Death and Dying in the Garden of Life – A Creative Nonfiction Short Story by Donna Morse

What Makes Us Human?

Prologue

The question, “What Makes Us Human?” can be approached in many ways: physiologically, philosophically, morally, legally. theologically, etc. Even politically, e.g., the 1787, 3/5ths Compromise.

I chose the philosophical approach, with one exception: One of the most important things that make us human is that our heart beats when we are “alive”; our heart stops beating when we are “dead”

To be human also means being capable of treating “all creatures, great and small” with respect and kindness. To love deeply, sincerely, unselfishly, over and over and over again. If we chose. Until our hearts stop beating and death makes it no longer possible.

The story I write is a true story. There are only a few small alterations for literary sake and for “the protection of innocents” who make my story.

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DEATH AND DYING IN THE GARDEN OF LIFE

I kneel down by her. Ever so gently I lay her on her ground. Her back, her left shoulder, lean against the garden row. The ground is as soft as a cushion. I brush curly brown hair from her forehead, out of her eyes. Her eyes are shut. She does not move. She makes no sound. Is she alive?

I bend over, slide my right arm under her neck, draw her close to me. I place my right ear on her chest, over her heart, hold my breath, and listen. Ah! There it is. What I was hoping to hear: A Heart Beat. Ever so quietly it beats.

I suck in a deep breath. I feel my chest might cave in.

I put my lips to her left ear. “Jan, baby… It’s Donna. I’m here, honey. I’m here. Please, if you can hear me, nod your head.”

She did! Nodded her head! A slow, tiny, up and down movement. Three times: up and down, up and down, up and down.

Then I see more signs of life: bubbles forming on her slightly parted lips. With each shallow breathe out, bubbles form. Is she trying to tell me something? The bubbles dribble from between her pale lips, down the corner of her mouth, puddle in the fertile dirt.

I breathe out. The body of my partner of over 19 years, the body I found dangling from her over-turned red scooter, left arm caught in the handle, is alive.

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I really do not know how long it took me to extract Jan from her scooter. She rode everywhere on her red, heavy-duty, four-wheel cart, and it was on its side, in the garden, half way on a row and half way on the path. Jan must have been leaning over with sugar pea seeds in her right hand, ready to sprinkle then push them gently into the cool, fertile soil.

What happened? There is only one sign of injury; her left arm, that was twisted over and under the scooter’s handle, is swollen, has dark blue and red splotches on it, and is bent oddly between her wrist and elbow. Is it broken?

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Bella and Sandy, our black Lab/Chow, were bouncing and circling me, always ready to be my companions on any truck ride anywhere.

I walked out the kitchen door and down the porch ramp we’d added on for Jan to roll up/down easily. I herded the dogs in the truck, and walked toward Jan. Before I asked, she ordered, “Get me some more sugar pea seeds, please. Don’t have enough” without looking up.

“Of course, My Lady.” I replied and bowed to her. Jan was used to giving orders when she was in the middle of a project. She’d had a wildly successful landscape and ornamental pond business for years in New Orleans (AKA NOLA) where we’d met. “The Pond Lady” she was and was known all over the NOLA and the Mississippi Coast for her professionalism and the incredible beauty of her finished ponds and gardens. Never “harsh”, was the Lady, but firm she could be.

Mt. View is about a 15-minute drive from our six acres. Down the dusty, bumpy, swervey Dog Young Road where obstacles like 400-pound mama cows in mid road casually who’d glance at you, continue to slowly chew on their cud, not bother to moo, and not move. And Road Runners coo-coo-coo-coo-cooing, sounding like a hoarse baby owl, haltingly crossing the road, with that perpetual terrified look on their pointed, brown and white speckled faces, looking exactly like they do in the cartoon.

At the end of Dog Young, I took a left on Highway 5, then another left when I reached Main Street/Highway 9.

I drove straight on to North Arkansas Farm Supply first. Got “My Lady’s” seeds and some dog treats. Then I circled back and turned left on the second of the two major streets in the town, Wal-Mart. Drive (Highway 65). Stopped at the second of two traffic lights, right in front of the big box store, and turned in.

About half way through tossing a few items in my cart, I got this real funky feeling in the pit of my stomach: “‘Jan’…I gotta get home.”

I left the cart mid-aisle, hurried to my blue Ford truck, and headed for home. Bella and Sandy, were a bit upset because I didn’t pause to pass out treats like I usually do. “They’ll have to wait.”

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Jan is alive. Her heart beats. She breathes. I sit back on my knees, grab my phone. Dial 911. “The am’blance is on its way, ma’m. First reponders’ll be there soon,” assured the woman on the phone.

The dogs, still in my truck, are hanging out the open windows, panting. Sandy’s barking her high-pitched distress bark. I know help’s coming, so I run to the truck, let’em out, and herd’em quickly into the house. They are safe now.

Back to the garden I go. I cover Jan with a wool red and black plaid blanket I’d grabbed outta the truck.

