I awake to an annoying alarm clock. I lay there in total distress, tired from the night of sleeplessness. My nine year old son did not sleep last night, either. I lay trying to convince myself to crawl out of bed like I have done for the last nine sorrowful days. It was not going to be a delightful day, but I had no idea of what was to come. It was going to be a day in which I had no control, and had no way to predict. I finally lifted my legs and lay my feet on the floor, took a deep breath and turned my alarm clock off. I stood up, turned and woke my three babies that had been sleeping with me for the last nine nights. “Get up; we need to get ready for the day. Mom has to go to work”, I said.
I turned the water on in the shower; a little hot and added some cold. I stepped in and stood there allowing the water to run over me. I sighed. I cleaned myself then called in each of the children, one at a time, then showered them. We talk. We talk about the day, how scared they are, them not wanting to go to school. Brayden, my youngest son did not want to go to the babysitters. He was a mess. Crying at me, telling me he wanted his Papa home to make him breakfast and watch cartoons with him. I had to put my baby in daycare four days earlier. He had been so used to staying at home with his Papa for the last two years while I went to work during the day. I have owned my own business for almost 6 years, and it worked out well that his Papa was home with him while I was at work during the day, Monday through Friday. He was used to staying with his Papa.
We got dressed, went downstairs and ate some breakfast. We piled into our 1998 Ford Windstar. I took the two oldest, Bryson, my blond haired, blue eyed boy, and my beautiful daughter, Bryana with her long brown hair and big brown eyes to school. We hugged and kissed good-bye. “Tell Papa we said hi and that we love him!” “I love you. See you after school”, I said.
I drove over to the gas station and filled up. Then I went inside and bought some chocolate doughnuts and strawberry milk for my baby boy Brayden, whose brown hair and eyes are a ringer for his Papa. I headed to the babysitters, upon arrival he was crying again. “Mommy, I want to stay with you today!” “No, son, I need you to stay here. Your Aunt Deadra or I will come get you very soon.” I left him there with hugs and kisses and his goodies I purchased at the gas station.
I drove quietly to Aurora Medical Center.
It’s a long drive when you are in an awful state of mind. It is only about a mile from the babysitter, and less than half a mile from my home, but it seems an eternity every time I make the trip. I have been making the trip for 10 long days now. I park. I breathe deep and get out of the car. An overwhelmingly cold chill goes down my back. I walked towards the entrance as if I were carrying a big bag of rocks slung over my shoulder. I am so tired; so scared. It is a long, agonizing walk to the elevators, and a slow and painful ride up to the Intensive Care Unit. As soon as the elevator doors open, I see the big windows of the ICU waiting room. I see his family, and get a weird sense, just as I have the last 9 days since their arrival.
I say hi and listen to what they have to say. I walk away with my heart beating fast. I go through the double doors, down a long hallway where nurses hurry here and there. I feel sick. I feel misplaced. I feel like I need to be slapped awake from this awful dream. I reach the room. There. There is my husband lying in the hospital bed, clinging to life. The same sight I have seen for the last 10 days now. Gasping for air, I try to keep myself composed, and grab his hand. Frankie David Lujan, a husband and father to 3 wonderful kids; we are a family that loves him. But he is not with us, the coma has taken him, I am alone. He is hooked up to all these machines keeping him alive. The smell of the room, sweat and dried blood, overwhelms me. I look at his hair that he always kept forward, now pressed backward from his family and me stroking his head, letting him know that we are here. His eyes are closed, and yellowish tears fall from his eyes. I rub them, and try to clean them from his face. I am still holding his hand. I speak. “We love you. The kids say hi.” There is so much more to be said. I try to soothe him. I stand there like a zombie, not liking what I see, not comfortable to say certain things that I wanted to say. I had no time alone with him. The nurses had to be in the room at all times because of the dialysis machine. If it wasn’t the nurses, it was his family. I tried to talk to him some more. The doctor comes into the room. “We have to talk”, he says.
Frank’s family and I meet him in the conference room. It was the hardest 15 minutes of my life. Who was I to say if he should live or not? What makes it my choice? Why give me an authority that I cannot handle? No. No. I do not want him to die. No. I don’t want his kids to never see him again. No. I want him to come back home. I want to have him come walking through the front door all healed and ready for the rest of our life. It was too early. He is too young. Why? Why? Why? This is not true . This is not happening.
But it was happening, and we had to make the choice. We had to let him go. He would not want to live in a persistent vegetative state for the rest of his life. He would not want his children to see him that way. He would want his kids to remember him the way he was.
The next couple of hours were heart wrenching. The hospital clergyman came in and delivered last rites. I called family and friends and let them know what was going on. I bought a green rosary at the gift shop, and I went back to his side. I stayed there. They unhooked a lot of the machines that he was attached to; all but the respirator. He held on for so long. It was so hard for his family and me to sit and watch and wait for him to die. I held the rosary in his hand. I prayed for him. I prayed for our kids to understand.
The nurse came in and unhooked the respirator. Frank was all on his own. We hovered over him crying. I keep crying in his hand as I stood by his side. I rubbed his hand all over my face. I always was in love with his hands, they were the comfort when I needed it, and they were always reaching out for me, always holding me, and always touching me in such great pleasure and self-worth. I can still smell him. I want the smell of him to be with me forever. The nurse came over and thumped him on the chest. Frankie David Lujan took his last breath at 5:00 p.m. December 1st, 2005.
