Yesterday morning, I was half-watching the Today Show while sifting through the Britney fallout online, when one of their usually lame human-interest stories caught my attention. It was a real tear-jerker about an Oklahoma City woman, Jill Finley, who survived after her husband had her disconnected from life support ELEVEN DAYS after she’d fallen into a coma. According to the Today Show story, on the morning of May 26, he’d tried to wake her up and found her unresponsive.
He called 911 and continued to work on his lifeless wife until paramedics arrived and shocked her heart back to life. They rushed her to the Oklahoma Heart Hospital, where the medical staff put her on a respirator and dressed her in a special suit that lowered her body temperature to attempt to minimize damage to her brain caused by lack of oxygen.
Jill ended up in a deep coma. Ryan, her husband stayed by her side, reading the Bible to her and lying in bed with her, but as the days passed—ALL ELEVEN OF THEM—her condition remained unchanged. The doctors told Ryan that only one to two percent of cases like hers recovered and resumed normal lives. So Ryan made the agonizing decision to pull the plug.
The thing is, once the lines were disconnected, she woke up and asked to go to Ted’s and to the Melting Pot, two of her favorite restaurants. And next thing you know, she and her husband were sitting in the Today Show studio, talking about how they’re cherishing every minute with each other. As I watched them, all I could think was, ELEVEN DAYS! ELEVEN DAYS! ELEVEN DAYS! I wouldn’t give up on expired yogurt that fast.
I wondered how she could sit there and smile so lovingly at a spouse who’d thrown in the towel after a week and a half. That wasn’t even time enough for her roots to start showing! He hadn’t even used up all his Family Leave.
Note to Biggy: if I’m ever in a coma, you had better wait at least until my legs need shaving. Because wherever I am in there, you can bet I’m trying my damndest to get back. I’ll be that one percent. No moving toward the light for me; I’m not done with you yet.
And you’d better keep my hair combed and my toenails clipped, and wipe the drool off my face. And read me Perez’s latest posts. And never-never-never let anyone take pictures of me the way they did Terry Schiavo. Oh, and don't wear a stupid hat.
Give me six months, Biggy. That’s all I ask.
9 comments:
Deal. But in return, no blogging about me should I ever have ass cancer.
Fine.
Glad that's all settled.
Mom, you can blog about Greg all you want if you make me in charge of you whenever anything bad happens. You know I'd never pull the plug!
Tania, that's hilarious. 11 days? Here's how I imagine a conversation with the doctor going:
DOCTOR: It's not good.
HUBBY: I tell you what, let's give it 'til like next Friday, doc.
DOCTOR: But there's a chance.
HUBBY: Well, that's a risk I'll have to take. I mean, I got things to do, pal. I can't be up here for weeks on end sitting next to some comatose wife. Let's say next Saturday, you know, to be fair.
Seriously? Eleven days? Granted, that hospital bill would add up fairly quickly... But eleven days? I've got to agree, you've got to go with a bit more time than that. Perhaps, however, they had already decided that they wouldn't drag it out. Me I would have waited 15-30 days at least!
~Nathaniel
It was proably during football season.
See! He could have given it until the end of football season!
I seriously doubt my ex-husband would have waited much past 2 days. My dad on the otherhand would have waited long enough for Pat Robertson or Fox News or some other kinda vile right wing press to take note of the case, just to make some really f-ed up politico-religious kinda statement, as did Terry Schiavo's father.
First thing I did upon getting divorced was to change everything about my will, the living will, the whole enchilada... STAT.
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