“You cannot die on me…”, I thought. “Not today.”

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Forever: that’s how long it took for the “First Responders” to start trickling in, parking their pick-ups here and there in our yard, running to us. All males, they are, in jeans and flannels or bib overalls and rubber boots; kind men desperately wanting to, trying to help. Their names are Joe and Eli, and Steve and Johann. I don’t know a one of them. Eli seems to be in charge. He kneels and examines Jan, takes her vitals, checks her eyes, her breathing. Eli asks me again what happened. I tell him again. He just looks down and shakes his head.

The ambulance finally arrives and the EMT’s immediately transfer Jan inside, hook her up to an IV, the heart, oxygen, blood pressure monitors.

I stand outside the open door, repeating: “I’m here Jan. I’m with you, baby” over and over and over.

They work on her about 10 minutes. Susie, an RN tag around her neck, steps out, walks over to me, gently takes my left elbow and guides me away from the door. “Ma’am,” she starts. “Donna,” I say. “My name is Donna.” “Donna,” she continues, “We can do nothing for Jan here. We talked with Doctor Orr at Mt View. He agrees. We’ve contacted Little Rock. St Vincent’s is sending a copter. It’ll be here in about 15 minutes.”

I was puzzled. Our six acres was out in the middle thickly forested land, pastures full of bovines, with one and half, lane dirt/gravel roads in between. Our nearest neighbor was a cowman, Glenn Eisenheimer. His land was full of Hereford mama cows with bellies full of a baby or two.

“Where will they land, Susie?” She smiles. “Ma’am… Donna, those copter pilots are used to landing any and everywhere. A few cows won’t stop’em. Those heifers’ll just scatter when they hear the chop-chops.”

Indeed, the mommas do just that. They hear the whop-whop-whop of the blades first and scatter. The pilot lands the copter between three overhanging power lines, about 150” feet from where the ambulance is and the EMT’s ready and waiting to transfer her.

I run next to the stretcher as they take Jan to the copter. Shouting over the noise, “Jan, baby. You’re going for a ride. They’ve got a copter for you. You’re going to Little Rock. I’ll meet you there. Baby, I’ll meet you there…!”And she was gone.

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Jan “died” 12 days later in the Neuro Intensive Care Unit of St. Vincent’s Hospital in Little Rock. What happened? Whatever medical professionals call a brain-bleed (an aneurism) is what happened. Sitting on her scooter, she’d leaned over towards the soil for the umpteenth time, left arm wrapped around her scooter handle, right hand full of seeds to sow, and “pop-pop, pop-pop” two arteries burst: a big ole one on the top right side of her brain, and a smaller one just left of center. She collapsed and the scooter tumbled over.

All the docs and nurses said she probably felt one lightning-like-strike-jolt of pain, and was unconscious. She never regained consciousness. She never again showed any signs of trying to communicate. And whenever I’d tell professional or regular folk about Jan nodding her head, trying to move her lips, they were “highly skeptical” that it was anything more that, “Oh, probably involuntary muscle contractions…”.

But Jan and I know differently.

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A wonderful, kind, considerate, neurosurgeon tried his best to stop the bleeding in her brain, to drain the blood from that organ. The staff of The Neuro Intensive Care Unit showed an incredible degree empathy, respect, and superior nursing. But day after day, after emergency surgery the night of her fall, of trying to stop the bleeding, MRIs showed more and more of her brain going dark: Dark and Dead.

There was no discussion needed. A few years after we came together, we filled out our will. Our Living Will, too. (What a misnomer.)

I made the decision: Disconnect. Disengage. Discharge. No Dispute. Death.

There was one day delay between my decision about Jan’s “Day-of-Death”: Tuesday February 12, 2019.” I could lie and say I did it for her. But I didn’t. I did it for me and for her close friends to come and celebrate her life together and say good-bye.

Sara was already with us. She’d been with us since that first night: My “Lean On Me Friend”. After the helicopter flew away, Sara was the first friend I called and without discussion she immediately said, “I’ll meet you at St Vincent’s”. She made it there before I did and stayed with me and Jan until her “Dying Day”.

Teri, whom Jan had known since Teri was a babe (over 45 years) arrived about 10:00, guitar in hand. She’d cared for our Bella and Sandy along with my neighbor – and mechanic - Rick. (My man, Rick.)

Teri had picked up the matching colorful, patchwork jackets Jan and I had bought at our favorite Mt View store: For Mother Earth. (Thanks Tom and Sandy.) I explained to Jan what I had and what I was doing and spread the beautiful garment over her chest and slipped mine on. “We’re twins now,” I joked.

Teri started strumming and singing. Sara held Jan’s hand and talked to her about her latest projects and how she and Teri would look after me and our babies.

My dad showed up around 11:00, and my younger sister, Marie, a little later. They both greeted Jan and told her they’d come to celebrate with everybody.

