Popcorn In Heaven —Kasin Hunter It was a good death. The article from the Internet that my new friend, Christine, sent me via email explained what I needed to know -- what I needed to hear. Of all the deaths that someone could go through, renal failure was one of the easiest. I still was trying to grasp what the doctor had said that night in the hospital. Just a couple days prior, Bill lie in the Emergency Room, strung with I.V's, as if he were fighting some urban octopus for his life. The doctor, one of Bill's longtime medical team, stood beside Bill on one side of the crisp, clean hospital bed. I stood on the other. The doctor's face was an odd mix of concern, gravity, and some bewilderment. "Bill, this is really hard for me. Usually by this time, the patient's mind is pretty much gone. But that's not how it is with you. Your mind is sharp as a tack." A look of pride washed over Bill's face. Sharp as a tack, I thought. Could the doctor have any idea how sharp? The first day I met Bill, he had shown me his van. A moving warehouse of electrodes, diodes, commercial phone systems, spools of wire, thousands of tiny parts that necessitated picking up with tweezers, and dozens upon dozens of oddly shaped, intriguing tools with, to me, unknown functions. "You know how to use all this stuff?" Bill had nodded, smiled proudly, and simply said, "Sure." His easy-going manner, his love of gentle talk, his sparkling green-blue eyes and sprinkling of warm humor - I felt immediately at ease, as if I had known him all my life. That very first day, I knew I had met someone special. Little did I know. Little did the doctor know about the true Bill, even after all the treatments. But I knew. After 17 years of caring, of helping each other, of teaming together through the fun, the multitude of dogs, the hospital stays, the emergency rooms, the video projects, the camping trips, the . . . LIFE of it all. I guess I knew him better than anyone else on the planet. I knew that night in the Emergency Room that this was not just another hospital visit. Nothing was going to help this time -- no new Miracle-in-a-Bottle to add to his already burgeoning shoe box-full of daily pills; no new P.T. routine to help the stubborn joints; no new cream to rub on scarred, browning, and often, bleeding skin. It had been years of emergency rooms, 911 calls, hospital stays, surgeries, care centers, shots, pills, in-house nursing, pain . . . I had never given up. I had never quit fighting to keep Bill going, because Bill had not given up. I was Bill's backbone, his strength, above all, his friend. True friends don't quit, don't give up. But this night, this time was different. "Bill," the doctor was continuing. "I can't recommend dialysis. It would be a hard row to hoe. And you've already been through so much." Doctors take a vow to do no harm. "I will do it -- I'll set it up, if you want. But I don't, and neither of your other two doctors here recommend taking that route. It would be very hard on you, and at most, buy you maybe a few more weeks. You'd be bedridden the whole time. The kidneys are just plain, worn out." Bill asked, "How long if I didn't do the dialysis?" "It's hard to estimate, but your kidney doctor said two weeks. I would say, two to four weeks with no intervention. The other doctor said maybe six months." I heard the words, words that I knew someday I'd hear. I felt my throat turn hard. Not now. Be strong for him. But emotion took over, and the hot tears began spilling out my eyes. The doctor looked at me, but I shook my head and pointed to Bill. This was not my time. This was Bill's time. The doctor turned back to Bill, himself emotional, and continued to explain the few options. Bill had to make up his mind. Choose dialysis or decide - finally - to die. "We can talk again tomorrow. Try to rest." Still fighting the urban octopus with blood, medicine, saline
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coursing through it's many thin plastic legs, Bill spent two days in intensive care. The greater battle went on inside of him. He still wrestled with the decision finally put before him – how does someone choose to die? I couldn't fight for him anymore, except to say that I'd support any decision he made. I had taken Princess, Bill's handi-helping dog, with me to every hospital visit in those days. She couldn't come in, but when I told Bill that Princess was close, in the car in the parking garage, he said it was nice and smiled. What do you do for your best friend who is dying? I brought a favorite picture of Princess and put it on his night stand, propped up against the Valentine cup I bought him for Valentine's Day this year. Scattered around was a handful of other snapshots - family, mostly. And the longtime friend by now, Scarecrow, Bill's stuffed, 18 inch-high buddy and guardian with the sweet, ever-present smile to watch over him in the rehabilitation centers when I couldn't be there. On the third day, when I went to intensive care, Bill wasn't there. I felt my throat harden again. Had he passed so quickly? His doctor said at least two weeks . . . "Mr. Hunter has been moved to the fourth floor," the female voice tinned from the speaker on the wall. Relief. I got the room number, and with my mind flitting from one thought to another, I hurried down the hall to the Visitor's Elevators. Why was Bill released from I.C.? A small, but brief ray of hope glimmered on the periphery of my hectic thoughts. No. The doctor wasn't wrong. Then, as the elevator rose, my heart sank. I knew why Bill had been released to critical care. Bill's room was single, quiet, with a good window facing a sunny, treed view. The urban octopus was still there, one less, pumping limb. Bill looked more swollen, and not peaceful while he dozed. I sat quietly, organizing the many papers we needed to look over, making notes as needed, glancing up time and time again, until at last, Bill's beautiful blue eyes peaked out under heavy eyelids. "Oh. You been here a while?" "A little." Silence, then, "I decided not to go with dialysis." There. He said it. He had decided. "I wouldn't mind being in bed for the rest of the time. I could live with that. But I don't want any more . . ." He looked at me. "I'm just tired. Tired of being poked, the drugs, the hospitals. Just tired of it all." I felt an odd release inside of me. No more struggling with him, shoulder-to-shoulder, day-to-day just to live. I thought, Bill deserves something easy, even if it's his death, after all he's been through. After so many years of set routines, I suddenly felt in unknown waters. What could I do now to help him? Be a friend." With everything you've been through, I understand that decision. Do you need anything?" It was Bill's time. When mom asked me the next day how I was holding up, I told her that it wasn't about me. It was about Bill. "Take care of Princess," he said, and started to cry. I wrote her name in my To Do book, underlined it and crowned it off with three large exclamation marks. I showed it to him. He smiled. I dove into my new supportive roll with all the fervor and love that I had given in all those many, prior years. The next too-short days were filled with visiting nursing homes and hospices, gathering brochures, doing interviews of facility heads and nursing staff. I filled the disposable cameras with pictures of where Bill might choose to go, to die. He sweetly perused each snapshot, nodding, making comments about this one and that one. We riddled through the insurance intricacies, slew each bill dragon as they came along, and lined up the ending moments of Bill's life the very best we could. I thank God that Bill's mind was "sharp as a tack" as the doctor had said, in those final days. How much harder it would have been without Bill's guidance, his 35