My husband, John William Ramsey, died 18 years ago today. Well … He first died on April 21st (it was a Sunday, ~7:45-8:15pm) but he was revived at the hospital. They got his heart beating, at any rate. His right eye was rolled completely back, his left eye only halfway; I couldn’t decide which was more unsettling. He had a machine breathing for him and was hooked up to various other devices. But he was completely unresponsive. Once the brain swelling receded technicians were able to perform an eeg; there was only negligible activity. So I had them take him off all the machines. I held his hand (it was warm) as he breathed his last, from 7-7:30pm on Wednesday, April 24, 2002. That was the second time he died. Now he shares an urn with our beloved son, a black cat named (for interpersonal reasons) Pooh, who died (of old age) just 3 months prior.
Pooh took after John — both were very social animals — but he and I had a very special bond: I used to crack his tail, among other of our little habits. I’d catch his eye across the room and I’d say ”Gimme that tail!” Pooh would saunter over to where I was crocheting and position himself so that I could get hold of his tail, then he’d raise it straight up. I’d place my left hand flat on his back (just in front of his tail) and take the tip of his tail with the fingers of my right hand and pull up slowly and firmly till every single vertebra cracked. He loved it: cat chiropractic. I knew he would because I always wanted a tail and I knew I’d love it if somebody did that for me. He only ate his dry food outside, so I nicknamed him Al Fresco.
I miss my husband and our son very much.
Oh, btw, although Pooh died elegantly, John’s death was very Stephen Kingish: he was driving when he had a massive heart attack; I was in the passenger seat, but Idk how to drive. Our Dodge pick-up went through a red light at a (usually) busy intersection before I could figure out how to stop it. I thought he was asleep, he looked like he was asleep.I couldn’t wake him, though, no matter how much I shook him or screamed for him to wake up, so I ran out of the car and was screaming for help. Lots of people helped, even did CPR, but it was over 30 minutes before an ambulance got there. By then it was way too late for his oxygen-starved brain. Even knowing that, his heart was restarted at the hospital — That took forever, it seemed, all the while his body was spasming and convulsing; I know because I was in the room where it happened. Then they performed an angioplasty so at least they fixed the heart. But the brain that contained the soul of the man I knew and loved for almost 25 years was no longer alive. Yet they put him on machines that breathed for him and monitored all of his bodily functions … except his sentience, his wit, his personality — in other words, all the things that made him the man I love. To paraphrase Randy Travis: I wasn’t in love with his blood pressure or heart rate, etc.
It was horrible, those days of visiting him in the hospital between his 2 deathdays. But I’ve written it here because I can imagine what Mr. King could do with this experience. He could inject some supernatural this-or-that to hook readers like you and me ino devouring a story that might entertain us but could never ever evoke the horror of April 21-24, 2002.
Pooh took after John — both were very social animals — but he and I had a very special bond: I used to crack his tail, among other of our little habits. I’d catch his eye across the room and I’d say ”Gimme that tail!” Pooh would saunter over to where I was crocheting and position himself so that I could get hold of his tail, then he’d raise it straight up. I’d place my left hand flat on his back (just in front of his tail) and take the tip of his tail with the fingers of my right hand and pull up slowly and firmly till every single vertebra cracked. He loved it: cat chiropractic. I knew he would because I always wanted a tail and I knew I’d love it if somebody did that for me. He only ate his dry food outside, so I nicknamed him Al Fresco.
I miss my husband and our son very much.
Oh, btw, although Pooh died elegantly, John’s death was very Stephen Kingish: he was driving when he had a massive heart attack; I was in the passenger seat, but Idk how to drive. Our Dodge pick-up went through a red light at a (usually) busy intersection before I could figure out how to stop it. I thought he was asleep, he looked like he was asleep.I couldn’t wake him, though, no matter how much I shook him or screamed for him to wake up, so I ran out of the car and was screaming for help. Lots of people helped, even did CPR, but it was over 30 minutes before an ambulance got there. By then it was way too late for his oxygen-starved brain. Even knowing that, his heart was restarted at the hospital — That took forever, it seemed, all the while his body was spasming and convulsing; I know because I was in the room where it happened. Then they performed an angioplasty so at least they fixed the heart. But the brain that contained the soul of the man I knew and loved for almost 25 years was no longer alive. Yet they put him on machines that breathed for him and monitored all of his bodily functions … except his sentience, his wit, his personality — in other words, all the things that made him the man I love. To paraphrase Randy Travis: I wasn’t in love with his blood pressure or heart rate, etc.
It was horrible, those days of visiting him in the hospital between his 2 deathdays. But I’ve written it here because I can imagine what Mr. King could do with this experience. He could inject some supernatural this-or-that to hook readers like you and me ino devouring a story that might entertain us but could never ever evoke the horror of April 21-24, 2002.