Dr. Laura was with us, too. At St. Vincent’s, once you make a decision to “unplug” someone, this wonderful human becomes your doctor. Not just Jan’s, but your doctor, too. She guides you through this process of dying, what to expect, when. Guides and comforts.

I played Jan’s favorite piece of music: Bernstein conducting the New York Philharmonic playing Bernstein’s Rhapsody in Blue. As it played, I reminded Jan of how she “conducted” the orchestra along with Bernstein as we drove through Cades Cove in Tennessee on our very first road trip. We all laughed. I like to think she did, too.

After the piece ended, we all took turns saying a private good-bye. Teri then played, and we all sang our version of Bright Morning Stars Are Rising.

Bright morning stars are rising

And

Day is a'breaking

In my soul

Oh where are our dear fathers?

They’re in the valley a'praying

They’re in the valley a’praying

and

Day is a'breaking

In my soul

Oh where are our dear mothers?

They’re in the garden a’planting

They are in the garden a’planting

In my soul

Oh where are our dear brothers?

They’re off to war a’fighting

And day is breaking

In my soul

Oh where are our dear sisters?

They’re in heaven a’shouting

And day is breaking

In my soul

Bright morning stars are rising

And

Day is a'breaking

In my soul

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When it was time to remove the intubating tube, Laura asked us to wait outside explain, “It can be very hard to watch” she explained. She’d call us when all was done.

I got the call in less than five minutes and we returned. Surrounded Jan’s bed.

I stood on Jan’s right side, tears streaming down my face, holding her hand, telling her what you tell someone you have lived with, and loved, for 19 years: the “usual things”. Maybe she breathed 10 breaths. And stopped.

I laid my head on Jan ‘s chest, my right ear over her heart. I heard nothing. Her heart did not beat.

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EPILOGUE

Jan was (and I am) a “full body donor”. After she died in St. Vincent’s, we said our good-byes and our thank-yous to the wonderful doctors and nurses who cared for Jan and me. We left with Jan “sleeping peacefully” in the hospital bed.

A funeral home contracted by the company we chose, took care of transporting the body to its destination. After this non-profit took what they could use from her body, did what they needed to with her body, what was left was returned to the funeral home where it was cremated. The ashes were interned in an urn and sent to me.

Jan’s ashes arrived a few days before Thanksgiving 2016. I had planned to join some friends for that day’s meal and asked them to join me after the repase to spread Jan’s ashes in her gardens.

We built a large fire in our back yard to warm us, lit up and passed Teri’s pipe around, and talked about this Woman, this Doctor of Philosophy, this Head of Addiction Agencies, this Professional Counselor, who decided at age 40 decided “to screw it all” and become a gardener. Henceforth, to be known only as a Woman of the Earth.

I took out little sack of Jan, grabbed a handful of her and threw her all around her gardens. We passed the bag around, walked our land and spread her far and wide and talked of Jan being at Peace. She was finally where she wanted to be. At last, her Soul was One with her Soil and her Heart beat Loudly and Clearly throughout.

The fertile garden welcomes her

She’d always wanted that

They’d struck a deal

Conversed and bargained

During weedings, plantings, and waterings

Greeting each other in the pale pink light before dawn

Before the sun beat them apart

A very intimate relationship

A marriage of sorts

She vowed to love the dirt till death parted them

And even after

To turn, plow, amend, water, feed

And sow the sacred soil

And the land

In turn

Promised to nurture the seeds placed

There with her bare hands

Promised to grab hold of and secure the roots as they grew

And, with her help, to sprout strong stems and vines

And blooms of astounding beauty

Magically

Turning the fruits of their labor

Into

Tomatoes of every Size and Hue

Plump as a Georgia Peach

Softball Fire-Engine Red Round

Daisy Yellow Tiny Pears

Pale Rose and Dumpy-Like-Your-Great-Aunt’s-Butt

Beans of All Colors, Shapes, and Tastes

Black-Eyed Peas, Purple Hull, Speckled Tan and White, and

Plain Ole Brown

Phallic Cucumbers that Hid Among Its Vines

Yellow Crook-Neck Squash with Eat-Me-Too-Blooms

Fuzzy Light Green Okra Plants

With Thick Sturdy Arms

Reaching such Heights

It took A Tall Human, or A Short One with a Step-Ladder,

To reach its Sword-Like Delectable Fruit

But that day when

She laid on her dirt

Motionless

I knew she wanted to give up her spirit there

in the fading light of that day

She wanted her body to rest in the arms of her first love

For her energy

to be released

and flow freely into the soil

For her dying

For her death to nurture her Love

For her decay

To Renew and Revive and Fertilize

Her Garden of Life

But I could not let that happen

Oh So Selfish was I

And Our World Selfish too

Giving Her No Choice

Tasking Her With Staying Longer than Her Life

Tasking Her Body to Live

When She was Dead

But Her Ground

Her Sacred Dirt

Waited for Her

Welcoming her when at last she came

Let Us Give Thanks

She Has Returned to Her Home

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