Music washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life. ~ Berthold Auerbach

Today is my sister, Kim's, memorial service in Las Vegas. I decided not to go. I have said my good-byes.

In honor of her memory, I did not want to write something frivolous like the usual Some Things Friday. And, I am really not ready to write Part 3: The Gift, either.

Kim's, favorite group was Earth, Wind and Fire. She had all the characteristics of a person raised in that era. Coming from a family of four other siblings, she quickly asserted herself as an individual. She loved to have fun. Laughing was one of her favorite things to do. She had a strong work ethic and worked hard along side Tony to provide for their family. She was kind and compassionate. And, above all, a good and loving parent. Her children and family ~ blood, step- and in-laws ~ are left behind knowing they were deeply loved.

Today, I would just like to consider this time my four minute final gift to my sister, Kim.

Giving up doesn't always mean you are weak; sometimes it means that you are strong enough to let go. ~ Author Unknown

Part Two: The Decision

On Friday, it took several hours for all three of Kim's children to finally come together to discuss their mother's prognosis and decide whether or not to remove life support.

Robin went to the airport first to pick up Tobey. He was on the flight, but had somehow managed to avoid Robin and disappeared in the airport. We were all certain that he was terrified at having to face another tragedy in his young life and guessed that he had called a friend to pick him up. Avoiding Robin was avoiding what was waiting at the hospital.

Two hours later, when Philip went to pick up his wife, Mary, they also searched the airport for Tobey. They didn't find him.

When Robin, Philip and Mary all returned from the airport, all of us congregated in the hospital lobby just a few feet from the ICU entrance. We took turns spending time with Kim. Robin continued to reassure everyone that Tobey would show up. She was right. After almost six hours Tobey called her. He was at the park near his home.

When Robin brought Tobey back to the hospital, Philip and Kimmie took him into his mother's room. Those of us remaining in the waiting room (Robin; Sandy, Tony's sister; Mary, Philip's wife and me) gave the three kids about an hour alone with Kim, then we all went back to her room.

I felt so bad for Kimmie and Tobey. Kimmie's only 20 years old and Tobey's only 17 years old. They lost their Dad just two weeks before, and at the memorial service Tobey stood up and professed that his Dad was the only person he thought really understood him. Now, they were losing their Mom, too, and they had to decide whether or not to remove their Mom's life support. How much can these kids bear before they crumble right before my eyes, I thought. They cried... often and freely...but they never did crumble. Instead, they reached out for support ~ to each other and to the rest of us. There was hardly a moment when they weren't holding hands or embracing each other or one of us.

Philip suggested dinner in the cafeteria. Take a break. Take a breath. Nourish themselves. They need to take some time. They agreed and we all went to eat.

We returned to Kim's room about 8:30pm. She was still sleeping peacefully. Kimmie approached the subject first. She looked at me and said, "What do we have to do?" I knew what she meant. "Let me find out," I said.

I went out into the hall to find our nurse, but saw that he was in with another patient. There was another nurse in the hall and I approached her.

"Kim's children have decided to remove her life support. What do they have to do to do that?"

"Oh." Pause. Long pause, with deer-in-the-headlights look. I thought, You work in ICU, for crying out loud. I'm sure you have been asked this question before. "You need to speak with your nurse and with the doctor," she finally replied. "Your nurse is in with another patient right now, but I will tell him and send him in to your room."

"Thank you," I said and turned and walked back into Kim's room.

About 15 minutes passed and the nurse I'd spoken with walked by the door to Kim's room and stopped. "Oh, by the way, I haven't had a chance to tell your nurse yet."

Great!, I thought. Kimmie was getting a little distressed. She kept looking out the door waiting for Bill, Kim's nurse, to appear. They'd made the decision and the waiting for the next step was becoming very unsettling.

A few minutes later, Robin glanced out the doorway and saw Bill walk into the nurse's station area and took off after him. When she came back to Kim's room, Bill was just a few steps behind her. He was holding a form and a pen.

Bill explained that we didn't need to speak with the doctor after all and then began to read the form aloud. I don't remember much of his recitation except the words "Category 3". A couple of times, Kimmie asked, "what does that mean?" and Bill would explain in detail. He was so patient, so kind, so compassionate. When he finished his explanation, I asked, "She will continue to receive enough pain medication to remain pain-free throughout, right?"

"Yes," Bill said. "We will make sure she is comfortable and pain-free."

"Kimmie, do you have any questions?" I asked. She shook her head "no".

Bill handed the form to Kimmie and said, "Take your time. There's no hurry. Just let me know when you've decided." He left the room.

Kimmie looked at Philip, then Tobey, walked over to the counter and laid the form down on the flat surface. She wrote her mother's name on the top of the form, made an X in the box next to category 3 to remove all life support, signed her name and dated at the bottom. When she was finished, she handed the form to me. I put my arms around her and hugged her for a long time.

It was done. They had decided. They were ready to let their Mom go.

What greater thing is there for human souls than to feel that they are joined for life, to be with each other in silent unspeakable memories. . .

Part One: The Prognosis

I am sitting here in front of this computer screen with my fingers on the keyboard and I can't think of anything to say about the death of my sister. I realized this morning that I have done just about everything to avoid writing about this, but when I took my journal notebook out of my purse and began to read what I had written over those few days before Kim's passing, I knew I would have to put all those thoughts, feelings and events together if for nothing else than to ensure that I will never forget those precious last moments.

