. He nodded.
“Are you drugged to the gills?” I asked. He smiled.
We made small talk, telling him about our upcoming Spring Break trip to Las Vegas, and then Mike kind of said he was tired. We said goodbye, but he wouldn’t let go of my hand.
“He’s got a death grip on me,” I told my mom—and then instantly regretted that poor choice of words.
Monday, March 28: I called the nurses’ station to talk about Mike’s condition. “Is he really drugged, or is he really losing ground?” I asked. “A little of both,” the nurse said. I asked to talk to Mike, but she said he was resting. She promised to tell him we’d called.
Tuesday, March 29: My mom, my son, his friend and I arrived in Lake Las Vegas. When we got to the pool, I had a message from the Soldiers Home. It was Mike’s favorite nurse, asking me to call her. She told me his condition was deteriorating quickly, and he likely would not live through our Spring Break. She put the phone to Mike’s ear, and I carried on a one-sided conversation met only by heavy, heaving gasps. One of Mike’s dearest friends was with him, and when she came on the phone, she said that was the most animated she’d seen him in a couple of days. I was so thankful she was with him.
Mike’s son called later. He had spent Monday night with Mike and thought he still had the power and the strength and the will to bounce back.
I was now expecting “the call” at any time.
Wednesday, March 30: I kept in touch with the Soldiers Home and Mike’s son through the day. We were trying to sound hopeful, but I don’t think anyone really believed it.
That night, as we were driving back to our hotel along a dark desert highway, my mom noticed an unusually bright light in the sky. It was just a low-flying plane, but when we looked up, at that exact second, a shooting star fell.
When we got to our room, I thought I had turned off my cellphone to charge it, but it rang after we’d gone to bed.
It was Mike’s friend. Mike had died less than half an hour earlier—precisely when we saw the shooting star.
Saturday, April 2: Back from Break, we headed out to the Soldiers Home after dropping off my son's friend. My mom and son sat in the car while I went in to talk to the nurses, and to look for closure. From the distance of the warm, sunny desert, Mike’s death seemed unreal and far away, but when I walked past his room and noticed someone else already had moved in, it was almost too real to process.
I talked to two of Mike’s nurses. They told me Mike died peacefully.
“Was he sent home from the hospital to die?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah,” they said. I’d suspected that, and I suspect Mike knew that, but he never told me, and I never asked.
I told them the story of the shooting star, and we all got goosebumps.
“You should walk down to the pond,” one nurse said.
Now I had tears and goosebumps. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of that.
I had cried on vacation, partly because I hadn’t been there for Mike’s last moments, and now I cried on the way to the car, but this time just for Mike. These tears felt much more pure, and much less selfish.
My mom, my son and I walked to the pond and had a moment for Mike on the dock. The sun came out; the pond was shimmering; and it was totally, completely peaceful.
On the way back to the car, the sky clouded.