Sometimes it was horrible; sometimes it was hard; sometimes it was sad; sometimes it was beautiful, touching, even humorous, but it was almost always overwhelming. But, I am glad I was there. Had I not been there I would have missed the most beautiful gift my family has ever given me.

I arrived in Las Vegas Thursday afternoon, April 10th. The day is sort of a blur. Everything runs together in my head and I'm not sure precisely what happened when. All I know is that too much happened and I was on complete overload: anticipation, hesitation, fear, sadness, regret, love.

Karen picked me up from the airport and said Robin's flight was due in later that night close to midnight, but she would go straight to the hospital when she arrived, so we drove straight to the hospital to see Kim.

Kim was conscious, but sleeping. There were tubes every where. A tube from the respirator went into her lungs; smaller tubes connected to veins in both arms and her neck; larger tubes drained her lungs, abdomen and bladder. There were countless bottles and clear plastic bags of medicines and nourishment hanging on three poles and connected to the tubes that ran to her body. She was receiving two pain medications with a third one ready, if needed; drugs to keep her blood pressure stable; drugs to keep her heart rate stable; drugs to reduce swelling; and on and on. The combination of the tube to her lungs and her sheer physical weakness left Kim unable to speak. She had been using a pad and pen to communicate, but looking at the pad she used to write on, it was clear she was becoming weaker and her handwriting was becoming almost illegible.

We spent a little over an hour with Kim, holding her hands and talking to her. At times, when she would open her eyes they'd flash recognition. She even tried to smile. Then, when she became uncomfortable, the nurse gave her more pain meds and she drifted off to a deep, peaceful sleep.

I was able to catch one of the doctors in the hallway. "She's very ill," he said. "She will not go home from the hospital."

"I know you can't give me an actual time frame, but she has a son in Virginia. Is it time for him to come home and say good-bye to his mother?" I asked.

"Yes," he said. "I'm very sorry."

I took a very deep breath, but I couldn't keep the tears back. I thanked the doctor and turned and walked back to Kim's room. I took another deep breath, wiped the tears and blew my nose and walked back in the room. I reached over and took Kim's hand and held it for a long time while she slept. She was so heavily medicated, I don't even think she was aware that I had returned to her side.

Karen and I left the hospital and headed for Kim's house to drop off my suitcases. On the way, she called Robin and conveyed the doctor's message. Robin said Tobey would be on a plane the next morning, Friday. We arrived at the house so I could get settled for the duration, but what transpired was an ugly altercation between the two sides of Kim's family ~ blood and in-laws ~ with poor Kimmie in the middle and that nearly sent me back to the airport in complete exasperation at the display of the usual family drama, drama, drama. The words, death brings out the worst in some people and what the hell were you thinking??, kept racing through my mind. But Philip, Kimmie's older step-brother (Tony's son by a previous marriage) was there. And if it weren't for Philip, a loving and kind man, I probably would have walked away, left Las Vegas on the next flight bound for Little Rock and missed the emotional and spiritual connections I made with my sisters and Kim's in-laws.

That evening after dinner, the Kimmie, Philip, the in-laws and I drove back to the hospital and visited with Kim until about 10:30pm. Although, barely aware, Kimmie spent time with her mom, talking to her quietly, stroking her arm and holding her hand. My heart just ached for her. What a huge burden for such a young person, I thought. But, through her grief over her father's recent death and her mother's impending death, she is so strong, so mature, so willful. I am so proud of her. I am so proud of my sister and brother-in-law. They did a good job of raising her, as well as Philip and Tobey.

Karen called me Friday morning. She had visited with Kim during the dinner hour the night before. Kim had been fairly lucid and asked for the writing pad and pen.

She wrote one question. "Am I dying?"

"Yes," Karen replied.

The rest of us drove back to the hospital Friday morning, visited with Kim for a short time, greeted Robin (who had spent the night sleeping in a chair at Kim's bedside), and later we spoke with the doctor and nurse concerning Kim's prognosis. She was not breathing well enough on her own and medications were keeping her artificially stable. She would not survive.

We heard those words over and over in every euphemism possible: will not return home, will not survive, will pass, will expire, will end her journey. No matter how many times you hear them, it's devastating...even when you already know it and believe it. I cried. Robin cried. Kimmie cried. "What would happen if life support was removed," I asked. "She would eventually pass," said Paul, the ICU nurse. "This is not an easy decision for a family," he said, putting his arm around Kimmie's shoulder. Kimmie, Philip, Robin and I just looked at each other. Then we hugged and comforted each other. No one was alone unless by choice. No one would have to go through this without support and love unless by choice. We were there for each other, individuals, some of whom barely know each other, whose lives are thrown together by this profound tragedy, loving, feeding, nourishing, grieving, offering prayers and caring for one another.

Kimmie wanted to wait for Tobey, her brother, to arrive from Virginia that afternoon, and then Kim's children ~ Philip, Kimmie and Tobey ~ would make the final decision with the full support of the family.

I kept wondering how we, the older, supposedly wiser, more experienced family members, could make this easier for Kim's children. We couldn't. Because no matter what, no matter how much love they're given, no matter how much support they receive, no matter how many prayers are said, no matter how many facts they're presented, it will probably be the hardest thing they'll ever have to do in their lives.

In Loving Memory of My Sister

Kimberly Jan Mostad Porterfield

January 1, 1952 to April 12, 2008

Rest in Peace, Kimmer Dinger